The Raven's Lair - The Three-Headed Eagle Affair

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. 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.

Epilogue - A Prince Among Men

"Polya?" The lights were out. The room was dimly lit from the fluorescent bulbs in the corridor.

"Hmmm?"

"Is it me, or has our relationship become the topic of discussion for the entire building?"

"Well..."

"What have you done, Polya?"

"Ilyusha, I didn't do anything except for the odd smile or two." Napoleon had pushed his bed next to the one occupied by his partner.

"They must have been very odd smiles."

"Trust me."

"I do."

"I'm honored."

"You should be."

"Go to sleep, Ilyusha. You're home."

"No I'm not. I'm in the infirmary. I won't be home until I'm in our apartment, in our bed, inside of you."

"Hold that thought, partner. We're almost there. Another couple of days..."

"I've been holding that thought ever since they took me away."

"Well, in two days you can wrap those talented hands of yours around something a lot more substantial."

"I'm looking forward to it. It's been ages since I had a big thick..."

"Ilya, I'm flattered."

"...cheeseburger with all the extras. Ouch!"

"Come on, a pillow doesn't hurt that much."

"I love you, Polya."

"Right back atcha, partner."

"Polya?"

"Now what?"

"What happened to the mother hen?"

"I thought you didn't like her so I gave the old girl her walking papers."

"Too bad. I was beginning to get used to her."

"She didn't stroll far. It shouldn't be too hard to get her to come back." Napoleon scooted over and took Ilya into his arms. "Shall I sing to you? Or would you prefer a bed-time story?"

"What you are doing is most satisfactory."

"Flirt."

"That's your job, remember?"

"Nuh uh. I quit. I've got the only person I ever wanted right here in my arms. You're stuck with me Ilyusha, for the rest of my life."

"I can live with that."

"Polya?"

"Full of questions tonight aren't you?"

"Until someone better comes along..."

"Ilya, you say the sweetest things."

"Right before I pull out my weapon."

"Ahh yes, it's a formidable piece of equipment."

"Thank you, you're not so bad yourself. But I didn't get to ask my question."

"So ask already."

"Where is my family staying?"

"Our apartment?"

"You didn't."

"Nope, they're at Mr. Waverly's place on Long Island."

"Good. I realize they know about us but I'd hate to explain why we have nothing in the apartment but a case of scotch, four bottles of Stoli in the freezer and forty-eight tubes of lubricant."

"Wrong, O scientific one. There are only forty-six. I used two to keep the kitchen door from squeaking."

"Was good for the door?"

"Well, after it lit up a cigarette, it thanked me. Ilya? Ilya, you'll hurt yourself..."

NS*IK*NS*IK*NS

"Madame Samorova." Nikolai bowed kissed her hand then stepped aside for Napoleon to do the same.

"Such manners. And from a KGB man."

"How do you say, an 'ex' KGB man." Nikolai smiled. "My heart wasn't in my work, Madame."

"That I find easy to believe. So you have proof they all died?"

"No. I don't have it. But I've seen it. The execution orders and the reports filed by the executioners before they were shot. No one escaped, I'm sorry."

"Is better that I know. Now what happens?"

"That is for you to say, Madame Samorova. My agency contacted the Bank of England. The money, somewhere in the neighborhood of one hundred and eighty million pounds..." Napoleon began to explain.

"Is nice neighborhood." Nikolai remarked.

"Very nice. ...can only be claimed by a direct descendant of your late brother. If there are no claims, the money reverts to the Crown. My superior has friends in the British government. They are willing to turn over one fourth of the money to you."

"I have no desire for money, Mr. Solo. My pension pays for my needs and rents from this building, for my whims."

"Yes, but you could deed it to someone else."

"Your partner? My grandson?"

"No. I have more than enough money for the two of us."

"Is this true?" The old woman turned to Nikolai who grinned.

"Is very true. He's stinking rich."

"So who should be the unfortunate inheritor of this blood money?"

"The children of Russia, Madame. I now work for the United Nations International Children's Education Fund: UNICEF. I thought a United Nations-supervised grant to the Soviets could be used to help children in her orphanages and state homes for the handicapped. The new Minister of Foreign Affairs is a personal friend and more to the point, is honest. He will allow his colleagues to learn that your grandson is responsible for this return of at least some of the money that belongs to our country."

"Excellent. Draw up the papers and I shall sign. Maybe God will forgive me or at least allow me the occasional cool drink where I am going." She smiled and for an instant, Napoleon saw Ilya in her face.

NS*IK*NS*IK*NS

Ilya had been released from the infirmary two days later and was looking forward to further depleting their stockpile of lubricant but Napoleon was avoiding him. At first, he cited Ilya's weight loss and insisted that his lover should gain at least five pounds before they resumed amorous activities. Next, after Ilya had eaten him out of house and home, Napoleon stated Ilya should concentrate on his efforts to re-qualify as a field agent. The drug-induced palsy had disappeared and when Ilya proudly announced he'd shot a perfect score on the target range, Napoleon looked pleased but inwardly he dreaded what was to come.

After a celebratory dinner, Ilya began to seduce his lover. He pulled out all the stops. Nothing. "Polya? What's wrong? Why are you afraid to make love to me? Is because of what happened in Mavrino, yes?" Late one night in the infirmary, Ilya had told his partner everything that occurred while he was in Kostoglotov's keeping. "He's dead, Polya. I'm still here and I love you. I told you about it at headquarters because I didn't want to dirty our bed. There are only good memories for me there."

"I'm sorry, Ilyusha. I know you said you did not permit yourself to be disturbed by what they did, but I cannot forget so easily."

"I did not say I forgot, Polya. I said I was not humiliated by it. That was what they tried to do. It was not an act of love; it was a power play. They tried to make me feel helpless and almost succeeded. What saved me is what you are now trying to destroy, my feelings for you. You must let it go, Polya. It will ruin us otherwise."

"But how can you bear for me to touch you after what happened?"

"It's easy. You are not trying to dominate or humiliate me. When you touch and handle me I feel as if I were something rare and precious to be cherished. Your hands, your body, are instruments of love and pleasure; not torture and pain. You would never willingly hurt me. I know this because I trust you. I admit trust is not an easy thing for me. I have trusted rarely, but when I did, I never regretted it." Ilya stood up and brought Napoleon to his feet.

"Come here, dushka moi." Napoleon stepped closer. "Now, do you want to know how I sent myself to sleep that first night in Mavrino?"

"Ilya, maybe I shouldn't be hearing this."

"Trust me. Let's see. I cried a little because what that man did hurt. Then, after he left, I imagined I was in our apartment. We'd just had dinner, like now. You were reading the paper and I came up to you and licked you behind your left ear, like so. You pretended to go on with your reading but the little Emperor in your trousers decided to stand up and see what was going on. Next, I decided to try your right ear, with much more satisfactory results. The pages you had ceased reading began to shake.

"So I turned my attention to the hollow of your neck." Ilya had been re-creating this fantasy as he spoke. "Mmmm you smell soo good there. I kissed and nibbled your neck for a while then the little Emperor was not so little any more. Ahhh, here he is, wide awake and ready to come in and play." Ilya reached down and began to renew his acquaintance with Napoleon's penis. "Next, I decided to take a slow tour of all my favorite places on your body: your right nipple, ever so much more sensitive than the left..." Ilya went to his knees. "The upper rim of your navel; oh yes, the inside of your left wrist... You had just spilled yourself inside me when I fell asleep." By now, Ilya's hands and tongue had silenced his lover who was trembling. "Let's go to bed, Polya. I can show you better lying down."

Ilya's demonstration continued. He undressed his partner, then slipped out of the new bathrobe he'd been given as a coming home present. He lowered Napoleon to the bed and began again with the spaces behind the American's ears. This time, Napoleon responded; hesitantly at first, then with increasing eagerness.

Ilya smiled and went on with his "tour." When Napoleon felt the hot tongue swirling around his right nipple, his back arched and a gasp escaped his lips. Clutching his lover's head he tried to claim a kiss. "Don't be shy, Polya. What do you want from me?"

"A kiss?"

Ilya pecked Napoleon on the cheek. "Was that what you wanted?"

"No a proper kiss..."

"That was a proper kiss."

"Hell, an improper kiss..."

"Ohhh. Like this?" Ilya latched onto Napoleon's mouth; his tongue demanding entry. When they broke for air, Ilya looked down on his lover and smiled. "Do not ever be afraid to make love with me, dushka moi. I promise, if ever I have a problem with it, I will tell you."

"I don't deserve you."

"Yes you do, dushka moi. Yes you do. Now where was I?"

"Before the kiss? My right nipple."

"Ahh yes, thank you. You are most attentive." Ilya resumed his downward journey. At some point in the proceedings, Napoleon found himself on top gazing into smoky sapphire eyes. He reached for the nightstand drawer.

"Is this what you are looking for?" Ilya drew a tube from beneath the pillow at his head.

"Now how on earth did that get there?"

"I put it there so it would be warm for you."

"Well aren't you the most thoughtful... mmpflph" Ilya had covered Napoleon's mouth with his own. The room reeled around them. Napoleon uncapped the lubricant and began to apply it. He'd placed the crown of his cock against the puckered opening when Ilya locked his legs around his lover and swiftly impaled himself.

"Got to catch a plane?" Napoleon hissed through clenched teeth.

"Nyet. I didn't want you to get cold feet."

"Not a chance now, partner. Besides, you warmed the lubricant." Napoleon gathered Ilya into his arms and commenced to rock his hips. "Let me know when you want to get off, this may take a while..."

Later that night; actually later that morning, Napoleon watched Ilya as he slept. The Russian had assumed his favorite position, curled up against Napoleon's right side, his head pressed into the hollow of his partner's neck. Warm breath whispered softly against Napoleon's skin. Ilya was still, no twitches or little murmurs that usually meant his partner was having a nightmare. Just before dawn, Napoleon heard his name and looked down to see Ilya smiling in his sleep. When Ilya finally woke, the first thing he saw was Napoleon gazing at him fondly.

"Couldn't sleep?"

"Too happy."

NS*IK*NS*IK*NS

Minister for Foreign Affairs Shinkin smiled when the cablegram reached his desk. Three phone calls later and a trustworthy committee was set up to work with UN officials in dispersing the funds. It truly was an ill wind that blew without bringing good to someone. One of the first items on the agenda, making sure those who worked with children were deserving of their trust.

NS*IK*NS*IK*NS

Sonya Samorova died three weeks before Ilya's birthday. In her will, she left him her apartment building. The Grigoriev's took one look at her spacious flat and agreed to move in. Tatiana rejoiced at the well-laid hardwood flooring. One of the five bedrooms was converted to a dance studio. A letter from the Pushkin of the Kirov Ballet obtained through another friend of her father's had been sent to the New York City Ballet. She auditioned three days later. Ilya went with her as her partner. Part of the audition included a pas de deux, her choice of choreography.*

Knowing Balanchine's love for the music of Stravinsky, Tatiana chose the duet from Petroushka danced by the ballerina doll and the Moor. They danced without costumes or makeup. When the accompanist played the final crashing cords, Balanchine stood up and applauded. "Is excellent! Where did you learn those steps? The version premiered in Paris was different."

"In Siberia, cher Maitre." Tatiana said somewhat breathlessly. "My teacher was Valentulia Maximovich..."**

"Chertokovskii! He was dear friend of Fokine. The role of Petroushka was originally created on him! I thought his earliest version of the work had been lost! This is magnificent. I shall revive it, yes? With you two?"***

"Oh no, Maitre." Ilya was flattered beyond words. "I already have a job. Tasha will have to teach someone else."

"Is true? What kind of job?"

"He works for UNCLE, cher Maitre." Tasha explained proudly.

"Surely his uncle can spare him for a while. Six weeks, then he can go back to the shop."

"Merci, mille fois, Maitre. Mais c'est impossible." Ilya demurred.****

"Is too bad. Oh well, mademoiselle? When can you start?"

"Today, cher Maitre."

"I like this girl; she shows the proper respect."

Tatiana whooped and hugged her brother. "You should consider his offer you know. You'd make the perfect partner for me."

"As much as I would love to, Tasha, no. I already have the perfect partner."

"Ahh, so you are dancing together again?"

"Better than ever."

NS*IK*NS*IK*NS

It was the evening of Ilya's birthday and Tatiana's debut. Ilya thought Napoleon, wearing a new tuxedo, looked good enough to eat. Ilya wore a soft navy blue Russian tunic over black trousers and boots. His lover had already promised to ravish him when the evening was over. Tatiana had a small solo in one of the newer Stravinsky pieces: Agon. When the curtain came down for the last time, the happy party piled into a cab and headed to the Grigoriev's apartment. The Russian Tea Room catered the buffet. Blinis, pirozhkii, caviar, black bread, pickled cucumber, sour cream: it was a feast.

Napoleon was slightly envious of Ilya's family and their easy acceptance of the love he shared with his partner. However, after an hour spent with Irina and Nikolai, he realized they were his family too. Irina teased her son with demands that she wanted grandchildren and laughing Ilya told her to talk to his "husband." Every now and then, Nikolai would propose a toast to the couple and the vodka began to disappear quickly. Ilya had just unwrapped his presents when Tatiana flew in.

"Oh good. I thought I missed this part. Here's mine." She placed a small box on her brother's lap and kissed him soundly, Russian style on both cheeks. Ilya opened the package and pulled out a scrap of faded blanket.

"I don't understand, Tasha. What's it supposed to be?"

"An aide-memoire, Ilyusha. You've seen that pattern before. Think."

"I can't."

"Well, maybe these two characters can help..." Tasha gestured to her mother to open the door. Standing there were two elderly men. One of them smiled revealing perfect teeth. The dentures did not matter. Ilya's leap from the couch would have made Nijinsky extremely jealous.

"Seriozha! Vaska!" A stream of incoherent Russian followed as the three men hugged each other laughing and crying. "Polya! It's Sergei Maximovich and Vaska Pavlovich! They saved my life!" Napoleon came over and was swallowed in the taller man's arms. Just as he was recovering from the whacking great kisses on his cheeks, it was Sergei's turn. Then the party really began.

Nikolai wheeled in the large cake while Irina filled everyone's glasses. "Napoleon, could you please make the toast for us?"

Napoleon paused for a moment then stretched out his hand to Ilya who took it in his own. "To the most wonderful partner, friend, comrade, lover I could ever hope to have. Ilya, I am so very honored that you decided I was worth all the trouble I caused you. My life with you has been one big celebration. Happy birthday, dushka moi. May we see many more. Nazderovia!" Napoleon drained his glass and threw it into the fireplace. Then he drew Ilya into his arms and kissed him senseless.

The tables were pushed back. Balalaika music blared from the hi-fi. Napoleon, Nikolai, Ilya, and Vaska, arms over each others' shoulders were dancing as Irina, Tatiana, and Sergei clapped in time. White, brunet, and blond hair flew as the men stomped and whirled. Looking back, Ilya said it was easily the best birthday he'd ever had. At four in the morning, the downstairs neighbors gave up trying to sleep and put on a pot of coffee.

The End

* The late Aleksandr Pushkin (no relation to the poet) was a master teacher at the Kirov school. A contemporary of George Balanchine (see below); he was the man who trained the late Rudolph Nureyev and latterly, Mikhail Baryshnikov.

** Valentulia Maximovich Chertokovskii is fictitious. Tatiana's cher Maitre (dear Master) is not. The late George Balanchine (Grigorii Balanchivadze), dancer, choreographer was trained at the Kirov school, left Russia and eventually settled in New York City where he founded its ballet troupe which is still reckoned one of the finest in the world.

*** The very late Michel (Mikhail) Fokine, choreographer was the most prolific of that unprecedented group of geniuses that formed Sergei Diaghilev's Ballets Russes. His co-creators included dancer Anna Pavlova; composer Igor Stravinsky, choreographer Bronislava Nijinska (sister to the famous dancer), dancer/choreographer Leonid Massine, composer Eric Satie... the list reads like a Who's Who of the performing arts at the beginning of this century. Yep, cousins, I'm a balletomane in pink satin shoes!!

**** Translated from the French: "Thank you, a thousand times, master. But it is impossible."