"All right, I'll go turn down your bed." Napoleon nodded, squeezing Illya's shoulder. He followed the blond to the door before heading back to his spare bedroom to get things ready.

Napoleon tidied up the guest room, finding Illya's suit and hanging it in the closet where it could be seen.

"Providence." He said to himself, or possibly to the suit. "And here I had packed you on accident, now you come in handy. At least, you'll keep Illya from going anywhere. It's about two-forty in the morning, he really shouldn't drive."

The sheets turned down and pillows fluffed, he headed back into the living room, where he took their empty glasses from off the coffee table with a sigh. How on earth would he handle sleeping with Illya in the next room, the knowledge that he loved, dreamed of, and lusted after the man weighing on his mind?

Maybe he should keep the ice bucket by his bed, so that if it happened again, he could drop one of the cubes down the back of his pajama shirt.

No, bad idea. For one thing, they were really nice pajamas, comfortable, and he couldn't wear them wet. Also, some people were into ice, and what if he was one of those people? It could be disastrous. And how come he didn't know for sure whether or not he was one of those people? It seemed like in all the years he had been exploring the sensual, *somebody* would suggest ice. He might try it sometime, then. Some time when he didn't have to worry about Illya.

It would be fine. He would just have to stay professional.

Speaking of worrying about Illya, how long had Illya been? How long did Illya normally take to park his car? Then again, maybe if he had parked it in the street, he'd have to find a real spot somewhere. Napoleon sighed and threw himself down on the couch.

---/-/---

Illya smiled in spite of himself as he headed towards his car. Napoleon was safe, completely safe. And Napoleon was concerned as to his welfare, and had asked him to stay. It seemed right, normal, though it wasn't something that had happened often. In fact, he could only remember staying at Napoleon's once. If there were other times, then they must have been working on *that* case. It would explain the nights he couldn't remember at all nicely. The time he remembered, Napoleon had suggested it because Illya had fallen asleep on some files they had been told to go over at home.

He laughed softly to himself. Napoleon had shaken his shoulder to wake him, and if anyone else had done it, he probably would have killed, or at least maimed, them before realizing his error, but it was as though he knew Napoleon by touch. And then Napoleon had gestured to the documents he had fallen asleep on and asked if he was trying to learn the information through osmosis.

Illya sighed, his mind occupied with fond thoughts of his partner. He was just to his car when it happened. A sharp pain in the back of his neck, and then... nothing.

---/-/---

After five minutes of just sitting on the couch, Napoleon really was worried. He picked up his communicator, but when he heard the answering chirp coming from the jacket Illya had left over the back of one of his chairs, he gave up on anything other than outright action.

He ran down the stairs of his building as fast as he could possibly manage, and when he arrived out front, his chest was heaving. He saw Illya's car, still parked haphazardly in the street. Illya was not there.

A black van sped off around a corner, but there wasn't time or light enough to read the plates. Napoleon cursed loudly, first in English, and then using every filthy word he had ever heard Illya mutter in Russian when he thought no one was listening.

---/-/---

Illya woke up an indeterminate amount of time later, with a pounding headache, in yet another THRUSH cell. He really wished that this wasn't such a familiar occurrence...

At least he didn't have to share it with any hideous children. He shuddered once at the memory, and then paused, thinking harder. Parts of his rescue seemed to be gone. Illya knew his memory was too good for that. He wouldn't forget even the small details, unless it was because of the manipulation he had undergone recently. Little things, like what had Napoleon said when he untied him? And if the sensitive information that had been removed dated so far back, why was it only just erased from his memory?

He sighed and lay back. Nothing to do now but get some rest, build up a little more of his strength, and wait for Napoleon to rescue him, at which point he would need to swing into action himself, because Napoleon so often got himself captured in the attempt. But he had every confidence that his partner would come through in the end.

---/-/---

~FIN~

(Yes, another cliffhanger. Tune in tomorrow night for part one of 'The Clothes You're Wearing Affair'. Or, if my post problem hasn't been cleared up, the first chapter of this one)

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