Napoleon entered his office that morning to find an unfamiliar envelope sitting out on his desk. With a small shrug, he ripped it open, pulling out a short note, and then a longer letter.

"Illya..." He said weakly, feeling his stomach tighten. "Come and take a look at this."

Illya took the briefer note from him, reading it over quickly. "Who left this?"

"I don't know. Whoever it is knows about us, and about Leamas, but it appears that this third party is on our side."

"Perhaps this third party is on more than our side. Perhaps he or she is on-- how is it said-- on our team?"

"Team? You mean--"

"If Leamas is starting some sort of witch hunt, then perhaps this person's best bet is on our stopping him, which if it believed we do not remember, we will not do-- am I making sense?"

"Perfectly." Napoleon nodded, reading over the enclosed letter.

'My Beloved Napoleon-

I have been thinking of you all day. This morning as I dressed, I found several purple love-bites along my throat and collarbone, and I remember the way you left them there. They will fade in a few days' time. Will you renew them?

Know that last night was even more incredible than the time before that. It is as though every night with you betters the former, and that no matter how many times I think making love to you can be no more wonderful, the next time it is.

Every moment without you is too long. You drive me to distraction when you are near, and when you are far. I await with little patience our next night together, as I am sure you do as well.

Do you imagine my voice as you read this? Can you hear me in your head, whispering to you? What would you like to hear me whisper, Napoleon? My love for you? My lust?

When you reread this letter-- and you will-- as you lie alone in bed, imagine my voice in your ear, low and breathy. Imagine my hands on your perfect body, my lips upon yours. I dream it often. Let the thought of me make love to you, on the nights we cannot be together.

I want to be with you, so badly it pains me, but circumstances and mores will keep me from your side tonight. Too many nights.

The golden age of the love letter may be passed, what with telephones, and in our case, the communicators, but there is something profoundly romantic about a slip of paper and words one can read once and again, a token one can keep beneath one's pillow or at one's breast. I therefore researched this dying art, reading the published love letters of such literary figures as George Sand, Marcel Proust, the Brownings, and Oscar Wilde. I spent over an hour composing my thoughts-- forgive me if my words are clumsy-- discarded a dozen drafts, but I hope that the letter I decided upon speaks to your heart as I had intended.

Napoleon, I love you with a passion unprecedented, which can burn for no other, and I would give my life for you. This is not some idle lovers' oath, sworn beneath an unconstant moon, but a truth I have pondered since before we ever spoke of love. I know well the weight of those words, and for you, they are true without hesitation. My love for you is at once pure and base, of the soul and of the body. In you, I have found a man in whom I crave both, and more. The merest thought of you can send my blood racing, boiling, coursing through my veins to heat that within me that only you can touch. I count myself lucky to dream of you at night, and my mind wanders to thoughts of you in the day. I must see you again soon, privately. Already my desire to make love to you seems at times overwhelming. I will be thinking of you tonight.

I have used up two sheets of paper already with my ramblings, and am almost too embarrassed to leave this letter for you to find. It's not what you might expect to see from me, I know. But with all I've had to face, I should be able to muster up the courage it takes to leave this upon your desk. So read, think of me, and don't laugh at the sensitive and the sensual sides of me displayed herein.

S k lyubov Illya'

Napoleon set the epistle down, shaky. He was flushed, slightly breathless, and more than a little aroused by the end of the letter. Who knew Illya could write like that? Well, obviously he had known once, and apparently, someone else knew as well.

He might have been upset at the invasion of privacy, but he was so grateful to have yet another lost facet of their relationship restored that he decided to overlook the slight.

"What's that?" Illya asked, peering over his shoulder.

"What, this? Oh, it's-- well, read it, see if you remember anything. After all, you wrote it."

His eyes roamed over the page, widening as they reached a point midway through. "I wrote this?"

"Looks like."

"It's somewhat... dirty."

"It's a very poetic dirty, if that helps."

Illya, his face very red, finished reading the letter and sat down hard in his own chair. "I did not know... that I had shared all of this with you."

"Neither did I, but it's nice to get a second chance. It's a glimpse into your soul, a side of you even I don't get to see much of. I'd like to see more of it."

Illya nodded dumbly, handing the letter back.

Napoleon squeezed his lover's shoulder warmly and got to work.

---

This page is an unofficial site that exists only for the fun of it. All characters and situations from the television show "The Man from U.N.C.L.E." are property of Norman Felton and Warner Bros. Nothing ill is intended by this use of any television characters in these amateur efforts. Any fiction linked to these pages is the intellectual property of the amateur author who created it and is not presented here for profit.