For a long moment he was frozen in indecision.  How long could Illya go without feeding? What did his condition mean?  How the hell could he even contemplate feeding a vampire? Actually, that was an irrelevant question, because something had to be done.

He faced the facts; the frail looking vampire was unconscious due to his fast, malnutrition as it were.  Napoleon needed the vampire conscious - his knowledge about vampires, their hiistory, and their secrets was invaluable in stopping the murders. His choice was a simple one - did he call headquarters and ask them to deliver several pints of blood or did he feed Illya himself?

The mere fact that he was considering the idea of allowing, no encouraging, a vampire to feed made the Knight of U.N.C.L.E. shudder. It went against everything he had ever been taught or trained to do. What was he coming to?

Quickly and efficiently, while still debating internally, Napoleon went into action. Unconscious, the vampire was light and easily moved. Completely on instinct, he carried the pale form to his bedroom and laid him in the middle of the big bed.

Although he knew the immortal creature was literally strong enough to rend him limb from limb, he felt oddly protective of the unconscious vampire. Somehow, that protectiveness did not seem wrong - and that frightened him. He was not supposed to care for one of them.

Napoleon unbuttoned Illya's collar and cuffs and removed his socks and shoes. After a moment, he unbuttoned the vampire's shirt as well - for comfort's sake. The contrast between the cool, pale skin and the vibrant green quilt was compelling, enticing him to touch and he had to steel himself against the impulse. He ran his hand along the other's forehead, pushing the blond hair back. Instinctively, the vampire followed the movement, pressing into his palm.

"Good Lord. What am I doing?" Napoleon pulled away. He picked up his  communicator and contemplated it. He should contact Waverly for advice. But he was the top enforcement agent, the head of the active Knights, who could he turn to? He should not be thinking about this.

What would headquarters do? They would NOT send Illya the blood he needed. His (where did that come from) vampire would wake to a silver blade and a painful but quick death. He could not do that to his - friend. (Were they friends, he wondered.) He could not call for help because even Waverly could not or would not be able to help - not to feed a vampire. Not to break one of the most fundamental parts of their own laws.

His decision made, Napoleon kicked off his shoes and stripped off his shirt and weapons. If his fellow agents every found out about this, his career and his life were over. No enforcement agent would/could betray his oaths like this and get away with it. But he had no choice. He could not let Illya drift away into the limbo that sustained a vampire too long without nourishment. He could not call for back up. He could not let the killers get away because of his own fears.

Settling himself uneasily beside the vampire, he studied the pale visage. In repose the sharply angled planes were softer, gentler, and much younger. Out of curiosity, he let his fingers stroke the vampire's cheek. The skin was cool, barely cold, but it was soft, like untouched, raw silk velvet.

Before he could rescind his decision, Napoleon reached for the sharp silver blade on his night table. The bright metal gleamed in the low light. The heirloom was made for his family, blessed by several popes, and deadly to mortal and immortal alike. It was time. His decision was made, so now he had only to follow through with it.

He rolled onto his back and pulled Illya so that the vampire reclined against him. The faint chill of the other man's skin felt odd for a moment. And then Illya shifted, nuzzling his check against Napoleon's collarbone.

The American looked at his blade. The fine point taunted him as it neared the vein in his arm. Safe - the arm was safe, but inefficient. Illya shifted again and instinctively Illya changed the angle of his thrust. Cold, sharp, and bright the blessed blade sliced neatly through skin.

Illya responded instantly. His entire body stiffened and his eyes opened. His blue irises turned red, his canines elongated, and the vampire's entire body quivered with need. One strong hand clamped down on Napoleon's wrist, stilling the blade before it could do more than nick the skin, preventing further damage. A flick of the vampire's wrist and the blade spun across the room to sink into a paneled wall with a thud.

Napoleon turned his gaze back to Illya's face. The vampire was fighting it - his eyes were wild, his expression bewildered, and hurt, but he was fighting. With the arm he had around Illya's shoulder, Napoleon pulled the smaller man closer. Kuryakin resisted, trying to make sense of what was happening.

Napoleon let his free hand drift up until it was nestled in the soft, white blond hair. He lifted himself up as he pushed against the taught neck. This time there was no resistance and he guided the vampire's lips to the tiny cut on his neck.

"Illya!" Napoleon heard his voice break as the vampire latched onto him. Sharp euphoria rushed him at the first moment of contact.

He had heard about but never experienced anything like the estascy of a vampire's kiss. Suddenly the room was warm, filled with the most enticing of aromas. His skin tingled where Illya's skin touched him. The sensation of the cool, long fingered hands as they traced his ribs was teasing him to arousal.

Napoleon was drowning in a maelstrom of impression - the soft, gentle lapping of Illya's tongue on his neck; the faint but sharp pinch of teeth on skin; the warmth that suffused him from head to toe; the burgeoning pressure within him; the feeling of perfect rightness at what was happening. He let go and began to enjoy the sensations.

Illya's legs tangled with his as the vampire took control. Suddenly, he was pinned by the steel muscled body. The hands no longer teased, they danced an erotic dance as they explored Napoleon.

Napoleon could swear he felt the smaller man's hunger in his own flesh. His hands moved to caress the smooth skin of the vampire's back and he felt/heard/tasted Illya's approval. He strained against the firm body above him. His hands and arms tightened, trying to merge their bodies.

With a low growl, Illya changed his position, settling firmly against Napoleon's groin. His hands moved, grabbing Napoleon's wrists and dragging them above their heads. The vampire let his body lay touching the mortal's in as many places as possible, enticing a stronger response - flaming the fires already burning Napoleon's body.

A rosy haze filled Napoleon's mind. The comforting strength of the one pinning him only enhanced the haze. He wondered briefly why he had always avoided this particular situation but lost the thought in the warm haze that flushed him. But the haze was growing cold and dark.

And then, in a moment of clarity, he remembered one of the lectures from his training days. The lecturer had been a wizened old knight, one of the ones who survived the chaos of the darkest days of the order. Back in the "Wild West" renegades on both sides had strained the truce - it had taken fierce men to put down the rebel knights. The old man's voice was reed thin as he spoke.

"Even the best vampire can kill - without meaning to do so. Any newborn vampire, any vampire who has fasted too long, any one imprisoned without sustenance - they lose control unless bound. It is a survival instinct and beyond their control." The regret in the old man's voice was poignant. "And when they lose control, the vampire can kill without knowing what he is doing."

Napoleon realized his mistake and tried to push the vampire away, but he was too weak. His hands did not respond to his commands.

"Illya." he whispered, in a last ditch, desperate attempt to get the vampire to awaken. The world went black.