Disclaimer: Disclaimer: I don't own anything but my story. I'm not  making a dime off this, so don't sue.

Slash: Napoleon Solo /Illya Kuryakin ( Modern time,  non-Yesterday continuity. Possible continuity for Old Man Vanya.)

Rated: PG-13

Archive: Same as Chapter One (If they want.)

*brinnnng* The sat-phone. Illya fumbled for his glasses. Really,  he thought, he should have something done about his vision.
Next time he was actually back in Russia, perhaps. He flipped  open the speaker. "Kuryakin here."

"Illya!" A familiar voice poured warmly out of the chilled plastic.

"Napoleon!" Illya's breath showed in white puffs in the still air,  and he hurriedly pulled his parka over his shoulders. It would not  do to shiver. Not while being perceived by those particular ears.

"How's Moscow?" the welcome tones continued.

"Colder then Vermont, but less rain. I have been too busy to get  out much." Illya pulled the gray military blanket over his  legs.
"Ivan sends his regards."

"Does he now?" An edge of sarcasm tinged the question, but an  edge gentled by affection.

"Not actually," Illya admitted. " But he would if he did not think it  was a weakening of discipline. He *does* admire you, you
know."

"If only I wasn't the decadent exemplar of a doomed civilization?"

"Be nice to Ivan." Illya chuckled as he turned up the flame on the  tents kerosene lantern and waved his unoccupied fingers over  the resulting warmth. " It is not easy being a Communist in the   FSB these days."

"Tell him if he comes over I'll send him to Berkeley."

"Please!"

"Hey" Napoleon laughed. "I'd offer China, but the last time we  were there  the Director of Military Intelligence spent the whole
time telling you about his son-in-law's silk factory."

"Those were very nice silks," Illya answered back automatically.   And they had been. Soft and fine, and dyed to the  shining
splendor only silk and Napoleon's eyes could ever obtain. He  would likely have purchased them even if it had *not* be so
advisable to do a small favor for a powerful bureaucrat.  Illya  pulled the gray blanket closer, shivering a bit as the rough
stitched edge on the felted wool scratched against the faint edge  of bare skin above his collar. "The Vanya spring collection was  very popular."

"And the Agency got to foot the bill for Vanya's R&D."

"All part of maintaining my cover." Illya reminded his partner  *over* reasonably, "And I now have an excellent connection in
China. It was a bargain."

"You and your bargains!" Napoleon snorted. "I knew I should  never have taught you to do my expense accounts. Speaking of
which - yours aren't coming through. Don't tell me you're  eating  commissary food?

"Not always, although the food there is not bad." Illya thought  regretfully of the pleasant little cafeteria he favored at the Kremlin  as he looked over at the stacked boxes of field rations. "Really.  The shchi is excellent. And the cheese pirozhki."  Which was only  the truth. All of those dishes *had* been delicious - when last he  had eaten there - back in September. As had been the pelmeny  with salmon.  And the fancy cakes you could not find south of  Georgia. And of course, the strong Russian tea which the local  people did *not* make at all right.

Reminded, Illya pulled out a packet of black Bergamot from his  private stash. The lamp should throw enough heat to boil at least  half a cup of water - and since he was going to be sitting up for a  long time tonight? The treat was worth the expenditure of one of  his carefully packed tea-bags. "Still, tell accounting there should  be at least a few bills. One big enough they will think it was you."  He filled the tin cup from the canteen and clipped it over the lamp  chimney. "I took a few old friends out to the Casino's the night I  arrived. That was not... inexpensive."

"Yeh, well." Warm baritone chuckles rolled from the other end of  the phone. "Vodka is always a good investment in Russia. I
assumed you got enough gossip to justify it."

"Napoleon!  Please!" Illya tried for a tone of outrage, but  suspected he only managed snit. Must be the dry air, he
decided. "Would I deliberately get senior officials at the Admiralty  drunk in order to stealthily extract classified information?

"No" Napoleon answered. "Because you're terrifying enough that  they give it to *you* sober."

"Merci du complement." Illya ran a mental check of the calendar.  "With air-mail backed up, it may take a few more days for things  to arrive - but I will remind my secretary..."

"Secretary?"

"Yes, Napoleon. Secretary." Thinking of whom? Illya snagged a  piece of paper off the olive-painted field desk and scratched out    note `have Moscow office check re:send restaurant tab 9/13'  and added it to the stack of things to be done whenever there  was a free telephone line back to Headquarters. "Russians are  civilized people who do not impose their undone paperwork on  their poor oppressed partners. Unlike..."

"Is she pretty?" Napoleon's chuckle cut off the traditional rant.

Illya smiled as he considered the gawky nineteen-year-old Army  private that fumbled through typing up the few reports Illya was  willing to entrust to anyone but himself. "All Russian girls are  pretty. It was decreed in the second five-year plan."

That earned another chuckle. "Smart comrades. Maybe I should  move to the eastern office."

"For you - Napasha - I would find the only *ugly* secretary in all of  Russia."

Not that that would help, Illya considered ruefully. Ugly or pretty -  male or female - they *all* felll in love with Napoleon. Illya had  long since concluded that it was an unexplained force of nature.  Something like the weak force in physics. Observed, but
unknown. Still? As long as Napoleon's constant light flirtation  never strayed into a  real interest in loving them back? Illya was
content to hire the decorative.

"Speaking of ugly?" Illya checked the water, decided it was  almost hot enough, and dropped in the tea bag. "How are things
in Washington? I am not getting much... time to check the news.  But I did hear about the security crackdown. Not our office, I  hope?"

"Not our office - you can be *sure*." Illya could hear his partners  voice hardened at the very thought that one of *their* people  might create a `leak'. "As of yesterday no one at the agency even  publicly *subscribes* to the New York Post."

That Illya translated as `we're in the clear - and whoever *did*  leak that stupid story didn't actually tell the reporter anything *we*  care about'.

"Other then that?" Napoleon continued. "Washington's idiotic -  always.  But I'm not *in* Washington." The phone crackled
slightly, then cleared. "Nope. I'm in Tajikistan."

"Blin!" Illya stood quickly, sending the tightly wrapped blanket  falling to the rough plank floor. "Napoleon!" Illya practically
shouted at the phone. " They are being foolish to risk you."

The signal crackled again. "In the highlands above Nizhniy  Pyandzh."

"That is much too close to the war zone!"

"Outside your tent."

The last was accompanied by the rustle of canvas, as he  door-flap was eased aside and a well-bundled but still
recognizable figure stepped into the tent.

Napoleon paused, flipping shut his phone. "OK. Make that inside  your tent."

"Napasha" Illya  exclaimed, frozen between a  desire to kick his  partner for venturing into a war zone and the more familiar
just-plain-desire.

"Illyusha." Napoleon whispered.

Desire won. With a quiet gasp Illya Kuryakin flung himself into  his partners arms.

Finis?