Napoleon hadn't waited for Waverly's orders this time. After all, Waverly had just gotten back to New York that evening, and was probably still out with jet lag, not to mention the fact that it was three in the morning. He hadn't even considered asking anyone *else* if it would be all right, either. Illya needed him now, and he was going to pull off another brilliant rescue or his name wasn't Napoleon Solo. And with all the trouble it had given him in his lifetime, he knew his name was Napoleon Solo.

Illya had dropped his keys, and Napoleon was now driving his partner's car, cruising the streets in the area he had seen the black van disappear, looking for a likely hiding place or escape route.

So far, he hadn't had much luck, but he wasn't giving up. A too-early light was just starting to filter through the streets, but here they were still mostly empty and mostly dark. Few kidnappers took their victims to clean, well-lit, well-populated boroughs.

Then he saw it, half hidden under refrigerator boxed. The black van, the same one that had sped off when Illya was taken. Gun in one hand, he moved silently to the alley it was parked in.

---/-/---

Illya was still racking his brains, finding more and more holes in his memory, and becoming more and more disturbed by them, when gunfire sounded outside. He leapt to his feet, running to the bars.

His guards quickly abandoned their posts to check on the situation in the alley, and there was more shooting. Then silence. Illya waited, holding his breath, and soon a slightly-dishevelled Napoleon sauntered into the room.

"Well, that wasn't so bad now, was it?" He asked an unconscious body lying on the floor. Then he turned and saw his partner, and his humour faded to worry. "Illya!"

"Napoleon." Illya smiled, leaning casually against the bars. "I thought you'd be coming for me. I saved you a seat, but I'm happy to say it looks as though we won't need it."

Napoleon fumbled with the keys to the cell, finding the right one. He threw the dorr open and stepped in, quickly checking on his partner's welfare.

"Please, Napoleon, I am fine. Aside from a slight headache and some minor pains, nothing at all is wrong with me."

"Where did they knock you out? Do you have a concussion?" He demanded.

"No, it was a tranquilizer dart to the back of the neck." He pointed to the approximate spot. "If they had tried to get closer, I would have heard them."

Napoleon looked the tiny hole over dutifully, then continued to feel his partner for any bruises or rib damage. Illya batted away his hands, annoyed.

"Honestly! I am fine, why is that so hard to believe?"

"Because I know you, and 'fine' seems to be the Russian equivalent of 'major wound which will go septic if not treated immediately'."

"This time I use the American 'fine', which only means 'I have come to no severe harm, and am reluctant to admit to my pain for fear of appearing weak in front of other manly-type men'."

Napoleon snorted with laughter. "Well, I don't see anything serious, at least. I still think a trip to medical is--"

"No." Illya said flatly. "All I need is to go home, shower, and have a cup of tea and rest. By this afternoon, I shall be in perfect health."

"If you won't go to medical, you'll come back home with me, and I'll take you in the morning. I took your car to follow that van, anyway."

He nodded. "It would be silly to refuse. I was going to stay at your apartment earlier."

Napoleon smiled, placing an arm around Illya's waist. "Come on. Let's get you home. I can put the tea on while you're in the shower."

"I do not need help walking."

"Sorry." Napoleon let go, his face heating. Illya hadn't shown any signs of needing help, but... But nothing. Illya was off-limits. He always had been, he always would be, and the sooner Napoleon resigned himself to that fact, the easier the rest of his life would be.

---/-/---

Napoleon watched the teapot with disinterest. His interest was with Illya, in the other room. In the shower. He shook his head, but was unable to dislodge the image. Illya would look so *good* in the shower.

For one thing, Illya always looked cute when wet, the way his hair dripped and hung over his eyes. And for another thing, the way the droplets of water would accent each plane, angle, and curve of Illya's body as they ran down his shoulders, chest, arms, and legs... and parts inbetween...

"Oh, not *you* again." Napoleon sighed, glaring down at his lap. "Haven't we already had this discussion? You are not to think about him that way. You and the brain are in this together, aren't you? You're all turning on me."

But he could imagine it perfectly, too perfectly... the way Illya would run his fingers through his hair to work in the shampoo, the way he would keep his head tilted back so that he didn't get soap in his eyes, because sometimes Illya was fussy about things like that. Why he thought soap in the eyes was one of those things was beyond Napoleon, but it seemed right. And he knew-- *knew*-- in what order Illya would scrub up. Under the arms, then over the shoulders, then down the arms. Abs next, then the left leg and foot, and then his right. Then his back, and then his chest last.

Odd thing to know about a man you're not accustomed to showering with.

At least with the edge taken off, he was able to redirect his focus from thoughts of a wet, naked Illya who needed an evening of passionate lovemaking and a tongue bath to thoughts of a tired, achy Illya who needed a good friend and a cup of hot tea. Still cute, still terribly appealing to Napoleon's heart, but not as sexy-- at least, not as arousing. Another thing that helped kill the beginnings of an erection was the huge amount of pain his own shoulder was in, but if Illya was waiting until morning to check into medical, so was he.

The teapot whistled, and Napoleon took it off the stove.

---/-/---

Illya let the water sluice over his body for a long moment before he reached for the shampoo, pouring a liberal amount into his palm. He washed his hair quickly, ignoring the crick he got in his neck from staring at the ceiling.

Napoleon had promised to have tea ready by the time he was done, and as much as he looked forward to a nice hot cup of tea, Illya decided that he'd really rather have a nice hot Napoleon. Preferably right there in the shower.

He shook his head violently, drops of water flying off in all directions. The last thing he needed was to try sorting out those thoughts now. Some other time... he would sort it all out some other time.

No. For-- for crying out loud, he had only gone out to repark his car when he was taken. This was a wake up call. This was the universe reminding Illya Kuryakin that there wasn't always a some other time, and he had to take his chances when he got them. He would sort out his thoughts on Napoleon, and what they meant, and he would do it now.

He scrubbed his arms absently, thinking more about his partner than anything else. He wasn't too dirty, just tired and achy, and feeling a little grimy just from being in a cell, even a relatively clean one. The washcloth moved drom his stomach down his leg, and he leaned against the wall of the shower, lifting his foot.

Illya let out a sigh. Love, first of all. Napoleon meant more to him than anyone else, than anyone at all had meant to him since he was a very small child. And Napoleon meant these things to him in so many capacities. Napoleon was his best friend, had acted as an older brother-type figure at times, had helped him adjust to life in America. Napoleon was his partner. He kept him alive. Napoleon possessed several qualities that Illya admired. Something about Napoleon also made Illya want to take care of him, to keep him from harm.

And then there was the bit where he imagined what it would be like to make love to the man. Couldn't leave that part out.

His genitals agreed, and he turned the water to cold, jumping as the spray hit his skin. It worked, and he turned it back to hot quickly. He was *not* going to do anything else about it in Napoleon's shower. You just don't masturbate in someone else's shower. Society has to have rules, after all.

Illya finished washing up and climbed out of the shower, tendrils of steam following him. He towelled off briskly and put on the sweatpants Napoleon had lent him. He had been to find that his partner owned such an item, since he had never seen the other man in anything so... so un-Napoleon. Apparently, they were for working out, but they were more worn and faded than anything Napoleon wore when he used the equipment at headquarters.

Illya had buried his face in the fabric of one leg once the bathroom door was locked, inhaling deeply. It smelled like laundry soap, and not at all like Napoleon, and Illya had been marginally disappointed. But they were soft, and even if they didn't hold any of Napoleon's scent, he liked wearing them.

Well, he didn't have to ask anymore. It was painfully obvious just how he felt about his partner now. Amazing how clear things are when you put it all together in retrospect, he supposed.

---/-/---

To be continued...

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