WARNING: Where do I begin? First: in my universe, Illya Nicovetch Kuryakin's name has been emended/changed/corrected/taken in vain and he is now called Ilya Nicolaievich Kuryakin. Forgive me, but my many Russian friends would double over whenever they encountered the canon version of this name. Second: Be on the lookout for a Mary Sue original character. Relax folks, she doesn't get to marry either one of our heroes. She doesn't even get a kiss. However, she is really competent.

PAIRING: Napoleon Solo and Ilya Kuryakin (see Warnings above)
RATING: NC-17
SPOILERS: None to my knowledge, that would meant I stuck to my guns (canons).
ARCHIVE: Not without my permission.
DISCLAIMERS & SUMMARY: See Author's Notes posted below.

The following week, Ilya found himself having a solitary lunch at the Russian Tea Room. He regularly trailed his coat in the famed tourist trap. You never knew when a recent émigré would let something important slip. He looked up from the Times Sunday crossword to see an expensively dressed woman standing across from him. Publicly solving a puzzle offered perfect cover for covertly checking your surroundings. People expected you to look up every now and then, searching for an answer. The genuine need to come up with a longish word allowed Ilya to notice her when she came in.

"You are Ilya Nikolaievich Kuryakin."

"And you are...?"

"Natalia Filimonovna Tartarinski," she said, sitting down uninvited. "The word you're looking for is 'cruciverbalist'."

"Excuse me?"

"A fourteen-letter word for a crossword puzzle expert."

"Thank you. Am I supposed to know you?"

"Actually, you do. You sent me a letter three years ago inquiring about one of the puzzles. We printed the correction immediately."

"You're Graculus?" Ilya was surprised.*

"In the flesh. And you are one of the fifteen percent who work our puzzles in ink."

"I've seen several discarded copies filled in with ink."

"Tracers. They don't count."

"I beg your pardon?"

"Tracers: cheaters who solve them in pencil then go over their work in ink."

"Oh. How did you know who I was?" Despite his polite smile, Ilya had not dropped his guard.

"What's an eight-letter word for someone loyal to Romanov Dynasty?"

"'Royalist'. I still don't see what allowed you to recognize me."

"Your face is plastered all over midtown Manhattan." Natalia removed her gloves, revealing a ring bearing the three-headed eagle.

"That's impossible." The woman must be crazy, Ilya thought.

"Turn to page six in the magazine and see for yourself."

Ilya flipped through the pages and stopped at a large advertisement for an exhibit centered around the last Tsar. Heirs of Mystery: Did Any Survive? Beneath the Cyrillic-styled headline was a photograph of His Imperial Highness, the Tsarevich Aleksei Nikolaievich Romanov.

"This is merely a gimmick to attract visitors to the museum. No one survived the massacre of that family." Ilya frowned. Wistful devotees of the late Tsar and his family haunted this place. He should have known. Returning his pen to his pocket, Ilya stood up.

"You're leaving?"

"I must return to work."

"Pity. Suppose I told you that I and my friends have a very firm belief that you are the sole heir to the Romanov rulers?"

"I'd say you should stick to editing crossword puzzles." Ilya turned to go.

"Your Imperial Highness, wait." Natalia said in Russian.

She's a lunatic alright. Ilya waved vaguely and went outside. The woman grabbed her purse and gloves and followed him.

"You've never noticed your resemblance to the late Tsarevich?"

"Madame, you've obviously mistaken me for someone who is too stupid to realize the facts. Besides, I am not a royalist; far from it."

"I know. Your foster father, Nikolai Isaievich Grigoriev, was a major in the KGB. You were born to Nikolai Alekseievich Kuryakin and his wife Elena in Riga. In an eerie coincidence they were murdered, and just as in Ekaterinburg, you, their only son and heir survived."

"You're insane." Ilya figured politeness was not going to work. Her knowledge of his past did not surprise or overly concern him. Most of the Russians living in New York made it a point to find out everything they could about their fellow countrymen. It was a matter of self-protection.

"I am harboring no delusions. Your father's name and patronymic, though common, were deliberately chosen for him by his father before he died. Your grandfather never lived to see his only son born, his health was extremely frail..."

"A bleeder no doubt." Ilya said flatly. Damn, there were no cabs.

"Yes, nevertheless, your grandfather was married to Maria Fiodorevna
Epatiev, the descendant of..."

"Excuse me, madame. I outgrew fairy tales shortly after my seventh birthday. Find someone else to participate in your ridiculous fantasy. Good day." Ilya walked away shaking his head. Fair hair and blue eyes were all he had in common with the late Tsarevich. He and approximately seventy-five million other Russians stood an equal chance of making a claim to be a descendant of the doomed princeling. As he got into a taxi, he did not notice another woman bending to adjust her shoe.

"He was contacted by the one calling herself 'Princess Natalia'. It doesn't look as if he was interested in anything she had to say. Yes, comrade, we will keep up the surveillance."

MFU*NS*IK*NS*MFU*

It was Ilya's turn. This time, he was the one seated in the large bed surrounded by paperwork. Between briefings for an upcoming field assignment, monitoring a critical experiment in the laboratory, and teaching the new agents, he had been forced to put off evaluating the latter's work until he went home. Napoleon emerged from the bathroom and stopped to regard his lover. The blond hair was tousled from Ilya's frequent exasperated fingerings. Dark-rimmed reading glasses were perched precariously on the tip of his nose. His ancient Black Watch plaid bathrobe had slipped from one pale shoulder to reveal a spectacular purplish bruise.

Napoleon eased into bed so as not to disturb the sea of paper. Ilya peered over the upper rim of his glasses and smiled as Napoleon leaned in to brush his lips across the pale cheek. "That's new. Did one of the little monsters succeed in landing a punch?" Napoleon gently touched the mottled bruise.

"Agent Charles. She's quite remarkable, Polya. I walked right into it."

"What happened?"

"I was showing them some throw holds and explaining that enemy agents are never as predictable or accommodating. All of a sudden, she yelps, grabs her ankle and bends over. The next thing I knew, I was lying on my shoulder and wondering how she managed to remain standing."

"You under-estimated her?!"

"You don't have to rub it in. Then she made it worse by apologizing." Ilya grinned ruefully. "I'm seriously considering sending her to THRUSH as a trainee. By the time she completes their course, they should be down to about six or seven agents."

"God forbid. We'd all be out of work. Keep her on the side of the angels. Anyone who can take you by surprise is worth her weight in plastique; if only for her entertainment value." Napoleon chuckled. "Now, put those papers away and evaluate my technique instead."

"I'm almost done, Polya."

"No, you're going to be done-by me."

"Is that a threat?"

"Definitely."

Sighing, Ilya methodically returned the materials to his brief case. When he sat up again, Napoleon was looking at him.

"What?"

"You're remarkable. I don't know what I did to deserve your partnership, your friendship, your love..."

"Napoleon?"

"Hmmm?" He nuzzled the soft hair.

"You talk too much." Ilya moved into the strong arms and sighed again.

"Tired?"

"Exhausted."

"Well, your highness, why don't we sleep on it?" Despite his reputation, Napoleon did not require constant sexual gratification. He and Ilya managed to keep each other happy without shaking the furniture every evening. Besides, mornings were much better for physical activity.

"Not you too." Ilya groaned into his lover's chest.

"Now what?"

"This crazy woman at the Russian Tea Room interrupted my lunch last week with some ridiculous story about my being the sole descendent of the late Tsar. I tried to tell her that she was nuts; that her theory had more holes than my old bathrobe-but she kept insisting." Ilya yawned hugely.

"Well, couldn't it be possible? You certainly carry yourself like a prince." Napoleon had often wondered about this. He was a closet romantic.

"Impossible. None of that family survived. Please turn out the light."

"How can anyone be sure? There was a war going on; two, actually.
Bribery, greed, incompetence, sentimentality..."

"Trust me, Polya. They all died." Ilya frowned. As a youth, he too had been drawn to the tragic story. Secretly, he sympathized with the young prince. To see thugs shoot your family---the bullet that killed him must have seemed a blessing. He also had hoped against hope that some of the family had survived. Late one night, many years ago, his foster father had gently removed that hope.

MFU*NS*IK*NS*MFU*

"They never had a chance, Ilya. Fate, history, what you will, conspired to put Nicholas on the throne when our country needed an exceptional leader. Nicholas was essentially a kind man but a weak one; a mediocre leader at best. Between civil unrest, actually a nascent revolution, and a foreign war, his refusal to see the changes needed condemned him and his family to death." Nikolai Grigoriev shook his head. Once, early in his career he'd been ordered to clear out a storeroom. He never forgot what he accidentally discovered there. He never forgot, and he never told anyone, not even his wife, what the faded dusty old files contained.

* Ekaterinburg 1918 *

Approaching artillery fire sounded like thunder in the distance. A small house with a cellar was the last earthly home to a family that had been used to six palaces. Their jailers were crude and not above casual cruelty. The female Romanovs -- Alexandra, wife to Nicholas, and her four daughters -- sewed their remaining jewels into their clothing, hoping to be rescued by the approaching loyalist White Russian army. Nicholas and his only son, Aleksei, had both been ill. Pneumonia had left the father weakened. An accident on the stairs some months before had crippled the boy.

He suffered from an inherited disease: hemophilia. His blood lacked the clotting factor. Serious surface wounds could be potentially fatal. Subcutaneous, or internal bleeding was devastating. One of the boy's knees had swelled to many times its normal size. The pain was excruciating. Without proper care, the affected limb was twisted and unable to support his weight. So his father had to carry him down to the cellar on the last night of his life.

The family met their deaths calmly. The hail of rifle bullets put an end to three hundred years of Russia's imperial history and slaughtered ten people: Nicholas, Alexandra, Olga, Tatiana, Maria, Anastasia, Aleksei, their doctor, and two servants. The bodies were dismembered, partially dissolved in acid, and buried.**

MFU*NS*IK*NS*MFU*

When Napoleon and Ilya returned from their overseas assignment, two elderly men were waiting for them outside of Del Florio's. "Your Imperial Highness, please, we must speak to you."

Ilya frowned. He gestured for them to accompany him inside. Standing near a rack of dry-cleaned clothing, Ilya tried to convince these would-be courtiers that he wanted nothing to do with them.

"Perhaps this will make you change your mind." One of the men held out a thick portfolio. "All of these materials are copies. If you wish, we can make arrangements for you to view the originals..."

"Please, I only came in here to check on a suit I'm having altered. Three weeks ago, one of your friends interrupted another of my all-too-brief lunch hours. Excuse me, but I do not wish to see or hear from anyone regarding this matter again."

"But your Imperial Highness..."

"My friend has already explained his lack of interest, gentlemen. If you would excuse us." Napoleon cut in smoothly as Ilya ducked into the "changing room".

"Please sir, give him this. It's vitally important. The safety of his foster family is at risk if he refuses our assistance."

"Are you threatening my friend's family?" The charming smile remained, but Napoleon's eyes were cold.

"No, but that does not mean they are not in danger." The other man's voice was soft. "We understand this must sound as if we are mad or involved in some kind of confidence game. You must try to persuade his Imperial Highness to meet with us."

"One of my associates has access to a Russian history expert. Give me the material. If it seems authentic, I'll convey that information to my friend. If not, I will have the police pay you and your associates a visit." Napoleon took the portfolio and went into the other changing room.

"Polya, I'm beginning to think you are as mad as they are." Ilya observed sourly when his partner told him what had happened. "Throw it in the trash and let that be an end of it."

"Hey, it can't hurt to have our archives people look this stuff over. It's probably all dream dust and moonshine and if so, we can alert the bunco squad to the fact there are some shakedown artists trying to run a Russian royalist scam. For all we know, THRUSH may have launched this whole thing as a way to get to you. God knows, they've tried everything else. Then of course, you could have blue blood." Napoleon grinned as Ilya rolled his eyes.

"Napoleon, blue blood only exists in medical textbooks. Give that fantastic garbage to Archives if you must. Anything for a quiet life." Ilya put on his reading glasses and began to write his report. Actually he was very worried. The mention of harm coming to the Grigorievs was the least of it. God help all of them if the real truth was to be revealed.

** These events were described in greater detail by Robert K. Massie in his book Nicholas and Alexandra. KPP