Dinner was somewhat strained, as Waverly watched his oldest friend and his young protégé feel each other
              out.  Each attempted to learn as much as possible from word, tone of voice, gesture, and body language
              while giving nothing away.  Both knew he was watching and observing them as well if not better than they
              could themselves.  He wasn’t distracted by trying to maneuver another into giving something away.  He
              always HAD enjoyed an excellent chess match but he liked a good poker game even more.

              They discussed a number of topics from literature to sports to politics. Qui-Gon was trying to get a sense of
              the man’s attitude toward homosexuals by using every trick his master had ever taught him on a diplomatic
              mission, and everything he’d picked up in the years since.  The man was physically impervious, giving
              nothing away by outward sign.  But he’d “flinch” mentally at certain words, which gave the Jedi the
              answers he sought.  When Waverly excused himself to retire for the night, he decided to test his findings.

              Napoleon had decided John was both hiding something and fishing for information.  What did the man want,
              and how did it affect Ilya?  Could he trust this man with his partner?  He hadn’t seen anything to set off
              alarms, but then, he hadn’t seen much of anything at all.  What was he hiding? Something to do with
              Ilya?  He was beginning to think so, and he didn’t like it.  When Waverly excused himself to retire for the
              night, he decided to confront his host.

              “What are you hiding, Quinn?”  There’s nothing like the direct approach.

              John chuckled.  “The direct approach, eh?  I admire that.  You’re worried about your partner.  I can
              understand that.  You know what was done to him, and what he was doing to survive.   How do you feel
              about your partner being with other men?  What’s your opinion of homosexuality in general?”

              “I’ve always believed in ‘Live and Let Live’,” Napoleon replied.  He definitely didn’t like what he was
              hearing.  “As for what my partner has gone through, none of it was his choice.  If I should discover
              someone’s been playing on his vulnerability, manipulating his emotions for his own ends,” he caught John’s
              eye so there would no misunderstanding, “I’ll kill him, without a qualm and without a second
              thought.  Irregardless of who he is or who he knows.”

              The older man nodded without breaking eye contact.  “I don’t doubt it for a second.  You’re very . . .
              devoted to him.  Are you devoted enough to allow him to make his own choices, even if they go against
              conventional morals? Could you ‘Live and Let Live’ if your partner told you he preferred making love to
              men?”

              “I’d have to be certain it WAS his choice, freely made, and not something he ’d been led to believe he
              wanted.”

              John refreshed both their drinks from the bar.  “I’m not some vile seducer. The first time he approached me,
              I told him I didn’t want him sleeping with anyone unless that was what he wanted.  I also told him I’d
              arrange for training or education for him so he wouldn’t need to sell himself to survive.  At the time I
              believed prostitution was the only thing he knew. Do you really think I’d hire a  psychiatrist for him if I
              wanted to manipulate his emotions?  There are far cheaper ways to do it.”

              “I’ll withhold judgement on the matter until I can get Ilya’s side of the story.  IF I can get his side; he’s
              rather conveniently – for you, perhaps – incommunicado at the moment,” Napoleon said.

              “I wish he could talk to you, more than you know.” John replied.  He would have said more, but at that
              moment the scream of a man in mortal agony split the night, coming from Ivan’s room.

             He was dreaming.

              The bastard was raping him again, because he’d found a new toy with which to hurt him.  It was something
              like a cross between the electronic matches used to start barbecue grills and fireplaces and a cattle prod.  It
              was small enough to be held in one hand, and had two small electrodes on its tip.  He’ d shown it to him
              before he’d started, demonstrating how the current arced between the electrodes when he activated it.

              He’d proceeded to activate it all over his victim’s body, leaving burns of varying degrees of severity
              depending on how many times he touched a particular spot and how long he left the device in place.  He had
              a perverse fondness for his erogenous zones, but didn’t neglect any area completely. Quarter sized blisters
              dotted his limbs and torso and he’d been raped 4 times before his tormentor drew away from his
              whimpering, shuddering form.

              “You’re close,” he whispered, rolling the UNCLE agent onto his back and reaching up to stroke the hair
              back from his eyes.  “So very, very close.” He leaned down and kissed him on the lips.  “What shall we do
              now, hmm?”  He pulled his legs apart, exposing his most sensitive areas, and knelt between them.  “One
              more little nudge, I think.”  He bent his victim’s knees for better access.

              Ilya wondered what it was to which he was supposed to be close.  He hoped it was dying; the pain had long
              since passed unbearable.  He didn’t really notice what Phillips was doing until he felt the tip of the device
              entering his anus.

              “Let’s see now; here?”  He poked with the device, and got no response. “Here, perhaps?” he poked another
              spot, and got nothing.  He continued to ask, “Here?” and poke around inside him until Ilya gasped and
              bucked.  “Ah, there’s the spot!”  He beamed at his victim as if he’d just found a treasure.  He had: his
              prostate.  He poked a few more times to be sure of the location.

              “No, please no,” Ilya begged, knowing what was coming, and knowing too he couldn’t possibly brace
              himself for it.  “No, please, God in Heaven, not that, not there,” he whimpered.

              His pleas were an aphrodisiac to Phillips; he thought he’d climax just from hearing them.  He activated the
              device, and his victim’s screams of agony were music to his ears.

              He was still screaming, full volume, when John knocked down the door. Pushing the cook to one side, he
              pulled the screaming man into his arms.  He held him closely against his chest, partly to muffle the screams
              and partly to reassure him.  “Shh, shh, you’re safe now, you’re safe, my Ivan, my little snowflake,” he
              murmured in Russian.

              Only to have his snowflake push him away and annoyedly reply in English, “I am no one’s ‘little
              snowflake’.  My name is Ilya Nickolovitch Kuryakin,” his face screwed itself up in pain, “and God in
              Heaven help me,” he started to sob, “I remember.”  He collapsed against John’s chest once more, sobbing
              like a heartbroken child.  Qui-Gon did nothing to quell the tears until he cried himself out, while Napoleon
              and Waverly found places on the bed and lent what comfort they could to him.

              When he’d regained his composure to the point where he could speak, he told them about his dream.  “We
              need to go back there and take out that nest,” he advised.

              “Already done, Mr. Kuryakin,” Waverly told him, “by the Hong Kong office; it ’s how we first got an
              inkling you were still alive.  They missed Phillips; however, one of his underlings gave us an account of
              your stay.”

              It was with great effort that Ilya managed to calm himself after hearing his tormentor was wandering about
              while they had no idea where.  When he opened his eyes, he kept them downcast into his lap.  “There’s . . .
              something more you should know.  When he turned off the device I was in so much pain – my nerves acted
              like wiring, carrying the current to – to – “ he gestured to his groin, “the pins – I – I – broke down
              completely.  I told him everything I knew: about UNCLE, about the KGB, about the various organizations
              we keep track of, everything – anything – to keep him from hurting me like that again.”  A single sob
              escaped his control; he ignored it, as he was ignoring the tears pouring down his cheeks, and continued.  “I
              am a traitor,” he raised his eyes and looked straight at Waverly, “and I deserve to be sanctioned.  The worst
              part,” he whispered, closing his eyes once more in a futile effort to block out the memory, “is that it didn’t
              work.  He pressed it against my prostate and burned me some more, and I screamed and I screamed and I
              screamed.”  He started to sob again.  “He finally pulled it out and raped me, hard and fast, and oh God it
              hurt and I just wanted to die so the pain would stop.”

              All three men reached out to comfort him, but he batted their hands away. “Don’t touch me, please.  I just
              want to be alone right now.”  He burrowed down under his sheet and pulled his pillow against his chest,
              burying his face in it to muffle his sobs.  “Please, just go.”

              “Cook will sit with you, just in case,” John said, and Ilya nodded.