After nine months of forced celibacy, Illya was ready to castrate his partner and best friend. With scissors. Dull ones. One way or another, Napoleon had managed to thwart every opportunity for sex Illya had. No matter where he was, Solo seemed to find him and any potential bedmate for the night at the most inopportune moments. Illya suspected the American was tracing him! Although Solo always had the tendency to discourage women from showing interest in his partner, it was only recently he had taken to actually stealing them out from under him. Literally. The Russian was able to keep his libido reined in for the most part, but he was no monk. Nine months without sexual release in a way other than using one’s hand would make any man . . . what was that term Napoleon bandied about? Spiny? Something like that. And after so long, Illya was very spiny indeed.

This last incident was the proverbial last straw. It had happened during a mission, an affair inappropriately dubbed Foxes and Hounds. (The woman who assigned mission titles had a truly warped sense of humor.) Illya had been about to kiss Mimi Dolittle, his lips mere millimeters from the woman’s, when Solo grabbed her, spun her around and suctioned her mouth into his. Only the fact they were on assignment stopped Illya from punching the infuriating American.

Even now, several days later, Illya was still annoyed and confused by his partner’s actions. Yes, he and Napoleon had a friendly competition going, but only when it came to skills as an agent. The Russian never competed with his suave American partner when it came to women. Doing so was an exercise in futility. Whereas Solo could charm the skin off an alligator, Illya would rather face a THRUSH torture session than a social gathering. If Napoleon set his sights on a particular woman, Illya had no chance of talking her into his arms and didn't bother trying. What he couldn’t understand was why the over sexed Casanova Solo would suddenly believe their competition extended into sexual conquests.

"Why did you do that?" Illya asked when he reached that part of his report, reminded anew of his ongoing irritation with his partner.

Napoleon looked up from his own paperwork. For some odd reason, he'd taken to bringing his work into Illya's office. Probably so he could conveniently leave some of it for the Russian workhorse to do. Confusion crossed Solo's face. "Do what?"

"In the cell with Mimi."

"What are you . . . oh! That!" He leaned back in his chair as he unwrapped and popped a round, striped peppermint into his mouth.

"Yes. That."

"Oh. Well. I thought it might be more effective if I did it."

Illya rolled his eyes. "Oh, yes! One kiss from the great Napoleon Solo and a virgin becomes a siren." It was possible his friend truly believed this. If not for the exhibition of similar exasperating behavior over the last nine months, Illya may also have believed it and let the matter drop.

"Something like that," Napoleon said with a smile.

Category: Shark. Napoleon had such a wide range of smiles, Illya had made a game out of categorizing them. Illya hated this particular entry in his partner's repertoire. One of these days, he was going to wipe it off the American's smug face. With a knife. "I may not be the sexual Romeo you are,” he groused, “but I can kiss, you know."

"I . . . would assume so." Napoleon's gaze focused on Illya's mouth. The Russian shifted uncomfortably under the intense scrutiny. Did he have something hanging out? He licked his lips in the hopes of dislodging whatever his friend was staring at. Solo emitted a choked cough.

Illya glanced at him in concern, anger dissipating at his partner’s distress. "Are you all right?"

Napoleon thumped his chest. "I, uh, just swallowed my peppermint."

"Be careful! I'd hate to risk my life rescuing you on a regular basis just for you to die from sucking on a hard bit of something here in the office."

The American's eyes widened as he went into another coughing fit. Illya quickly crossed to where his friend sat, pushed the dark head down slightly and reached over to rap him on the back. Napoleon gripped the Russian's slim hips and buried his face into Illya's lap, apparently anchoring himself against the chest spasms.

"Napoleon?" Illya muttered once the episode ended, anxious to get his friend’s face away from his cock. After nine months even Napoleon was starting to look good and he didn’t want to embarrass himself and his friend with an inappropriate erection.

"Hmm?" came the muffled reply.

"You can let go now. You're bruising me."

The hands abruptly released their hold. "Oh. Sorry."

Illya returned to his desk. "I'll forgive you if you'll buy me lunch."

"Of course. My pleasure."

Illya blinked at the silky purr, wondering why his partner was using that particular tone, one he usually reserved for his paramours. Oh. Of course. He waggled a finger at his friend. "I forgive you for the bruising. Not for showing me up in front of Mimi."

"I didn't know you liked her that much." Napoleon's voice sounded thick. From swallowing the candy, no doubt.

Illya decided not to eat those round, striped peppermints anymore. They were too dangerous. "I don't. It was just the idea that you didn't trust me to deliver a simple kiss."

"It has nothing to do with trusting you."

"Of course it does! It makes me wonder. If you can't trust me to kiss properly, how can you trust me to disarm a bomb?"

Napoleon laughed. "One has nothing to do with the other!"

"It's not the action that's important. It's your lack of faith in my abilities." The American pushed aside the reports he'd been working on. He stood, placed his hands on the cleared area and leaned towards the Russian. "For what it's worth, I believe you have much more ability than you let on. As for Mimi Doolittle, don’t expect to be able to keep your dinner date with her on Friday night. By the time I’m finished with her on Thursday, she won’t remember you even exist.” He straightened, shot his cuffs, then spun and left. He also left his paperwork.

True to Napoleon’s prediction, Mimi canceled her date with Illya. He growled at the memory. He didn’t know what was wrong with his partner, but he had a theory. No. A hypothesis. One that he intended to prove. It was time for a little experiment.

Observation Napoleon Solo goes out of his way to make sure his partner, Illya Kuryakin, has no sex life.

Problem What happens if a proud man like Napoleon Solo suddenly becomes insecure about his sexual abilities? How would said man react when a woman shows interest in his partner instead of himself?

Hypothesis Subject has developed an overwhelming need to prove his sexual prowess to himself by diverting women away from his partner.

Experiment I: Carla

“Hello, Carla,” Illya said with a slight smile as he leaned on the wall of one of U.N.C.L.E.’s many labs. In his opinion, Carla Barnes was perhaps the most stunningly beautiful woman in U.N.C.L.E.. Long legs and perfectly proportioned body. Full, sensual lips naturally stained a soft pink. Blonde hair that, if allowed to flow freely, would cascade like a shimmering waterfall across milky white shoulders and down her back to touch the firm globes of her derrière. Well, he imagined it would if she didn’t always wear it in a severe bun. Bright emerald green eyes that shined . . . whenever she talked of whatever wondrous new chemical compound she was developing. Dr. Carla Barnes, chemist extraordinaire, was even more intelligent than she was beautiful. Easily one of the most brilliant scientists Illya had ever met, which was saying something.

For his present purposes, it wasn't Carla's brain Illya was interested in. It was the fact that Napoleon had no interest in her whatsoever. Partially because she bruised his ego. Dr. Barnes wasn't so much immune to Solo's charm as she was unaware of it. Napoleon could accept being turned down by a beautiful woman. He couldn't deal with being treated as though he didn't exist. The American found her insufferable, intolerable and downright boring. In a word, he loathed her.

Precisely why Illya chose her to participate in his experiment.

She glanced up from her work, returning his smile, albeit a slightly unfocused one. “Oh! Hi, Illya. I don’t have it ready.”

He paused, searching his memory for anything he’d sent down here recently. Oh. Yes. That new THRUSH powder they’d come across a couple of days ago. He waved away her statement. “I’m not here about that. I have something I thought you might be interested in.” He held up a pair of tickets. Her eyes widened as she read the print. Their green depths took on that gleam Illya knew so well. “Interested in attending?”

“Um-hmm,” she murmured, licking her luscious lips as she eyed the tickets hungrily.

“I thought we’d have an early dinner, first.”

Carla glanced at him. “Huh?”

“Dinner.” He wasn’t surprised at her reaction. Like himself, Carla didn’t date much. A true professional workaholic, she was uninterested in marriage, children and all the trappings that went along with domestic imprisonment. They saw each other periodically outside of work, usually attending scientific functions. So far they had not shared a bed. He was unsure whether that was because of lack of trying on his part or lack of interest on hers. He wouldn’t be thinking in those terms at this point if he wasn’t starting to feel so desperate.

“Oh, uh,” she caressed the tickets for a lecture and reception from the country’s foremost chemist with her eyes one more time. “Sure.”

He didn’t tell her she was participating in an experiment. That would skew the data. They confirmed the arrangements and Illya left to search for the experimental subject. "I'm leaving early," Illya informed the CEA when he found him in his office.

"Oh?" Napoleon replied as he leaned back in his office chair enough to raise the front feet a couple of inches off the ground. He toyed with a pencil he was holding. "Big date tonight?" he asked smugly, gracing Illya with his best snake-charming smile.

The snake was not charmed. Illya had seen that look used as a weapon far too many times to ever be taken in by it. He filed it away to write in his notes, however. Solo seldom felt the need to turn that smile on his partner and the fact that he did so this time seemed significant. "Yes."

Solo’s smile faltered, obviously not expecting that answer. The pencil snapped. "Cheap pencil," he muttered as he dropped the broken halves of wood onto his desk. He cleared his throat. "So. Which one of U.N.C.L.E.'s lovely young ladies finally thawed you long enough for a date?"

"Carla Barnes."

Napoleon's smile disintegrated completely as the front legs of his chair slammed back to terra firma. His face puckered as though he'd sucked on an extremely sour lemon. "She's boring, Illya."

The Russian grinned slightly. The American’s opinion of the chemist hadn’t changed recently. Good. "I find her interesting."

"Oh come on! Watching paint peel is more fun than five minutes spent with that iceberg! I swear she pulls that bun so tight it cinches up her pussy."

Illya stifled a grin. "No need to be vulgar, Napoleon. Especially about my date."

Napoleon grimaced. “So where are you taking the, er, her?”

“We’re going for an early dinner.”

“How early?”

“Sixish.”

“Please tell me you’re planning to take her dancing afterwards? I hope you’re not going to take her to some dive that serves borscht in chipped bowls and then taking her home immediately. Unless, of course, she turns into a pumpkin at midnight, which I wouldn’t find surprising.”

“Thank you for your confidence in my dating skills. I have tickets . . . .“ Illya let the comment hang, allowing for Napoleon’s interpretation of what kind of tickets the Russian may hold.

“Oh, good. A show. I’m glad to see you’ve retained some of what I’ve taught you.”

Illya didn’t attempt to clear up his friend’s misconception. “And to that end, I was wondering if you might have a suggestion for a good restaurant.”

The dark haired agent beamed with apparent pride that his independent friend asked his advice. “La Petite Maison has excellent food and a lovely, romantic atmosphere. Would you like for me to call in a reservation for you? They know me there and I can get you their best table.”

Illya covered his surprise at the offer. “Yes. Thank you. I would appreciate that.” Napoleon was being very helpful, going out of his way to make sure his partner and friend enjoyed his date. Perhaps he’d been wrong about Solo’s recent behavior? It was possible he’d taken a couple of isolated incidents and made more of them than was necessary. He mentally shrugged. If Napoleon showed up and attempted to take Carla for himself, it would be a step towards proving his hypothesis. If he didn’t, Illya could look forward to a pleasant evening of dinner, science and, if very lucky, a chance to break a nine month sexual hiatus. A win-win situation.

“My pleasure.” The American picked up his phone and dialed the number by memory. He made the reservation, smiling and laughing every few seconds, then hung up. “Not a problem, old boy,” he said, picking up a pencil half and bouncing it on the desktop. “Damn!” He rubbed at his right eye.

“What’s the matter?” the blond agent asked, gaze automatically darting around the room in a search for hidden enemies.

“I think I got a piece of wood in my eye.”

Illya sighed. If it had been a woman saying such a thing, he would have assumed she was trying the oldest ploy in the book to get close to him. Since it was his partner, his very MALE partner, he stepped up to assist in removing the foreign object. He gently pulled Napoleon’s fingers away and lifted the eyelid. He leaned close, his blue eyes focusing intently on the American’s hazel one.

Napoleon grabbed the Russian around the waist and pulled the blond closer in order to aid him in his ministrations. Illya could feel his friend’s hot breath on his ear. He tried to ignore the tickling sensation. To his horror, he felt an answering tickle in his groin. “I don’t see anything,” he announced and quickly extracted himself from his partner’s embrace. “I’ll, um, see you later.”

Illya practically ran from the office. Had Napoleon noticed his beginning erection? More importantly, why did he get one at that moment? Well, Napoleon had breathed in his ear, an especially sensitive erogenous zone. And Illya’s cock didn’t care to distinguish between feminine breath and masculine breath.

He slowed his flight from the building as he realized that was all there was to it. Not because he was sexually interested in his partner. Not that he’d never been aroused by a man before. He’d been trained by the KGB in techniques to entrap a man and had had to use that training four times in the past. Those interludes were pleasant enough to evoke a natural sexual response to a man occasionally. He’d even followed through on it once or twice since coming to America. The infrequent desire for a man notwithstanding, he considered himself a heterosexual.

He felt better by the time he arrived home to get ready for his date with Carla. After a short but soothing shower, he perused his closet. He didn’t want to wear a tie but had a feeling a place frequented by Napoleon and called La Petite Maison would require one. He started to reach for one of his suits, but hesitated. What would Napoleon say if asked about it? Would he lie in order to make his Russian partner look like a peasant thus making it easier for the suave American to lure the lovely Dr. Barnes away?

One way to find out. He placed a call to U.N.C.L.E. headquarters, only to discover his partner had already left for the day. Illya raised an eyebrow. To primp for Illya’s date? He contacted him on the communicator, using a seldom used frequency.

“Solo here,” came the smooth response.

“Napoleon, what is the dress code at La Petite Maison.”

The communicator remained mute for several long seconds. “You should wear a tie.”

Illya sighed in relief. Maybe he was completely wrong about Napoleon.

“Uh, although you don’t absolutely have to wear one if you don’t want to,” Solo added weakly.

Perhaps he was completely right.

Illya and Carla arrived at the restaurant at 5:52. The Maitre’d smiled at Carla, obviously captivated by her green eyes, which were accented perfectly by the green of her dress. At the same time, the man managed to frown at Illya. The Russian wondered how anyone could smile and frown in the same expression. That could come in handy in an impersonation. He made a note to practice it.

“We require gentlemen to wear a tie,” the glorified waiter sniffed, looking down his bulbous nose at Illya’s black silk shirt, top two buttons undone, black dress pants and black leather jacket. His sour expression suggested he believed Illya was no gentleman.

“Oh! I am sorry! I meant to put it on before we came in.” Illya pulled a black tie from his jacket pocket and knotted it around his neck. Felt like a noose. “You should have a reservation for Illya Kuryakin.”

The Maitre’d sniffed again as he surveyed his reservation book, unamused and unimpressed by the peasant which hoped to crash the ivory gates of his restaurant. He looked up and clamped a steely glare on Illya. “I’m sorry, sir, but I have no reservation by that name.” His eyes narrowed in suspicion. Of what, Illya had no idea. Perhaps the man thought the two scientists would steal a fork?

The Russian blasted the Maitre’d with a look that had been known to turn burly THRUSH minions into mewling little birdies. The man merely stiffened, his own stare rivaling that of the Russian. Illya was impressed. Not enough to give in, of course. “Please check again,” he said in a polite snarl. “K-U-R-Y-A-K-I-N.” It had to be there! He heard Napoleon make the reservation. Unless Napoleon canceled them afterwards? Illya’s eyes turned to slits. Perhaps it was time to read up on how to perform a castration.

The Maitre’d looked up from making a second quick check for the name. “No, sir,” he intoned icily. “You do not have a reservation.” His eyes flicked over Illya’s right shoulder, his expression brightening considerably. It chilled once more when the man returned his attention to the troublemaker. “Now please step aside. I have a legitimate customer.”

On his left, Carla shifted uneasily. Out of the corner of his eye, Illya could see her alabaster skin turning an interesting shade of crimson.

“Is there a problem, gentlemen?” crooned a voice smooth as cream cheese on a bagel. It was so close, Illya could feel its velvety cadences on the back of his neck. Napoleon!

I knew it! Illya kept his smile of triumph to himself, especially since this probably meant his celibacy was not going to end tonight. He forged an expression of outraged indignation and spun to his partner. “This man,” he waved vaguely at the Maitre’d, “seems to have lost my reservation.”

Napoleon put on his expression of innocence as he glanced at the pompous man blocking Illya’s path to nutritional gratification. “Oh? Well, if you don’t mind dining with myself and my date, I’d be happy to let you and your lovely companion,” he graced Carla with one of his award-winning smiles, “join us at our table.”

Of course. He’d expected some sort of maneuvering such as this. Illya glanced at the blank space at Napoleon’s side. He raised an eyebrow. “Is she an invisible date?”

Napoleon rocked on his heels, looking like a little boy caught eating the apple his mother had planned on using for dinner. “I’m, uh, meeting her here.”

“I see.” No. He didn’t. Because there was not going to be anyone to see. Solo had no date. He was here to stop Illya from having one. Well, that was the focus of this little experiment. Illya gave a mental sigh and looked at Carla questioningly. “Would you mind dining with Napoleon and his date?”

“Not at all! That’s very gracious of you, Napoleon.” Carla beamed. Napoleon beamed. Even the Maitre’d beamed. Everyone beamed.

Except Illya.

He just rolled his eyes. He felt a slight twinge of envy. Napoleon had never glowed for him like that. Illya frowned inwardly. That thought came out wrong. He meant, Carla had never glowed for him like that. Yes. That was right. Well, this was an experiment and he was getting the results he expected so far. Looked at that way, this was going quite well. Of course, from the viewpoint of his libido, it was a disaster.

The Maitre’d led them to a choice table. Napoleon grabbed Carla’s chair before Illya could and held it out for her. Illya noted the action as he sat in the chair on one side of his date while Solo took up residence on the other side, managing to get close enough for his thigh to touch hers ever so slightly.

Thus the game began. He tried to remember where he’d seen the article on pig castration. He added its retrieval to his mental list of things to do tomorrow.

“May I get you a bottle of wine this evening, Mr. Solo?” the glorified waiter fussed as the trio settled themselves.

“I think a bottle of champagne would be more in order, Maurice,” Napoleon answered, hazel eyes glittering with something Illya couldn’t quite define. Not malice. Anticipation? No doubt. Anticipation for an evening spent wining and dining Carla away from his partner.

“Of course, sir!” Maurice gushed, a smile of pure joy directed at Napoleon and Carla. When his gaze settled on Illya, the smile transformed into a scowl. The Maitre’d snapped his fingers in the air. “Garcon!” he commanded as he hurried to confer with a waiter.

“They know you here rather well,” Carla said to the American, obviously impressed. Illya found that surprising. He didn’t think Dr. Barnes impressed quite so easily. If Solo had spouted the chemical makeup of the champagne, he could understand it, but not from simply ordering it.

Illya’s envy turned to jealousy. He shoved it away. He had no real proof, yet. His partner turned his charm on to all women, great and small, tall and short, beautiful and ugly. Well, maybe not ugly. Speaking of which . . . “Who is your date for tonight?” he asked Napoleon.

The dark haired man flushed a little, but recovered before anyone could notice. Anyone except his partner. “Oh, uh . . . “ He cleared his throat, a tactic Illya knew the American often used to buy a few seconds of time when a question caught him off-guard. “Uh, you remember, Charlotte, that stewardess we met on our flight home from our last mission?”

Illya nodded. Napoleon didn’t elaborate, merely smiling as though the question had been answered then turned his attention back to Carla. “So, tell me, my dear, exactly what do you do down there in the bowels of U.N.C.L.E.?” The evening went downhill from there. As the Russian expected, no date appeared. In the meantime, Solo dominated the conversation, constantly redirecting Illya’s attention away from talking with the beautiful chemist if the Russian tried to talk to the beautiful chemist. And when she attempted to converse with Illya, Solo turned the charm up a notch. By the time the entree arrived, Napoleon’s charm factor could melt an iceberg. Even an Ice Prince.

Illya gulped some champagne. Where did that come from? He was far too spiny for his own good. That was it. He HAD to find some release soon. Preferably BEFORE he did something he would regret.

As the evening progressed, Illya felt assured his track record of seldom being wrong in a hypothesis was not in danger of being ruined tonight. Carla seemed to be falling for Napoleon’s act completely. Always thought she was smarter than that. Apparently not.

“How is your entree?”

Illya blinked at Napoleon’s question. Who was he talking to? Because the American blabbed so constantly all night, Illya had started to tune him out. He glanced at his partner.

Hazel eyes gazed back. He nodded his head toward Illya’s food. “Your entree. How is it?”

Illya glared at the mess lying dormant on the plate in front of him. Looked like Coq Au Vin. Was that what he ordered? Couldn’t remember. “Fine,” he mumbled. Truth be known, it could be sawdust and it wouldn’t taste any differently to him. He shoved a forkful between his lips. Napoleon’s eyes widened, a look of hunger flashing from their depths. Illya frowned. Did his friend not like his own meal? “Did you want a taste?”

Napoleon’s gaze shifted to Illya’s mouth, then did a slow slide down his neck and chest to the plate, another creeping journey back up, lingered on lips again, and finally found their way to his eyes. “As a matter of fact, I do.” His voice rang in a sultry timbre.

Chills ran down Illya’s spine. Not the unpleasant kind he got from seeing what tortures THRUSH had in store for him. These were . . . different. They must have turned up the air conditioner. He glanced at Carla. She was oblivious to the whole exchange. Thank whatever gods might actually exist.

Napoleon opened his mouth, waiting for the offered taste. The image that flashed through Illya’s misfiring brain at that moment had nothing to do with a French dish, but a Russian one. “Excuse me,” he squeaked.

He fled to the men’s room. Blessedly, it was empty when he entered. He stared at himself in the mirror. “If Carla goes home with Napoleon, it might be time to find professional help,” he suggested to his reflection. He had never spent money for sex in his life. Never had to. But if he was starting to find his male partner attractive, a ‘lady of the evening’ became a viable option. Perhaps the only one.

It might not be necessary. He could be wrong. This whole evening could be one big coincidence. The restaurant really did lose his reservation. Napoleon did not cancel it. Illya’s mention of La Petite Maison reminded his partner of a favorite dining spot. Coincidence, not design. Of course. Napoleon had no intention of preventing the rest of Illya and Carla’s evening from proceeding as planned. His hypothesis could be wrong.

Stick to the facts, Kuryakin. Fact number one: Napoleon charmed women. Fact number two: Women were charmed by Napoleon. So far, Napoleon’s behavior and Carla’s reaction merely fit into the facts. Feeling infinitely calmer, the Russian reached into his coat and pulled out a tiny earphone and receiver for the bug he’d planted on Carla when he picked her up. He put the plug in his ear, faced the wall in the corner farthest from the door and tuned in.

“It appears I’ve been stood up well and good,” Napoleon purred. A note of sadness rang through the seductive tones. Illya snorted. And everyone thought HE was the actor.

“Yes, um, well . . . “ A pause, then Carla’s voice resumed, “She’s a fool.”

Illya sighed. Where was the best place to pick up a prostitute?

“Yes,” Napoleon continued, “I seem to have the entire evening free now. Illya told me all about the show he’s taking you to tonight.”

The Russian raised an interested eyebrow. No, Illya did not!

Napoleon was still speaking. “I suppose he only has the two tickets?”

“Mmm, yes, I believe so.”

“That’s a pity. I would have liked to see it. Unlike Illya.”

Another pause, then Carla said, “What do you mean?”

“I shouldn’t say anything. Illya is my partner after all.”

“Shouldn’t say anything about what?”

Dramatic sigh. “Partner or not, I think you deserve to know the truth.” A rustling of cloth. The Russian could picture his partner taking Carla’s hands in his and gazing deeply into her emerald eyes. The halting confession should come next. “Carla, Illya told me he only got those tickets because he thought you would be so grateful to him for taking you that you would, ah . . .” The rest was garbled, then the receiver went to white noise.

So she would what? Hoping it was a problem with the receiver and not the bug, Illya shook the small box back and forth in front of him. Another man entered the bathroom just as Illya groaned, “Oh, please!”

“How disgusting!” the other man in the bathroom exclaimed. “I’m calling management!” He sped from the room.

Illya groaned again, realizing what it must have looked like. A man facing a corner of the bathroom, hand moving back and forth, moaning. A perfect topper to the perfect evening would be getting arrested for masturbating in the men’s room.

The man could not have seen his face. If he slipped out unnoticed, there was a chance management would not know who to arrest. He yanked the earpiece out and wrapped it around the box, pocketing them both. He hurried to the door and peaked out. All clear. He slipped out and returned to the table in a roundabout way. As he sat, he saw the Maitre’d come out of the men’s room shaking his head, then returned to his duties. Illya breathed a sigh of relief.

“We should really be going, Carla, or we’ll be late,” he said as he sat in his chair.

Carla gave him a glare that rivaled one of his own. She was highly upset. He cursed the shoddy workmanship of the receiver for giving out before he found out what Napoleon said. He’d be making some suggestions for improvement in R&D tomorrow.

“Give me the tickets,” Carla ground out through clenched teeth.

Illya glanced at Napoleon. He looked very pleased with himself. Like . . . oh, what was that expression? ‘Like the dog that ate the cat’? He did not think that was quite right, but close. “Excuse me?”

The chemist held out an alabaster hand. “I would prefer going to the lecture with Napoleon,” she declared haughtily.

The pleased countenance fell from Solo’s face. “Uh, lecture?”

“Yes, Napoleon,” Illya said as he handed the tickets over to Carla. “Lecture. From one of the world’s foremost chemists.” The glazed expression that settled in Napoleon’s eyes at the thought of sitting through a scientific lecture made the whole evening worthwhile.

Carla stood and threw her napkin at him. “You can spend the evening thinking about how you bought my way into your partner’s bed instead of yours!” She pulled Napoleon from his chair and herded him out of the restaurant.

Illya gaped after them. Napoleon told her he’d arranged the tickets in order to get her to BED? “Bastard!” he snarled under his breath. The waiter chose that moment to bring the check. He took one look at the Russian’s arctic eyes, let out a frightened little squeal, threw a small slip of paper onto the table and retreated. Illya stabbed the paper with an icy glare. The bill. The bastard had even managed to leave HIM with the bill.

Pig castration was too good for the infuriating American. Anyone with balls that big deserved to have them ripped off.

***************

“So, how was your evening with MY date,” the Russian growled glacially the next morning as he leaned against the file cabinet of Napoleon’s office, arms folded across his chest.

The older man looked up, the glazed look still there as though he was still trying to tune out what he considered the most boring thing in the world. Science lectures and Napoleon Solo did not mix, even if the lecture were given by a beautiful woman instead of a shriveled up old geezer. Illya didn’t let his pleased grin surface, turning a blank face on his partner.

“Is it over?” Napoleon sounded shell shocked. “I swear, Illya, it went on and on. I thought it would never end. I still hear his monotone reverberating through my brain. I’ve never had a more miserable evening in my life.”

A thrill of satisfaction swept through the Russian. “Good. You deserved to have a rotten time. Did you sleep with her?” He didn’t know why he asked. Morbid fascination? A masochistic streak, perhaps?

Horror replaced the glaze in Napoleon’s hazel eyes. “God, no, Illya! I would never have slept with her!”

Illya snorted, skeptical in the extreme. “Napoleon, a woman’s lack of personality has never stopped you before.”

The American jumped to his feet and grabbed his blond partner by the shoulders and gave him a little shake. Illya blinked, surprised at the unexpected move. “I couldn’t have slept with her even if I’d wanted to, you thickheaded Russian,” Napoleon said, his usually silky purr now a raspy, pleading tone. “She was your date!”

“That didn’t seem to matter to you when you left the restaurant with her last night,” Illya retorted. He cringed at the whiny note that seeped into his words.

“I . . . I . . . uh, that wasn’t supposed to happen.”

“You told her I was only taking her to the lecture in order to have sex with her.” Better. No whine there. Just cold indignation.

“Yes, well, I was trying to save you from a truly dull evening.”

Illya’s laugh held no humor. “By throwing yourself on her like you might throw yourself on a bomb? Somehow I don’t think it’s the same thing.”

“You really don’t see another outcome to last night, do you?” Napoleon whispered, his gaze latching onto that of the smaller man. Those lovely, expressive hazel eyes; eyes that could relay escape plans, examine wounds critically, share a humorous comment, all without ever uttering a word. Vertigo threatened Illya’s equilibrium as he felt those eyes sear all the way to his soul.

Illya jerked away from the embrace. Napoleon dropped his hands. “Of course you don’t,” he growled, his whole countenance doing a sudden one-eighty. “Look, Illya, I expected her to storm out on her own. Then you and I could have gone out for a drink or something. I thought I was doing you a favor by saving you from an evening of boredom.”

For some odd reason, that actually made sense. His ire with his friend melted. But only for a moment. “Napoleon, please stop trying to protect me from myself. I think I can decide what I want to do for an evening. I am a big boy.”

“I know. I’ve looked,” the American muttered so low Illya wasn’t sure he’d heard correctly.

“What?”

Napoleon cleared his throat, his normal, easy smile once again gracing his face. “I, uh, said I, uh, know you are a big,” another clearing of the throat, “uh, big boy. I’m sorry. I haven’t seen you lately and I wanted to spend some time with you when we weren’t getting shot at.”

“I see.” Illya didn’t understand the electric shock of pleasure that shot through him at his friend’s admission. He shook it off. It wasn’t logical to be happy about his male friend’s attempt to keep him from . . . oh, what was the phrase? . . . getting vertical. Or was that getting a lay down? But he was. His anger disintegrated. “Next time, Napoleon, why don’t you just ask?” He grinned. “It would be a lot cheaper for me. I wouldn’t take you to an expensive French restaurant. We’d go to some cheap dive that serves wine that tastes like gasoline and food drenched in grease.”

Napoleon flashed an answering grin and his eyes shined with humor and . . . hunger? Could the high-living American harbor a secret love of wine that could strip paint and greasy food? Illya shook his head as he left the office.

He went to his lab to check on an experiment he had going. Carla sidled in a few minutes later. She appeared rather sheepish. Her gaze flickered to his, then skittered away. She did it again. Then again. It was a little disconcerting. Reminded him of an undercover stint as a teacher when unprepared students tried so hard to avoid eye contact so he would not call on them. He always called on them. “Can I help you, Carla?”

“About last night.”

“Mmm?” Illya prompted.

“I don’t know why I acted that way.”

“I wondered about that myself.”

“I don’t know. The idea that you only wanted to go to the lecture with me so you could bed me seemed so, well, so like a man!”

“In case you hadn’t noticed, I am a man,” he intoned in a voice so dry it made him thirsty.

She sighed, her eyes finally locking with his. About time. The constant flitting back and forth was starting to give him a headache. “Yes, but you don’t usually act like one. I mean,” she stuttered as Illya’s eyebrow raised into his bangs. “You act like a man, but not like those that are ruled by their libido.”

“Ah. Well, I hope you know Napoleon was not right about his assumptions.”

“I know. I knew it last night! I don’t know what came over me! It’s just that, the way Mr. Solo put it, it sounded like you thought I was a slut! Later, I realized that wasn’t you, at all.” She paced the floor nervously.

Illya observed her with interest. This was a first. Cool, calculating Dr. Carla Barnes was flustered.

Carla stopped in front of him and crossed her arms. “Can you forgive me?”

Illya sighed. “Of course.”

She smiled and visibly relaxed. “Really, Illya. I don’t understand why you’re friends with that man! He’s so, so,” she searched for the perfect word, “BORING!”

Experiment II: Maureen

Several weeks and two missions passed before Illya had a chance to continue with the experiment. As soon as he could, he approached his next choice for unaware assistant in her office in Research.

“Can I help you, Mr. Kuryakin?” Maureen Horowitz snapped, her entire manner suggesting she’d rather be getting a root canal than helping him. Truth was, she would rather get a root canal than deal with Number 2, Section 2. Maureen hated him. He never quite knew why. Napoleon suggested it was because Illya tended to be so demanding and impatient with the ladies in Research.

That was true to a point. He did tend to be impatient when he was in the middle of a dangerous situation waiting for information vital to his or his partner’s survival. Since he did the majority of his own information research when in the office, he knew exactly how long it should take to obtain it. He also had numerous chances to watch the researchers in action when someone else was waiting. They would finger a few files, then stop to gossip with a passing coworker or flirt with his partner. Whenever he found himself huddled in a corner with bullets flying all around, he remembered those moments and imagined himself getting impaled by a speeding bit of metal so some researcher paused in her search in order to garner a date for the evening. It made him grouchy.

Maureen was even more easily distracted than the others. Illya’s sharp tongue had sliced her to ribbons in reprimand for such behavior many times. Looked at in that way, he supposed he could understand why she hated him. Although she did deserve the dressing down.

No matter. She was still his next choice in his quest to prove or disprove his hypothesis. At a towering six feet with stringy hair the color of a sickly rat, an overbite that would make a horse proud and the figure of a board, Maureen was the least likely candidate for the “I slept with Solo” award. Napoleon had no sexual interest in her whatsoever. None. Maureen on the other hand, mooned over Solo like he was the love of her life. Disgusting, really. But, in this case, useful. “I am here to do something for you,” he told her.

She glared at him with undisguised distaste and suspicion. Her stare dropped pointedly to Illya’s groin, then back to his face. “I am not interested in anything you have.” She sported a malicious smile.

Not an unexpected slight, so Illya harbored no embarrassment over it. He shrugged. “I thought you might be interested in a date with my partner. My mistake. I will leave you to your work.” He turned to leave.

“Wait!” Maureen whinnied behind him. The sound of her voice and her overbite were what had earned her the U.N.C.L.E. nickname of “Horse-no-wits”.

His skin crawled at the sound issuing from her mouth. He pondered the wisdom of his plan. It was a necessary evil. If Napoleon whisked this woman--and he used the term loosely--away from the Russian, it would go a long way toward supporting his hypothesis. You’ve survived torture sessions with THRUSH, not to mention KGB. Surely you can survive one evening with this . . .woman. He fortified himself with every ounce of determination he could muster then spun to face her. “Yes?”

The suspicion never left her expression. “You’re willing to set me up with Napoleon?”

He nodded as he sauntered closer. Even though he was the one moving, Maureen somehow managed to be the invader of his personal space. He forced himself to stay conspiratorially close rather than running screaming to the nearest shower. Something about her made him feel soiled. Maybe the hatred rolling off her and washing over him like a tidal wave? Yes. That was probably it. “I cannot guarantee anything, but I have an idea which might get you that date you are wanting.”

“And why would you help me? I despise you.”

At least she was honest. Oh, yes. He graced her with a cold smile. “And the feeling is mutual, I assure you.”

“Good. I was afraid you might have a crush on me.”

Chyort! Not likely! Illya swallowed down the bile that churned from his stomach and into his throat. “Contrary to rumor, I only torture the enemies of U.N.C.L.E., not its employees.”

“Oh, I don’t know about that,” she said sweetly. Or what passed for sweetly for her. “You torture me just by walking through my door.”

Nice. He would no longer dread coming into this department now that he knew the silver lining. “Do you want a possible date with my partner or not?”

“I repeat, why would you help me?”

Why, indeed. No reason he could think of, really. He was not helping her, but himself. He did not generally like to use people, but in her case, he would make an exception. “My motivations have nothing to do with helping you,” he admitted. As expected, her suspicion dropped a notch at his confession. She would be a little more open to his suggestion.

“So what do you get out of it?”

“My partner back to normal, I hope.” Illya molded his face into sadness and concern for said partner. He glanced around, then leaned near Maureen’s ear. To her credit, she held herself from shrinking away from him, although it was an obvious hardship. “I believe you can keep a secret. Am I right?”

“Of course,” she neighed softly. The promise of imparting confidential information kept the woman glued to the spot. Nothing could pry her away from the hated Russian’s whispers.

“During our last mission, THRUSH subject Napoleon to a series of electric shocks in a, um, delicate place on his body.”

Maureen’s runny brown eyes widened as she pulled back and stared into Illya’s face. He nodded confirmation to her unasked question. “Since then,” he continued, voice still low so only she could hear, “he’s had a problem with . . .” Illya quickly looked around again. “With impotence.”

“Oh, my! How awful!” the horsy woman gasped. “You mean, he can’t . . . perform?”

Illya nodded sadly. “Since he often has to rely on that . . . performance . . . in order to gain valuable information in the field, it could cause him a lot of problems.” He stepped back. The proximity of her was starting to give him the shivers. Besides, she smelled funny. Not bad, exactly, just odd. He shook it off.

“What do you want me to do?” Maureen asked.

Illya felt like he did on those occasions he finally slipped a halter on a horse who had led him on a merry chase around the pasture. In complete control. “Help him get over his little problem.”

The suspicious look settled on her equine face once more. She was slipping out of his halter of deceit. “Why me?”

That was the hardest part about this scenario when he was making his plans. Why would he come to her? Hopefully she would believe his answer. He didn’t. He knew his shrug conveyed a nonchalance he did not feel. “Because you are discreet.”

She grimaced. “That’s not what you said a few months ago. You told me I was the biggest gossip in the entire Command.”

Illya hid his wince. She would remember that. Ah, well, an experiment was nothing if not challenging. “Yes and I have watched you carefully since then. I feel you took our last little talk to heart and changed your attitude considerably. I now consider you the least likely to gossip,” he lied.

Maureen drew herself up to her full, impressive height. Illya felt like a midget next to her. “Thank you!” she said sincerely, her face flushing with pleasure at the compliment.

Guilt nibbled at the corners of Illya’s conscience. She felt good about herself now because of a lie. With her acid personality, he doubted she had many chances to get her ego boosted. Maybe he should call this experiment off? He did dislike using people, at least outside of a mission.

“Where does he live? I could go see him tonight.”

“Well, I had another idea in mind. You and I will go to a jazz club I know. I will ask Napoleon to meet us there.”

She dropped back into her usual swaybacked slouch. A disbelieving snarl curled her lip. “You’re full of crap, Kuryakin! You do have a crush on me and this little scheme is the only way you can think of to get me to go out with you!”

Back to the merry chase about the pasture. “I assure you, Miss Horowitz, I dislike you as much as you dislike me. Napoleon does not want anyone to know of his problem and if you showed up at his apartment, he would deny its existence. This way, you can merely seduce him without him being the wiser.”

She turned a baleful eye on him for several moments before nodding. “Fine.” She held up a finger, remarkably stubby for a woman of her height. “But I refuse to be near you any more than I have to. I’ll meet you at the club.”

Illya released a sigh of relief. He had no desire to spend time with her, either. “The Blue Note. It’s in the Village.”

“I know of it.”

“Shall we say around eight tonight?”

“I’ll be there.”

*******************

Napoleon knocked on the frame of Illya’s office door as it whisked open for him. “Hi, partner,” the American said as he stepped inside.

"Hello." Illya didn't bother to look up from his reports. After several minutes of silence and the crawling sensation of being watched, he cast a quizzical glance at his partner. Napoleon stood leaning on the wall beside the door, hands in pockets and staring. At him. Illya shifted, a little uncomfortable at the intensity of that hazel gaze. Felt like the American was dissecting him with his eyes, trying to see past the walls and barriers. If anyone could succeed in such a goal, it would be Napoleon. Instead of feeling appalled at the idea, Illya found himself warmed by it. "Yes?" he said finally. Luckily, the shakiness in his knees did not reflect in his voice.

Solo pushed himself away from the wall and walked closer. He reached out and plucked the Russian's black-framed glasses off his nose and dropped them onto the desk. He smiled. Category: Sincere. The one that lit up his entire face and the generous soul that hid beneath. The one Illya liked.

"I, uh, thought we could go to some cheap dive that serves wine that tastes like gasoline and food drenched in grease tonight.”

Illya could not have set it up more perfectly if he had tried. He would not have to manipulate Napoleon into asking his plans for the evening. Here he was, setting himself up for his Russian partner. This was a perfect opportunity and no scientist worth his grain would pass up the perfect opportunity. "I'm sorry, but I already have plans."

The American's face fell and the smile that Illya found so appealing disappeared. Guilt reared its ugly head. "Otherwise, I would love to, Napoleon." He would! He really would! He fleetingly considered trashing the experiment. Illya's sex drive punched the guilt in the nose, gagged it, trussed it up and tossed it in a corner. Perhaps he should continue to pursue the theory, after all.

"Oh." Napoleon's smile returned, but it wasn't the sunny one. Category: Forced. "Do you have another date with Carla?" A sour note in his voice underlined the question. If Illya were a woman, he would have identified it as jealousy. But since he was a man . . . perhaps it was still jealousy? Could Napoleon harbor a secret desire for Carla?

He filed it away for further examination when he had more time and privacy. "No. I'm meeting Maureen at The Blue Note tonight for drinks and jazz."

"Maureen?" Napoleon looked to the ceiling as if asking for divine guidance, his eyes glazed with a distant quality as he searched his memory for anyone he knew by that name. Lust glittered in their hazel depths as he hit on a possibility. "Ah, yes! Maureen in Accounting. She of the golden mane, bright blue eyes and short but dynamic body."

Illya blinked. He'd once overheard Solo use those exact words to describe his Russian partner to someone. Coincidence. Pure coincidence. "Er, no. Maureen from Research."

"Research. Research." Distaste curled the American's lip as he realized to whom Illya referred. "Please tell me you are not talking about Maureen Horse-no-wits!"

"It is not nice to call people names, Napoleon. But to answer your question, it is Miss Horowitz." He emphasized the correct last name. Having been on the receiving end of the name mangling game, he abhorred the practice. Even if it was fitting.

Napoleon's jaw dropped in astonishment. Weird strangling noises came out of the resulting cavern. Illya smiled, amused at his friend's reaction. If his partner ran true to form, this could be an entertaining evening. "Close your mouth, Napoleon. Something big might fly in."

The American's lips snapped together, forming a tight line. “Well, since you have something better to do than spend time with me, I guess I’ll leave you to it.” Only one person in the world knew Solo well enough to hear the underlying disappointment.

That one person felt his resolve to go through with the charade slip a little. Maybe he should cancel his date Maureen and give in to his friend. Illya’s libido gave that idea a resounding thump. Unless he planned on trying to seduce Napoleon, an impossibility with his firmly heterosexual partner, he needed to go through with the plan. Besides, it was merely another manipulation on his partner’s part. Why else would he be flying ‘solo’ tonight except to make sure the Russian did not get lucky? Irritation replaced the guilt that had dared to peek out from its hiding place. “Do not tell me the great Napoleon Solo is dateless on a Friday night?”

“I had a date. I canceled it in order to make time for you.”

Guilt jumped back out with a small cry of anguish. Libido flattened it with a well-placed karate chop. He’s playing you just like he plays his women! It was right, of course. The suave American would not miss an opportunity for gratuitous sex merely to spend time with his partner. Not without an ulterior motive. Such as keeping his partner from gratuitous sex. “Next time, you should consult me before breaking a date.” He made the mistake of looking at his friend’s downcast face and couldn’t resist relenting just a little. “I am free tomorrow night.”

“Really? Gee, that’s too bad because I have a date tomorrow,” Napoleon continued. He smiled. Category: Shark. To the unpracticed eye, Solo’s expression didn’t change. But Illya was quite practiced and he could see how his partner brightened at the idea of his friend being alone on a Saturday night. It hurt. A lot. It also strengthened his desire to see this experiment through. There was a chance Solo was not the friend Illya thought he was. They would discuss that after tonight’s results.

“Well, have fun at, ah, The Blue Note, did you say?”

Illya nodded.

“The Blue Note.” Napoleon leaned over and ruffled Illya’s longish blond hair. “See you later, my beatnik Russian friend.”

Another smile. Category: Seductive. Instead of feeling repulsed by it as he normally would, an excited tingle traveled up his spine. Nyet! Not Napoleon! He steered Libido away from his male partner and gave it a picture of a prostitute to admire instead. It kept trying to return to the dark haired American.

Illya cleared his throat. “Later. Of course. I will, um, see you later.”

Napoleon’s smile widened at Illya’s obvious discomfort. He jammed his hands into his pockets and spun on his heel, whistling a little tune as he left.

Illya slumped into his chair. Arrogant American! It anyone else had tried to touch his hair, they would have found themselves on the way to Medical to set a broken hand. Beatnik Russian, indeed. How dare he call him that! And how dare he try to manipulate his partner into feeling guilty about breaking a date! HE certainly had not asked him to do so.

Illya continued his silent tirade, intent on working himself up into a proper snit before Libido could work him into a sexual frenzy with his partner the focus of his desire. Within fifteen minutes, he was completely put out with Napoleon. Especially since it was the infuriating American’s fault he had to go take a cold shower.

***********

The Blue Note was hopping when Illya arrived. His preferred table was available, compliments of the bartender, Jimmy. Illya had called earlier to ask Jimmy to save his favorite spot for him. He knew the bartender would do it. The man had a crush on him. Illya never encouraged him. In fact, he had informed Jimmy in no uncertain terms that he preferred women. But the bartender refused to be discouraged, so Illya felt no qualms about sometimes taking advantage in little ways. Like asking him to reserve a favorite table.

The people which made up the regular crowd at The Blue Note was a relatively equal mix of straights and gays. They all intermingled and no one cared, a strange montage glued together by the common love of jazz. Illya settled himself in the center chair of the three arranged around the table. When . . . if . . . no, when, Napoleon showed up, it would be interesting to see if he sat next to his partner or pulled the chair around closer to Maureen.

Illya cringed when he heard a familiar voice bray, “Would you morons please get out of my way?” He blinked at the emergence of Maureen, board-like frame draped in a psychedelic micro-mini skirt, carrying a purse the size of a postage stamp, rudely pushing her six foot frame through the throng. The makeup she wore was almost as colorful as the dress. Frightening.

“There you are, Kuryakin. I thought I’d never find you.” She sat to Illya’s right, scooting a foot farther away from him. The Russian kept his smirk to himself at her move. It would probably just irritate her and he did not want to listen to her whine.

Maureen studied the setup of the table, then stood and dragged the chair on Illya’s left until it was situated next to hers. She sat back down, finally satisfied. “So when is your partner supposed to get here?”

“I told him about eight.” Illya consulted his watch. “It is about ten of, now.” One ruby-red painted lip curled in disdain as Maureen retrieved a cigarette from a gold case pulled out of the purse. Apparently it was bigger than Illya had first thought. “Great,” she nickered, dangling the cigarette between drawn-in lips. Napoleon called such artistry of the female mouth ‘Lucille Ball’ lips. “I have to sit here and make nice with you for ten minutes.”

Illya shifted irritably. As if he wanted to spend ten minutes in her company. He did not like spending ten seconds around Maureen Horowitz. “Actually, you will need to ‘make nice’ to me for longer than ten minutes.”

Horowitz eyed him suspiciously. “Why is that?”

“My partner likes a woman who is hard to get. He also likes to be the center of attention.”

“A place of honor he certainly deserves.” Maureen sighed, a dreamy expression settling on her face. It looked out of place on her.

Illya choked. Puhzhalsta! This woman certainly was enamored of his partner. “Be that as it may,” he said when he could talk again, “the more attention you pay to me and the less you pay to him, the better your chances for snagging his, um, regard for the evening.”

Maureen turned an interesting shade of green as she listened to what he told her. “You didn’t tell me I’d have to do THAT!” Her voice carried over the top of all the other noise bringing nearby conversation to a halt as the other patrons glanced at them. Some of them snickered.

Bozhe moi! Why did he not think of having this rendezvous someplace he didn’t like to frequent? Why did he have to bring it here? Remember the experiment! He repeated it over and over in his head until it became a mantra. He managed to keep himself from bolting even though he wanted to escape this woman more than he had ever wanted to escape a THRUSH cell.

“This better not be your way of trying to seduce me,” Maureen snarled.

This must be what the Christian Hell is like, Illya thought after an eternity had passed. It is no wonder they are so afraid of it. He almost fainted in relief when he saw a familiar dark haired man coming his way, even if he did look out of place in his expensive suit. Expressive--at least to Illya--hazel eyes locked gazes with his blue ones, somehow conveying the message that no one else in this place existed. Eternity ended and time came to a stop.

“Yoo-hoo! Napoleon!”

Illya felt a strange sensation of vertigo, his inner ear popping, as reality reasserted itself. For the first time ever, he felt a little relieved to hear the bleat of Maureen Horowitz’s voice. He cleared his throat and composed his face into a look of surprise. “Napoleon! What are you doing here?”

“I thought a night listening to jazz sounded like fun and, since the only jazz club I knew of was this one, I thought I’d come see what it was all about.”

Illya tilted his head a little in suspicion. “You don’t like jazz.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Napoleon purred as he bounced on his feet a little and snapped his fingers completely off the beat of the music. “I don’t mind listening to your records.”

“Oh, really?” Illya snorted. “It was only a couple of weeks ago you said my music sounded like . . . “ He glanced upward and to the right as he thought of the exact words used. “ . . . Oh, yes. Like a group of banshees trying to outscreech each other.” Illya really didn’t understand Napoleon’s opinion of jazz. He thought it was soothing, but his partner insisted it was raucous.

“Oh, who cares?” Maureen snorted with impatience. She patted the chair next to her. “Come, Nappy. Join us.”

Nappy? Ugh! Judging by Napoleon’s raised eyebrow, he thought the same thing about the little pet name Maureen had bestowed upon him. He still managed a smile. Category: What the hell am I getting into? He tried to pull the empty chair a bit away from Maureen, but she had a hold on the leg. They played tug-of-war for a few seconds before Napoleon finally gave up and sat down. He turned a little so his thigh would not touch hers, obviously uncomfortable with the situation.

Maureen released Solo’s chair leg and placed her hand on his shoulder. She leaned in close. The dew-eyed look did not work on Miss M. Horowitz. Napoleon’s expression said he agreed. “Napoleon, darling,” she cooed, “how are you feeling?”

Alarm crossed Napoleon’s face. He cleared his throat and scooted his chair over a few inches. “I’m, uh, fine.” He forced a smile.

Hmm, that was a new one. It needed a new category: Constipated.

Maureen pulled her chair next to Napoleon’s. Her too-red lips split and showed her large teeth in a parody of a smile. Red lipstick clung to the enamel. Napoleon’s reactive twitch was so slight as to be almost imperceptible.

As amusing as it all was, Illya decided he needed to get this phase of the experiment on the right track before Napoleon ran screaming into the night. He wrapped a possessive arm around Maureen’s bony shoulders. “I’m sure he would prefer to experience his newfound love of jazz in privacy, my dear,” Illya said, nuzzling her neck and whispering into her ear, “Remember what I said about being hard to get.”

“I, ah, would like to sit with you, if you don’t mind,” Napoleon interjected. “That way you could clue me in on the finer points of the music.”

Maureen pulled away turned an adoring smile on Illya. It did not reach her cold, hate-filled eyes. Luckily Napoleon couldn’t see that aspect. “See, snookums? He wants to stay with us. We’ll have plenty of time to be alone later.” She placed her hand high on Illya’s upper thigh. To Napoleon it would look like a gesture of affection, since he would be unable to notice the two-inch long, blood-red fingernails digging into the muscle.

Illya’s eyes watered as he pried her hand from his leg and laced his fingers with hers in such a way hers were bent back with a steady pressure. “Are you sure you don’t mind company, dearest?”

“I don’t mind at all, sugarbumps.” Maureen leaned forward and captured Illya’s lips in a kiss.

He forced the contents of his stomach to stay down as he allowed her to force her tongue into his mouth, hoping to make the kiss look sincere. They engaged in a mighty duel of tastebuds for several seconds. Not the playful, sensual kissing between lovers, but a mean, cruel war between enemies using their tongues as swords.

Maureen made the first thrust, roughly shoving his tongue into his throat. Illya retaliated by biting on hers. She retreated and, with bloodlust up and good sense down, he followed for the kill. Big mistake. The minute his tongue breached Maureen’s cavern of a mouth, she turned into a vacuum, sucking so hard he thought she was going to pull his poor tongue out by the roots. He managed a retreat before that happened.

Napoleon stared at them, stunned. To him, the ‘kiss’ must have looked quite passionate. Hardly. Illya’s penis was not only still flaccid, it had shrunk more, retreating in an effort to stay out of Horowitz’ way. Napoleon didn’t know that, though. The Russian flashed him a small, knowing smile and shrugged one black-clad shoulder. He resisted the urge to check his tongue for injury.

Solo’s face screwed up in disgust and something else Illya could not quite identify. Dismay, maybe. Very likely. The American agent would definitely be dismayed at the thought of having to seduce Maureen Horowitz because he wanted to make sure his partner did not. He deserved such a distasteful task if he insisted on Illya’s celibacy. And it would save Illya the trouble of castrating his partner. Bedding Maureen would probably be enough to cause the impotence, thereby lending some truth to the Russian’s lie. Very poetic.

Napoleon straightened his shoulders and shot his cuffs. Illya’s eyes narrowed when he recognized the subtle signs of the American steeling himself for unavoidable, necessary torture. Solo glanced at the band playing on the stage. “I’m not sure I could dance to this kind of music.”

Maureen spun in her seat so fast she blurred. She frowned as she noticed the gap that had opened up between them. Her chair scraped across the floor until her leg touched that of the dark headed man. “Oh, Napoleon! I’m sure you could dance wonderfully to any kind of music!”

“Why, thank you, my dear.” He threw his partner a sly look. Then he turned his charm on full throttle. Even if the horsefaced woman had not been interested in Napoleon, she would never have had a chance against his assault. As it was, since Maureen already harbored a king-sized crush on him, she melted into a puddle of hormones.

Napoleon’s smile went through an almost imperceptible metamorphosis. Category: Triumph. Illya sighed despite himself. Was Napoleon really so insecure he could not even leave his partner a woman the American agent obviously despised and considered completely repulsive? Why do I have to be the one to suffer for his insecurities?

Because you’re the only one he trusts enough to drop his guard with. Illya was surprised at the insight. It was true, though. As the guardian of that trust, it was only natural he would catch some of the fallout. In order to enjoy the honor of the former, he had to accept the horror of the latter. As such, he wondered once again if he should stop the experiment.

The primal corner of his brain told him the trust of a partner was not nearly as important as a really good orgasm. It was a part of his mind he seldom listened to. Unfortunately, nine months worth of complete neglect made it harder to ignore. Especially since his centers of higher thinking were starting to agree. It was hard to feel otherwise when all parts of his brain were in complete accordance. It was his entire brain which decided: the experiment must go on!

Napoleon took Maureen’s hand and raised it to his lips. He kissed the manicured fingers while he unobtrusively slid his chair over, reestablishing some space between them. Maureen’s lips parted slightly and her bosom heaved. Rather, since she had no bosom to speak of, her ribcage heaved. Napoleon’s gaze slid downward and his smile flipped to a frown. Illya managed to keep the smirk off his face. Barely. The playboy’s penchant for large breasts would not get satisfied by the woman’s flat chest.

“Oh, Napoleon,” Maureen sighed. Another scrape of chair legs and she was practically sitting in Solo’s lap.

Alarm crossed the dark haired agent’s face as the horse like visage of one Miss Maureen Horowitz loomed closer. Illya realized he needed to give his subject more incentive to keep him from running. In this case, the cheese at the end of the maze might be too rancid. He needed to reapply the original stimulus to keep the American rat going.

He snatched Maureen’s free hand. He frowned slightly when he realized he couldn’t reach it. The woman had chased Solo almost halfway around the small table. Illya wasn’t about to play Follow The Leader. He categorically refused to have his back to a crowded room, especially when his partner was so distracted. He settled for saying, “Maureen, I thought you were here with me?” He injected just the right amount of whine to make him sound dismayed at his loss of the young lady’s attentions, but not so much as to sound truly hurt by it. If Napoleon thought he was hurting his friend with his antics, it would make him stop. That would ruin the data.

Illya paused. Why did he not simply tell Napoleon it hurt when he stole his dates? Because it would be a lie and you don’t like to lie to your partner. True. Losing out to Napoleon did not hurt his feelings since, well, since he had no real feelings for the women he bedded. He liked them, but never allowed an attachment. Therefore what Napoleon was doing did not hurt in his heart.

His groin was another matter.

“I am, Beloved,” Maureen said through gritted teeth, her baleful glare belying her words. “I’m just trying to get to know your partner better.” To this end, she slid closer to the other man.

In response, Napoleon and his chair slid over a bit more. He glanced smugly at his partner. “Yes, Illya. We’re just trying to get to know each other better.” He punctuated the goal with another smile at Maureen. Category: Meltdown.

Maureen responded to his charm by scraping her chair nearer to his once more. Slide. Solo poured on the charm. Scrape. Maureen sighed and giggled in response. Slide. Charm. Scrape. Sighs and giggles. They both seemed oblivious to the strange dance they performed as they made their journey around the table.

Napoleon finally noticed what was happening when he ran into Illya. Solo turned his head, eyes widening in surprise. The Russian folded his arms and raised an eyebrow. “Perhaps I should leave you two to your . . . conversation,” he intoned dryly, standing quickly.

“Illya!” Solo said, a note of desperation in his voice. He swiped empty air as Illya slipped away, ignoring the plea in the other man’s eyes.

Guilt tried to peek out of its hiding place, only to skitter away when Libido growled at it. So the American would have to spend the night with a woman he found repugnant. Served the bastard right for forcing his partner into celibacy. Results

Subject, Napoleon Solo, was exposed to two women. When the women were not objects of Illya Kuryakin’s desire, Subject found them unattractive and repulsive and had no romantic interest in either of them. Once Illya Kuryakin expressed interest in said women, Subject showed interest. When women returned Kuryakin’s affections, Subject attained a sudden, insatiable need to turn their attentions to himself.

Conclusions

Napoleon Solo does indeed need to have all female attention focused on himself. Such actions reflect deep insecurities which may . . . .

A quiet knock on the door interrupted Illya’s note writing. He glanced at the clock and frowned. Nine forty-five. Who would be here at this hour? Surely Napoleon had not escaped the clutches of Maureen yet. He’d left them to their own devices less than an hour ago.

The knock sounded again. He sighed and put down his pen. Only one way to find out. He stepped to the door and peered through the peephole. A surprised eyebrow climbed up his forehead as he opened the door. “Carla? What are you doing here?” He waved her inside then reset the security alarms.

“The lie Solo tried to tell me about you started me thinking, Illya. Why haven’t we ever had sex?”

Illya’s eyes widened. Nothing she said would have shocked him. Except that. Libido twitched in anticipation. A possible chance for sex! It studied the possible object of desire. Carla certainly looked a lot better in a minders than Maureen. A cow looked better in a minders than Maureen, so perhaps it was an unfair comparison. Still, as beautiful as Carla was, something wasn’t quite right. Libido imagined her hair short and dark. Better. Illya cleared his throat. “You never seemed interested.”

Carla shrugged. “I had never really thought about it.” She gazed at him, her eyes’ normal cool green igniting into emerald flames. Illya gazed into those eyes, expecting sexual hunger to jolt him. What he got was the sense of, well, staring into some green eyes. No passion. No excitement. No sense of vertigo. Not like he got when Napoleon looked at him.

In his mind’s eye, Carla’s gaze darkened, the green diminishing until it was mere flecks of color in otherwise brown eyes. Beautiful. Libido’s interest intensified.

“Until Solo said what he said,” Carla murmured as she took a slow step closer. “Once I thought about it, I realized that I . . . “ Another step. “. . . am . . .” Her full breasts pressed into his chest. “. . . very . . .” She brought her face into kissing range. “. . . interested.”

The lips! They were all wrong! They were too full and they lacked the sensuality of a mouth that always smiled. Libido changed them to its idea of perfection: somewhat thinner with a ready smile that expressed a plethora of emotions.

Once he had the lips in proper perspective, he obliged her. The kiss was long and altogether uninspiring. His cock only gave a halfhearted twitch when it should be rock hard. What is the problem? he sternly asked Libido. Here he was with a woman willing to have sex when his partner was nowhere around to interfere and LIBIDO WASN’T INTERESTED?

Illya looked into Carla’s flushed face. Well, maybe if her chin had a cleft in it . . . Bozhe moi! He was fantasizing that this beautiful, desirable woman looked like his partner! Nyet, nyet, nyet, nyet, nyet! This simply was not right! Even in absentia, Solo managed to stop him from having sex!

Carla didn’t seem to notice his dilemma. She dropped kisses on his neck. Cold, clammy kisses. “I’m going to go freshen up a bit,” she murmured. She pulled away slightly and pointed to an open doorway on the opposite side of the entry door. ”Is that your bedroom?”

Illya’s voice seemed to have abandoned him, so he merely nodded.

Carla smiled. “Is the bathroom through there?”

He nodded again.

Carla touched his lips with hers. “I’ll meet you there.” She undulated across the living room and disappeared into the bedroom.

What was he going to do? Best chance for sex after nine months of inactivity and Libido decided to take a nap. He could use his KGB training in this area to at least wake it up to perform, but what was the point? He did not enjoy that kind of sex. It fell into the business rather than pleasure category and, unless he was doing it for a mission, he saw no reason to indulge in such a mindless chore. He sighed. When Carla returned from freshening up, he’d simply have to tell her it was not going to work. It would probably lose him a companion for museums and science lectures, but he could live with that.

A sudden banging on the apartment door startled him. The doorknob rattled, then the banging resumed. “Illya, you cold-blooded Russian! I know you’re in there! You’d better let me in before I break this damned door down!”

Napoleon! Illya opened the door to find Solo ready to make good his threat. The American lowered his foot and shoved past his partner into the apartment beyond. Illya gently shut the door before turning to face his partner.

Napoleon’s hands were clenched into fists, his face dark with anger. “You! Set! Me! Up! With! That! That! HORSE!” he growled through clenched teeth.

Indignation burned in the pit of Illya’s stomach. How dare he! Illya had endured Napoleon’s interference in his sex life and now the infuriating American had the audacity to be angry at him? Illya crossed his arms over his chest, exuding a calm he did not feel. “At least I set you up in such a way that allowed you to have sex. You keep setting me up so that I cannot indulge in my baser desires.”

Solo waved a dismissive hand. “I don’t have a clue what you’re talking about!”

Illya raised an eyebrow. “Oh? Then explain to me why you tried to seduce two women you had no interest in?” Solo remained silent, his face the most interesting shade of purple. Well he would just have to supply the answer. “I’ll tell you why. You didn’t want me to seduce them.”

“What?” Napoleon almost looked sincere in his shock. Almost. But, as the American saying went, almost only mattered with horse’s hooves.

“I didn’t believe you would deliberately steal women away from me, either, Napoleon. So I decided to do an experiment that would either prove or disprove that hypothesis. I chose two women I knew you had no sexual interest in. And what happened? You seduced them both!”

“What are you talking about? What women?”

“Carla and Maureen.”

Before Napoleon could reply, a feminine voice snarled, “Me?” Illya closed his eyes. Carla. He’d forgotten about Carla. “All that crap the other night was because of an experiment? I was an experiment?” The now livid woman strode to the Russian. Illya saw the slap coming, but didn’t bother to stop it. She had good reason. “Solo was only partially wrong when he accused you of taking me out only to get me in bed! I just never realized it was to get me in bed with him! You are a perverse and sick individual, Kuryakin!” Carla spun to face Napoleon. “And YOU!” She merely shook her head. “No wonder you two work so well together. You’re both bastards!” Carla strode to the door and flung it open. It slammed against the wall with a resounding crash.

Both men stood frozen until the clattering of her footsteps down the stairs brought them back to their senses. Illya closed the door yet one more time. Maybe he should install one of those revolving ones. He sighed again as he turned to face his partner. The American sported yet another of his patented smiles. Category: Triumphant Satisfaction. “So you still didn’t get sex,” Napoleon said smugly, his voice low and menacing. “And you can’t blame that one on me. It was all your doing. You and your little experiment. As if she would have gone to bed with you, anyway.” Bitterness tinged his words; words he used like a knife.

He wielded his blade well, cutting Illya all the way to what little soul he still possessed. The Russian twisted his pain into rage, using it as a shield against the man he so stupidly allowed to breach the fortress he’d spent years building. “For nine months, now, Napoleon,” his voice dropped into what Solo called his ‘danger zone’, “you have done everything in your power to thwart me from any kind of sexual liaison. And your power over my life has proven to be considerable. I will accept that in a work situation, since you are the Head of the Enforcement section. However, I draw the line at allowing you power over my personal life. I’ve had enough masters dictating who I see and what I do, thank you. I don’t need you to take over for the KGB now that I finally have a little control over my life!”

Guilty horror crossed Napoleon’s face. He deflated as the fight went out of him. “Is that what I’ve done?”

Illya looked away and nodded mutely.

“I’m sorry.”

The Russian nodded again. Napoleon really did sound contrite. He had the urge to look into the hazel eyes. They would tell him the truth his friend’s words sometimes denied. Against his better judgment, he read his partner’s eyes. Napoleon’s sorrow might as well have been written in neon on a moonless night. Illya’s anger melted and he slumped in defeat. Napoleon had not realized what he’d been doing and Illya could not hold his actions against him. “It’s okay. Just, please, do not do it again.” He sighed and ran a hand through his hair.

Napoleon watched him, a slight smile on his face. Category: . . . Illya inwardly frowned. He didn’t know what category it fit into. It bespoke a montage of emotions. It was as confusing as Napoleon trying to speak in several languages at once.

“So, it’s been nine months since you, ah . . .” He waggled his eyebrows suggestively.

“Yes, Napoleon. It’s been nine months since I ‘ah’.”

Solo took a step closer. “You must be getting pretty frustrated.” His voice dropped low, almost a purr.

Illya huffed a short laugh. “You cannot imagine.”

Napoleon took another step. “I feel kind of bad about that, Illya.” Closer still, closing the gap between them.

Illya was struck with the memory of Maureen and Napoleon playing musical chairs at the club. This situation was different in two very distinct ways. One, Napoleon was the chaser instead of the chasee; and, Two, Illya wasn’t running. He swallowed as his partner hovered mere inches from his face. It looked remarkably like the image Libido had superimposed on Carla. His cock sprang to life. No halfhearted twitching this time. He swallowed. “You should feel bad.” He tried to force indignation he didn’t feel into his words. Difficult when it came out in a whisper.

Napoleon tilted his head and smiled. Oh! That was a nice one! Category: Shy. Very unNapoleon-like. Looked good on him. But only in a situation like this.

The American brushed Illya’s bangs off his high forehead. “Weeeellllll, since I’m the reason you’re frustrated . . . “

If only he knew!

“. . . I should be the one to take care of it. Don’t you think?” Napoleon was so close he resembled Cyclops with one big hazel eye centered in his forehead. “That would be the courteous thing to do.”

“What I have in mind has nothing to do with courtesy.” Their breath mingled as the American made his move on the Russian to bring about an end to their Cold War. Their lips touched lightly.

Libido danced with joy and invited Illya’s centers of higher thinking into joining it in a jaunt into the gutter. His centers of higher thinking accepted, forgetting everything in favor of an orgy with his primal brain. Nine months worth of frustration fueled Illya’s erection, as well as his enthusiasm. He took charge of the situation. His tongue’s demand for entrance into Napoleon’s mouth was granted. Unlike the duel to the death with Maureen, this kiss was a dance of mutual desire. He took a firm hold on Napoleon’s butt and ground his groin into his partner’s erection. Oh, yes. This dance was definitely mutual.

Libido howled.

Napoleon groaned at the contact and broke off the kiss. He trailed his tongue down Illya’s throat. “I’ve wanted you for so long,” he moaned, nibbling at the juncture where the Russian’s neck and shoulder met.

“How . . . long?” Illya panted.

Solo ceased his nuzzling in order to look his lover in the eye. “About nine months.” A smile crept across his face. Category: Oh, who the hell cared? Illya attacked Napoleon’s mouth again. Two pairs of hands explored each other’s bodies. Illya yanked away. “Bed!” he growled. “Now!”

Napoleon didn’t wait to be asked twice. He practically ran into the bedroom, Illya hot on his heels, shedding clothes as he went along. Napoleon turned around once he reached the bed, eyes widening in surprise at his partner’s state of complete undress. “Well! Looks like I have some catching up to do.” He unknotted his tie.

Illya slapped his hands away, unmercifully ripped away the offending strip of cloth, then grabbed the top of Napoleon’s shirt and yanked. The buttons of the expensive garment popped in rapid succession.

“Hey! Do you know how much this shirt cost? Slow down!” Napoleon tried to catch his lover’s busy hands before they could do damage to his trousers.

Illya avoided capture as he shoved the shirt off the broad shoulders. “It has been a long time, Napoleon. I am extremely spiny.” He disarmed the American’s belt with one deft move.

“Uh, spiny?” he asked as he watched the slender fingers go to work on his pants, making no more attempts to stop them from accomplishing their goal.

Illya grasped one of Napoleon’s hands and placed it on his erection, now weeping in happiness at the end of a nine month dry spell. “Spiny.” He returned his attention to the other man’s zipper.

Napoleon chuckled as he encircled the pale cock with his fingers. “You mean ‘horny’.”

Illya’s frontal assault halted as his partner’s hand traveled the length of his erection. He moaned, head thrown back, lips slightly parted, eyes closed at the almost forgotten sensations. Napoleon’s lips took his once more, his tongue softly caressing Illya’s. It felt so good. It wouldn’t take long for him to . . .

Nyet! He did not want to come this way! He’d had enough hand jobs to last awhile. He needed something more. He broke the kiss and extracted himself from Napoleon’s five-fingered embrace. He went back to work on his partner’s pants. “Horny. Spiny. I honestly do not care. As long as it ends tonight.” The zipper came loose and the American’s overpriced trousers became a puddle around his ankles. He pushed the other man onto the bed and deftly whipped off pants, followed by underpants. He tossed them away carelessly as he knelt between Napoleon’s legs. The Russian nibbled his way up his lover’s left inner thigh.

“Ahh!” Surprise flashed in Solo’s eyes as his hard cock disappeared into the Russian’s insistent mouth. “Illya!” Napoleon gasped. “This isn’t exactly how I planned it.”

“Sorry,” he mumbled. Not really. But then, he was not exactly in control, either. Libido and the primal brain were in command now. The Russian could no more stop their momentum than he could have stopped his heart from pumping blood. Most of which was shoring up his throbbing erection at the moment.

“Oh, God! Illya! Stop!” Solo clutched at the blond head as he wrenched himself free. He skittered to the head of the bed. “Illya, stop!”

Illya kept the hurt that suddenly squeezed his heart from showing in his eyes. He slammed the unwanted emotion down, willed it away. Replaced it with anger. Obviously Solo had only initiated this little tease session as yet another ploy to keep his partner from having sex. He must be feeling particularly threatened to try a mock seduction.

That was Napoleon’s problem. Illya had no intention of taking the fallout of his partner’s sexual insecurities any longer. There was only so far one could stretch a friendship. “Time for you to go,” he told the man sprawled on his bed. He stood and stalked out of the bedroom, picking up and redressing in his discarded clothing as he went along. He wasn’t sure who he was most furious at. Napoleon for playing him for a fool? Or himself for falling for it?

A still naked Solo caught up to him as he slid into his trousers. “Illya! Wait! I didn’t mean for you to stop completely.”

Illya shot him a glance of disbelief while he yanked his white T-shirt over his head. “Carla is gone and will probably never talk to me again, much less grace my bed. You have averted yet another chance for me to have sex. Go get dressed . . . “ . . . because I will not be responsible for Libido as long as you are standing there in all your naked glory. . . He forced his mind away from that dangerous line of thinking. “Your work here is finished.”

“Is that what you think this is all about?” Napoleon grabbed his left arm.

Illya glared at the hand. Waverly would frown if he broke it. Waverly frowning usually ended up badly for him. He resisted the urge to do great bodily harm, opting instead to pry the offending fingers from his arm. Solo yelped when the Russian forced the pinkie finger a little too far back. Illya raised an eyebrow that indicated he was not sorry. “Isn’t it?”

“You are such a stubborn Russian! I already told you I want you!” Napoleon sighed dramatically and threw his hands up in the air. “My God, Illya! I’m standing here naked in front of you, practically begging you to let me make love to you! I have fantasized about it ten times a day for the last nine months! What more do you want?”

Illya knew his partner better than anyone else in the world. He knew the story behind every scar on his body; knew every nuance of his personality; knew what almost every minute shift of expression meant. He could read his partner with uncanny accuracy ninety-nine percent of the time. His reading of the American now screamed sincerity. Which was why he was so confused. He let his exasperation for the situation show. “Then why did you stop me from making love to you just now?”

Napoleon turned red. Libido noticed the color reached all parts of the man’s body. Stop it! Illya scolded. He took a step back and clenched his hands into fists at his sides.

“Well, ah,” Napoleon stuttered. The next few words were so low and mumbled, Illya couldn’t hear them.

“Excuse me?”

The naked Adonis cleared his throat. “I, ah, said it, ah, wasn’t, umm, going, ah, quite how I imagined it.”

Huh? Illya frowned in puzzlement. “You did not like what I was doing?”

Napoleon shifted uncomfortably. “Ah, no, no, that was great. Wonderful, in fact.”

His eyes took on a faraway, dreamy quality. “Absolutely fantastic.”

“Then what was the problem?” Illya prompted.

The American blinked as he forced himself out of his daydream and back to the reality of a very upset and sexually frustrated Russian. “I, ah, wanted to make love to you. I expected to be in control.”

Illya’s eyebrow rose almost of its own accord. “You were disturbed by my aggressiveness?”

“Well, I am the senior partner,”

The softly accented voice took on a warning quality. “Only in work, Napoleon. Not in bed.”

Napoleon looked appropriately contrite. “Well, I . . . .“

Illya cut him off. “I have heard you describe me as ruthless.”

Hazel eyes widened in confusion. “I have known you to be, yes.”

“So you will agree I am an aggressive man?”

Napoleon started to adjust his shirt cuffs, then remembered he didn’t have any. He walked to the threadbare couch and snatched off a worn afghan which he wrapped around himself. “I suppose you are, in the right circumstances.”

“So you will agree I am ruthless and aggressive.”

“Well, yes.” His expression said he had no idea where his friend, and almost lover, was going with this.

“I am a ruthless, aggressive man who has not had sex for nine months. And you thought I would take a passive role in your seduction?” It was apparent Napoleon’s fantasies had imagined Illya playing the submissive female to the suave, over sexed, American’s dominant male. “Are you on some sort of THRUSH experimental drug? Or does insanity run in your family?”

Napoleon lowered his head and grinned. “Must be drugs,” he chuckled. “Because, apparently, I’m not thinking straight.”

Illya relaxed in relief. His partner, best friend and, hopefully soon-to-be lover had not played him for a fool. The man was merely lovesick. Illya pulled up short at that description. Lovesick? Could Napoleon be in love with him? This idea warranted analysis. He drank in the sight of the half-naked man standing contritely before him. He wondered if Napoleon knew the afghan had holes. In just the right places, too. He could get to the analysis later.

He grabbed the afghan, using it to drag the handsome, dark-haired man to him. Napoleon melted willingly into his arms as Illya hauled him into a kiss even more smoldering than the previous ones. When they came up for air, Illya pulled back slightly. His famous ghost smile flickered. “You can be dominant tomorrow night.” Napoleon smiled. Category: Very Pleased.

****************

Illya Kuryakin was a satiated man. Last night, he and Napoleon had pleasured each other top, bottom, sideways and even upside down in a maneuver the American had dubbed “sixty-nine.” As a result, Libido purred like a contented cat after a particularly satisfying meal and his primal brain had slithered back into the primordial ooze in a happy daze. Life was good. He was glad he had not castrated his partner, after all.

His pleasant thoughts were interrupted by said partner storming into his office. The distraught man paced the length of the office for several minutes. He seemed to want to say something, but had yet to produce anything more than a series of strangled sounds. Illya had heard about people of certain religious faiths sometimes doing what was called “speaking in tongues.” He wondered if this was what it sounded like. Although he doubted Napoleon was having a spiritual awakening.

“Waverly . . . rumor . . .” Napoleon’s hands waved around in an uncharacteristic display of nervousness.

Illya was alarmed. His cool as a cucumber, usually unflappable partner was flapping apart at the seams. “You’re babbling. Take a deep breath and try again.”

Napoleon stopped his pacing and took several deep breaths. He calmed down enough to snarl between gritted teeth, “Waverly has the idea that I am impotent!”

Oh, no! Maureen! He should have known she couldn’t keep her horse-sized mouth shut. He felt the blood drain from his face. “Where could he have gotten that idea?”

“I haven’t the foggiest.” Napoleon’s eyes narrowed in suspicion as he glanced at the Russian’s pale face. “Do you know something about it?” His velvety voice had dropped to dangerous levels.

“I . . . “ The lie Illya was about to spout died on his lips as he looked into his new lover’s hazel eyes. He scooted his chair away from the desk, preparing to evade any possible attack. “I am afraid it is my fault. I am sorry.”

Napoleon Solo was amazingly fast when he wanted to be. He’d cleared the desk and had a death grip on the arms of Illya’s chair before the Russian could react. “Your fault?” he growled, eyes sparking with fury.

Illya met the incensed gaze fearlessly. No matter how angry he made his partner, the American would never truly harm his Russian counterpart. “It was the only way I could talk Maureen into meeting me.”

“You told Maureen Horowitz, the biggest gossip in U.N.C.L.E., that I WAS IMPOTENT?” Illya had never seen a man so livid. He would have found it fascinating if the rage hadn’t been directed at him. He may have been wrong about his partner never harming him. He amended it to killing. Napoleon Solo would never kill Illya Kuryakin. He might consider castration, however. He coughed, his balls tightening, trying to hide from possible dismemberment. He tried to explain. “She hates me, you see . . . “

“She may have company very soon.”

The barb hit home. “Please don’t say that, Napoleon,” he murmured. So many people hated him already, because of his nationality, because of his unsociable nature, because of numerous other reasons. He didn’t want to lose the best friend he’d ever had because of a stupid experiment. “I was so spiny, I mean, horny. I wasn’t thinking straight.”

The fires of fury in the hazel eyes died to tiny embers, then went out completely. Napoleon snorted softly. “THRUSH must have given you the same drugs they gave me last night.”

Illya practically shook with relief. “They must have.” He tried to keep the tremor out of his voice. He didn’t quite succeed.

Napoleon’s gaze flicked to the neon Schlitz beer clock on Illya’s wall--the Russian had found the broken clock laying in an alley, brought it to Headquarters and fixed it--then returned to his lover’s face. “It’s 5 o’clock, Kuryakin. Quitting time. I think we’d better take this discussion to my apartment.”

Illya wasn’t sure if he should be worried. He flinched slightly as Napoleon leaned in to whisper in his ear.

“We can do an experiment to find out just how impotent I am.”