Napoleon tossed and turned, reaching out for something that was never there when he opened his eyes. It was as if there was a warmth missing from his bed, from his life. As though he was searching for something he couldn't even remember having, something so a part of himself that life without it was fundamentally wrong, but he couldn't put a name to what was missing. Had it been something he'd taken for granted? He wasn't the type of man who took a lot for granted. the life he led wouldn't let him.

---/-/---

Illya punched his pillow and settled down again, but sleep was still so slow in coming. His bed was narrow, but it felt too big. It felt cold. He knew it was no colder than it had been the night before, or the night before that, that the room had kept the same ambient temperature. It was something else, but he didn't know what. He had lost something-- no. Whatever was missing from his life was too important to lose. Something had been taken from him, but what? The modification on his memory had been to cover mission details, why should losing those bother him?

---/-/---

He dreamed of Illya that night. It wasn't that he had never dreamed about his partner before, or even that he had never had a vaguely erotic dream about the man before-- he pled guilty on both counts-- but that night, it seemed more unsettling, more real. The way he dreamed even the taste of Illya's mouth when they kissed... taste had always been the one sense absent from his previous dreams, not unless he knew exactly what he was tasting tasted like.

But it was a good dream, of that much he was certain. It was a dream of Illya's body wrapped around his, of Illya's hands clinging to his shoulders, Illya's tongue prying apart his lips, Illya's-- well, Illya. He didn't bother thinking too much about it. Just a dream, after all.

Dream Illya writhed and whined and moaned under his hands, craned his neck upwards for another kiss every time one ended, and begged in a mix of Russian and English that Napoleon do more of just about everything he dreamed he was doing, and that he do it harder while he was at it. Not being in the habit of arguing with his dreams, Napoleon went with it.

---/-/---

Illya did dream of Napoleon.

It began in bed, which was nice. It wasn't his own bed, or even Napoleon's, he didn't think. It felt like a hotel, but a very nice hotel, the sort Waverly would never pay for them to stay in while working. Anything outside the bed, he didn't focus on. The bed itself was soft and white and downy, like a giant feather pillow which floated up around them, cocooning them from the world. Napoleon's fingers were trailing over his chest, teasing his nipples.

He had just rolled into the arms of the dream Napoleon, and had only just begun to kiss him, when there came a knock at the door. 'Ignore it', Dream Napoleon had whispered, and Illya had, and he had just found that Napoleon's arousal matched his own when the knock at the door turned into a pounding on the door, and try as he might to ignore that as well, it was beginning to distract him from the promised pleasures of Napoleon.

Before anything else could be said or done, the door was broken in, and a handful of faceless men in uniform filed in, rifles at the ready. The man in charge was *not* faceless, however. He was a man Illya had first seen when he was nineteen and still only starting out in the Navy, and whom he had not seen in many years. The man who had come to his building that night and taken Mikhail and Sergei away. Mikhail and Sergei he hadn't seen since, and neither had anyone else. The officer he had seen again, when the KGB asked him to work for them.

"{Get out of bed!}" He thundered, pulling the blankets from their hastily covered bodies. Illya imagined that this was what Mikhail had seen.

When he was ninetenn, Illya had lived down the hall from a girl named Sonja; Mikhail was her cousin, and he shared the flat with her. Both worked jobs that occasionally required travel, but Mikhail was third string in his company, and very rarely left the city. Often when Sonja was away, Mikhail shared their space with another young man, Sergei, who lived with his very large family the rest of the time.

Ironically, it was Sonja who was suspected of anti-state activity, but when the KGB came looking for her, they found her cousin. And his male lover.

The part that Illya remembered most clearly, as he'd watched through his peephole when the two men, naked and wrapped in blankets, were led from their flat, was that they were not allowed to touch, or to communicate with each other at all. Mikhail had stumbled once, and when Sergei reached to help him, he had been slapped. Mikhail's gut reaction had been to cry out and move to comfort him, but he received a rifle butt to the stomach, and then Illya couldn't see them anymore through the peephole, and he hadn't dared open his door to look.

In the dream, he was forced to stand apart from Napoleon, and he had his pants thrown at him. They were allowed to half-dress, and then marched out.

"{You will not speak, and you will not touch each other. You will not disobey my orders, Illya Kuryakin, because you know what will happen if you do.}"

He could tell that Napoleon had not understood, that the officer had spoken too quickly. He could not translate for Napoleon, however, or they would be shot. He could not tell the men that Napoleon's Russian was elementary, or they would be shot. He could not do nothing, because then Napoleon might do something, and then he would be shot.

The officer grabbed Napoleon's jaw, looking into his eyes. He spat on the ground, releasing Napoleon, and turned to his men. "{Outside. I don't need to tell you where they are to be taken.}"

One of them shoved Illya in the back, and he nearly fell. Napoleon made a move towards him, and one of the faceless men struck him. As much as it pained him, Illya did nothing. If Sergei had done nothing, it might have gone better for them, but as they had been caught in bed together, it was unlikely that they would have had a good chance. He had been caught in bed with Napoleon, and he knew that they, too, had a poor chance of escaping unscathed.

"Illya, what's going on?"

"{Quiet, dog! You will speak when you are ordered to speak!}" The faceless soldier backhanded Napoleon.

Illya willed himself to wake, but it did no good. The dream continued around him. Several guards were now taunting Napoleon, shoving both of them, blocking Napoleon with their rifles any time he took a step in Illya's direction, and every time, they would hit him again.

Finally, Illya couldn't take it. They were going easy on Napoleon for now, because they knew he didn't speak Russian, at least not like a natice, and had not understood the initial orders. This was not out of kindness. For the time being, he was a game to them. For Illya, who knew the orders, and the consequences, it would be worse. He might be shot in the leg or shoulder for breaking the rules just once, and that was if they really wanted him for something later. But he would not let Napoleon be toyed with so cruelly.

"He said we were not to speak or to touch, Napoleon. You must ignore me."

The officer returned suddenly, appearing between them. "{Kuryakin, you were aware of the orders I gave, and of the gravity of breaking them.}"

He nodded, steeling himself for the pain which doubtless would follow. Instead, the entire group shoved itself through the hotel's back door, and into a snow-covered alley.

"{Are you ready to accept your punishment, Kuryakin?}"

Again he nodded. Again he steeled himself for the searing stab of lead through flesh. The offiver pulled his revolver from its holster, but the pain never came. Instead, he called to one of the faceless men, handing the gun over.

"{Kuryakin has disobeyed me. Shoot his lover.}"

---/-/---

Napoleon woke with a start, drenched in sweat, sheets and blankets twisted around his legs, and a throbbing hard-on. It was two in the morning, and he didn't feel like getting out of bed, but a cold shower seemed like the best idea. After all, a guy can't help what he dreams about, but once he starts beating off to thoughts of his partner, that becomes his fault, and it seemed like a sort of betrayal of trust, thinking of Illya that way. Illya, who probably never thought or even dreamed of him like that.

---/-/---

"NO!" Illya sat bolt upright, his eyes open. Sweat plastered his hair to his brow, sheets to skin. He was in his apartment, his bed, in the dark, but in his mind's eye, all he could see was the pistol being levered to Napoleon's head. All he could hear was the report ringing through the crisp, silent night.

His hand scrambled around his bedside in the dark, looking for his communicator. It was still in the pocket of last night's shirt.

"Open Channel D..."

---/-/---

Napoleon stood under the cold water until his skin was puckered with goose pimples. He was soaking wet, freezing cold, and shivering so much he couldn't stop his teeth from chattering. And he was still hard. He turned around so that the water hit his front instead of his back again, but even after a while of that, there was no discernable change. Well, his nipples were harder, but that wasn't the reaction he had hoped for.

He sat on the floor of the shower and buried his head in his hands. If this didn't go away soon, he was going to have to resort to a little self-love. While not principally opposed to the idea-- not a stranger to it, either, though he rarely found himself in need of it-- in this particular case, he would prefer not to have to deal with it. Not to have to deal with the fact that 'it' was because of Illya.

---/-/---

Even if he had been asleep-- and at two-oh-five, it was likely that it was-- Napoleon would have woken and answered his communicator. They were both light sleepers out of necessity.

Illya had thought his need for reassurance foolish-- childlike, even-- until Napoleon failed to answer. Now he was worried. Maybe the dream was for a reason. Obviously, Napoleon had not been shot in some snowy alleyway, but the fact remained that he was *not* answering his communicator, and that meant that something was definitely very wrong.

Illya dressed quickly and headed out to his partner's.

---/-/---

To be continued

(Addit. Note: Originally, I had planned to write the officer's last line out in Russian, for more of an impact, but my internet cut out every time I tried to use the translator, so I gave up on that. Ah, well, it's probably fine the way it is. For some reason, I just thought you should know. If, you know, you're still reading this. *Ferris Bueller impression* "What are you still doing here? The chapter's over. Go home!")

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