Napoleon decided to give up before he contracted hypothermia, and turned the water to hot.

"Oh... *that's* better..." He groaned, rolling his shoulders. Almost good enough to make him forget about his persistent problem.

Almost.

Ah, well. The sooner he could get this over with... He wrapped one hand around his erection and braced himself against the shower wall with the other arm. No good. He tried lather for a change in texture, and when that didn't work, he tried touching himself through a washcloth, hoping that switching back to skin-on-skin afterwards would be better in contrast. It didn't help. Apparently, his mind's stubborn refusal to think about Illya was met by his body's stubborn refusal to come.

But what was he supposed to imagine? He had, after all, never made love to a man. Ostensibly, he could recall images from the dreams he'd had of his partner, but it still felt somewhat wrong. And even knowing that it was the best path, he couldn't conjure up the dreams.

"Illya..." He tried just saying the name. It felt right, coming from his throat in a sort of raspy moan. He said it again. "Illya..."

Even a couple of repetitions weren't going to be enough. He tried just thinking of Illya's face. That ought to be easy enough, he saw the man every day. And when he had been eating lunch with Illya the day before, he had been thinking about how nice it would be to kiss him. If he could just picture Illya as he was then, when he inspired the thought, maybe that would be enough...

It was because of the soup. There was a tiny bit on the corner of one lip, and before it was called to his attention, Illya had ignored it. And Napoleon had allowed himself to fantasize, just briefly, about how nice it would be if he could just lick that little spot of soup off of Illya's lip himself.

Oh, yes... that was it.

Illya had, of course, taken care of the soup without any help. Or a napkin. Napoleon was glad that, even though it wasn't his doing the honors, at least a tongue had gotten it. Especially since after getting the soup, Illya licked his lips again just in case he had missed some. And then there was the spoon... After every bite, he cleaned the spoon as thoroughly as possible before returning it to the bowl. And even after the bowl was empty, when Napoleon was the one talking, Illya would absentmindedly suck on the spoon while he listened.

*Oh*, yes...

He whispered Illya's name one more time as he sank against the tiles, finding release if not true satisfaction.

---/-/---

Luckily, few people were on the road, because Illya Kuryakin wasn't even giving traffic laws a passing consideration. He was a man with a mission, and that mission was Napoleon.

The route was easy, familiar. He could drive it with his eyes closed. Nevertheless, he kept them open, just in case someone else was out.

Of course, when he did run across someone else-- and it was quite nearly a literal running across-- it wouldn't have mattered much whether his eyes were closed or open. He would not slow down, not if Napoleon was in some form of Jeapordy. The man-- drunk, anyway-- cursed and waved his fist. Illya didn't bother to shout back, he was already out of range, and he couldn't have cared less what the man said or did, unless Napoleon was involved.

He parked haphazardly, jumping out of the car and rushing up the front steps of Solo's building. The elevator was too slow, so he ran the stairs, taking them two at a time, the whole way, until he finally arrived, only to realize that he did not have the spare key Napoleon had left in his keeping. Hope springing eternal, he tried knocking. Well, perhaps not knocking, but banging frantically against the door. The neighbours must think some sort of murder was being committed in the hallway, but frankly, he didn't care about them, either. If Napoleon was in trouble, Illya had to do *something* about it, and if Napoleon was unable to answer the door, eventually he would have to break it down.

---/-/---

Napoleon emerged from the shower, towelling off briskly and trying not to think too much about any of the things that had just happened in his life. Somewhere along the line, he had admitted to himself that the love he felt for one Illya N. Kuryaki was not of the fraternal sort, nor of the deep abiding holy thine-neighbor-as-thyself sort, but of a more... well, romantic sort. And that instead of holding some great meaning, sometimes a sex dream was just a sex dream.

He had just grabbed a fresh pair of boxers when he heard the noise out front. He pulled them on quickly, stepped into his slippers, and grabbed his robe, wrapping it around his body as he moved towards the door.

"I'm coming, I'm coming... This had better be some emergency!" He grabbed his gun-- the backup kept near the door, not the special back by his bedside-- and opened the door.

And there, standing in the doorway, was quite possibly his favourite wet dream. Illya, his Illya, standing there, sweat-soaked, out of breath, and-- Napoleon's protective instincts kicked in, overriding his more prurient thoughts, as he saw the look of worry on the other man's face, and he ushered him in quickly.

"Illya! Come here, let's get you something to drink... here, sit down. Illya, what's wrong? Are you okay?" He barraged his partner with questions until Illya had enough breath to answer.

"I am fine, Napoleon, it was you I was worried about. I-- I tried to raise you over the communicator, and there was no reply. You've never slept through it before, unless you had been drugged, or knocked out or something, and--"

"Illya, Illya, calm down... it must have been while I was in the shower. Why did you try to, ah, raise me?" He blushed at the unintended double entente. "Was there a problem? Trouble? Are you sure you're okay?"

"Shower? At two in the morning?"

Napoleon's blush deepened. "A dream, ah, woke me, I-- couldn't get back to sleep, so I, ah, took a shower."

Illya nodded. "I understand. Better than you think, actually."

"You-- you do?"

"That's why I called."

"It-- it is?" He was well and truly bewildered. Either Illya was reading his mind, or--

"It all seems so silly now. I mean, obviously you're all right, and I should have known you would be, I mean, it was just a stupid dream, but then I woke up-- I tried and tried, and I couldn't until it was too late, and when I did, all I could see was-- Oh, Napoleon, I-- I'm very sorry for having disturbed you, only I had to call, I had to be sure, and--"

"Breathe, Illya. Now what is it? Why did you have to call? What was the dream?"

He reddened, gnawing on his lower lip. "I wont bore you with the details. The reason I called was, in the dream... they killed you, and I know it's stupid, but I couldn't get it out of my head, and I had to be sure you were all right."

Napoleon smiled. "Well, I'm all right. You, on the other hand, look a bit shaken. I'm going to go get you that drink, okay?"

Illya nodded. He wasn't sure he wanted Napoleon to go, but a drink might help calm his nerves. Any drink.

---/-/---

Napoleon returned with a brandy in one hand and a vodka in the other. "Take your pick."

"One of these days," Illya said slowly. "I am going to take your drink, just to see what you would do."

"I guess I'd drink yours." He shrugged, wrinkling his nose. "You wanna tell me about that dream?"

"I told you."

"Yes, but I, ah, get the feeling there's more to it than that." He settled onto the couch beside his partner. "Something that's really gotten to you. Now, you said that 'they' killed me. Who's they, and how did it happen?"

"I think KGB." Illya said quietly. "It was all faceless men in uniforms, except-- I recognized one of them. The commanding officer, he was-- I knew him."

"I take it he's not a generally nice person."

"Before I met him, the first time I saw him..." Illya swallowed his drink before continuing. "Napoleon, first you must understand. Even in Russia, I had few friends. You just didn't get close to people. If you did, then you could lose them, and it was just too hard. But I did have a few friends..."

He told Napoleon about Sonja and Mikhail first. Even looking at their situation through Western eyes, Napoleon understood the living arrangements, and understood that Sergei, still living with a large, extended family, would have to occasionally stay there, for his sanity at least. Illya hadn't mentioned the part where Mikhail and Sergei were lovers. After all, back then, they had never spoken of it before the incident, and even after the couple's arrest, the subject was *never* discussed openly.

"So then what happened?"

"Sonja was expected of anti-state activity. Because of her travels outside of Russia."

Napoleon nodded. "So what happened? Sonja... was she--?"

"She was away when the KGB came. They searched the apartment, but only Mikhail and Sergei were there. They made a lot of noise searching, and some of the neighbours watched, through our peepholes, what we could. Nobody opened doors. I saw Mikhail and Sergei dragged out, though, wrapped in blankets. It was all they had to keep them from the cold when they were taken. They were not allowed to dress for the weather. It was September-- no, October."

"Guilt by association?"

"Not the way you think." Illya said, taking a moment in deliberation, trying to figure out how much to tell Napoleon. In the end, he had to give him the rest of the story. "Mikhail and Sergei, they were found in bed together. Not for warmth, or for lack of space... en flagrante delectico." He blushed.

"They were..."

"Lovers, yes. When they were taken away, they were not allowed to speak to each other, or to touch each other. They were seperated as effectively as possible, and then they were taken, and... we never saw them again. Poor Sonja was devastated. She hanged herself within a week of returning. Blamed herself."

Napoleon nodded, blinking back a tear. "And the man in your dream was the man responsible for all of this?"

"Yes. I-- I had disobeyed an order. In the dream. I knew that the punishment would be harsh, but-- He had taken us prisoner, and when he gave the order, he was speaking very fast, and you couldn't understand. We had been told not to speak, unless we were ordered to. I had to tell you what the order was, because if I didn't, you might-- you did speak, and one of the men hit you, only you didn't understand what he had said, either, so I had to explain it to you."

"Yeah?"

"So I disobeyed the order. I spoke. And then I waited. I thought he would shoot me in the arm, or maybe the leg, so that it would bleed, and hurt, but I would still be useful later if I had to be. Only instead, to punish me..." Illya choked on the words. "To punish me, he had you killed instead."

Napoleon put his arms around his partner. "It's okay..."

"I *knew* it was a dream, but I couldn't help... over-reacting, I-- I feel such a fool."

"No... Illya, if I had a dream about someone from my past killing you to punish me, I don't know if I'd even try the communicator. I'd be at your place so fast, you wouldn't know what hit you."

He laughed weakly. "I feel a little better, Napoleon."

"Good."

"I have kept you up too long... I should go."

"At this hour? You'll never get to sleep. I have a spare bed, Illya. Stay here until morning."

"But-- I'm such a wreck. Tomorrow morning-- technically later this morning..."

"I think I've got a suit of your clothes in my guest closet." Napoleon grinned. "When we were packing for a return trip after some job or other, they must have gotten thrown in the wrong case."

"Well, I suppose it wouldn't hurt..."

"And I'll even give you dibs on the shower. You know, seeing as how I've already had one."

"Generous of you." He murmured. "Just let me go do a respectable parking job. I'm afraid I left my car at a rather odd angle."

---/-/---

To be continued.

---

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