“Mr. Kuryakin?” Waverley frowned for a moment as he considered the younger agent.

“Sir,” Illya began softly. “The man in the files section is good, no doubt a THRUSH or even KGB officer; however, he is not my brother.”

“Can you be certain?”

“Habits, traits, scars that only a brother would know are missing.”

“And instinct,” Napoleon added.

“I have always been inclined to trust instinct gentlemen.” Mr. Waverley puffed wreaths of sweetly scented Isle of Dog Number 22 in the briefing room. The odour and action were calming to both agents as they waited. “Suggestions?” he asked after a long pause.

“Napoleon believes that the Polit Burea has a top ranking THRUSH agent within the inner cabinet. One who has the ear of the Chairman. We received a dual sanction notice with a specific request for Stella’s demise. The instructions were precise and both agencies were keen for it to be followed to the letter. This sanction came only hours after the KGB took their offer off the table when Napoleon removed my sisters from the equation.”

“The contingency plans have been far too quickly utilized for it not to have been pre-emptive.” Napoleon added.

“Agreed.” Waverly nodded to Illya to continue.

“So in the new offer, the requirement was to implicate Uriel as the murderer. However, they knew that since I considered him a pawn and no doubt knew that the girls were now safe, I would only do a cursory job of it.”

“Because there was no personal or political gain to be made?” Waverly chewed the end of his pipe as he pondered the position. “However, they were still relying on your training.”

“Yes, sir, they were, and they knew one way or the other that Stella would die. She was a pawn and possibly undeserving of her fate, but we believe that she was handled with extreme prejudice in order to keep her knowledge silent.”

“It would be logical to assume that she knew who they were protecting.” Napoleon continued.

“Possibly, Mr. Solo,” said Waverly. “However, I believe that Stella knows who the agent in Russia is and was aware of some of the plans that had been made here in order to dishonour Mr. Kuryakin.”

“Knows?” Napoleon frowned.

“Yes. We take orders Mr. Solo, from no one. Mr. Kuryakin did not kill his sister-in-law.”

Solo pinched his bottom lip between his thumb and forefinger as he looked at his partner. “Is she talking?”

“Yes. And you are correct, Mr. Kuryakin; the man in UNCLE Central is as you suspect a plant. Your brother is at a THRUSH satrapy on Long Island. We have a team on standby to liberate him.”

“Which makes our friend in files?” Napoleon asked.

“Russian.” Illya concluded.

“As in KGB?” Napoleon’s answering smile was brutal.

“THRUSH we assume. The entire plot from the beginning was to destroy your partnership. It is no secret you two have been a thorn in their sides for a very long time.” Mr. Waverley flicked through the documents on his desk as he digested the information.

“The ultimate agenda was to destroy our friendship and partnership. That’s a lot of effort to go to.” Solo rubbed the back of his neck and came back to the briefing table.

“It was,” Waverley said. “Now however, we have uncovered both a THRUSH operative in Russia, and a very well established satrapy in Long Island which will go a long way to pushing back their abilities when the back of both is broken.”

“Sir, Carla Roberts works in files. Is she all right?” Illya asked softly.

“No. Sensor sweep of the files section indicates Miss Roberts has been killed, nasty business really. However, we do what we must.”

“Primary failsafe procedure?” Napoleon asked.

“I doubt the agent inside is capable of giving us any information. However one must assume that some information is better than none. I have had the room sealed and it is being flooded with sleeping gas. We’ll extricate both Miss. Roberts and the hostile agent. Mr. Solo, I want you to interrogate him at a later stage.”

Solo nodded.

“And Stella?” Illya asked.

“Has given us the name of the agent in Russia. In return for his arrest she will be granted amnesty and protection.”

“Sir, I’d like to go to Long Island with the team,” Illya requested.

“Of course.” Waverly spun the table top around as Illya reached for the assignment folder and Napoleon removed it from his hands.

“As senior agent,” he began.

“Not necessary, Mr. Solo. I had no doubt that you and your partner will lead the squad.”

Both men stood up and smiled. Illya snatched the case file back and flipped it open.

“Do you recognize the name of the THRUSH agent in Russia?” Waverly asked.

“No sir,” Illya said, as he shook his head.

“Pity.” Waverley shook his head and then frowned that the agents were still cluttering up his office. “You have your assignment, gentlemen. Be on your way.” Alexander swivelled his chair around and continued reading the file in his hands.

~~~oooOOOooo~~~

It never ceased to amaze the Russian that such deadly actions could be housed in modest suburban homes. Subterranean tunnels not withstanding, the house looked, well normal.

Lowset with a cheerful garden out front, colourful asters and daisies swaying gently in the breeze against the pale brick, against a backdrop of thick green grass, it was almost picture book perfect. The living room with its shag pile beige carpet and floral curtains made it a family home, well looked after and loved by elderly residents. The high tech security console hidden in the wall of the kitchen however, made it a THRUSH satrap.

A small army of suited men surrounded the house carefully avoiding the neighbours as Illya and Napoleon searched the interior of the property. Once inside, they opened the large duffel bags they carried to reveal an assortment of weapons and explosives. Within seconds Napoleon had opened the door to the back porch to let in several other agents, and Illya broke the security code on the locking mechanism that led to the underground tunnels.

All in all, anonymity provided only so much security. The THRUSH agents in this satrap were far too comfortable and that would prove their undoing. Down four levels and disturbingly enough for Illya, the interior resembled the small corridors of a submarine, and he shuddered as he veered to the left, Napoleon hot on his heels.

Like the ocean crashing upon a distant shore, they ran into resistance. Wave after wave broke upon the UNCLE agents in the front line and in the very midst of hell, a blond head with a stern and cold visage led the charge. Gun long abandoned for twin knives in his hands, he flew through the throng in a dance macabre. Many fell from wounds and even more were forced back by the sheer weight of his anger, having given up before confronted.

Napoleon felt the faint stirrings of arousal through him and shook his head. No man, no matter how cultured, how civilized was untouched by the bloodlust when it coursed through veins that pounded with the force of adrenaline and anger.

The clean up crew took care of the THRUSH agents as they swarmed out into the small hallways. The more heavily guarded the area, the more inclined Illya was to move through the throng. Feet, fists and hands connected with bodies that slammed against walls and doors with low moans and thuds. Panting heavily, Napoleon caught up to him and pulled him into the relative quiet of a corridor away from the main fighting.

“Clean up crews through levels one to three report seventeen agents including Angelique,” Napoleon said. He reloaded his gun and continued. “No sign of civilians. However it seems they have a guest on the lower level.”

“How many more levels?” Illya closed his eyes for a moment, as he stilled his heart and the hatred that burned within.

“Just one.” Napoleon patted his shoulder and felt the tension ebb, a strange light lit the blue eyes and with it an emotion he found hard to define. Instinctively he knew that if they didn’t find Uriel alive, then he would lose Illya in the process. This affair had been too personal, too intimate, and while the Russian prided himself on his ability to shut off emotions that would affect him, Napoleon was uncertain if he could survive this intact.

With the top four levels sealed and controlled, the UNCLE agents regrouped and disabled the self destruct mechanisms in place. Pale light flooded the grey walkways and the siren finally died.

Napoleon let out a sigh of relief as Watkins laid a small charge on the iron hatchway down to the lower level. It gave way with a satisfying groan, as if it too protested the exertions of the day and grim-faced, Illya peered down into the darkness.

He dropped a light down and slowly descended. Curiously the level seemed to be deserted; the air was stale and the odour of fresh earth overwhelming. Napoleon gagged lightly, and Illya’s face showed pale, grim determination.

The lower level was little more than a barren earthen dungeon, bare but for a bucket and table. And against the far wall, huddled into the corner was a human form.

Solo cursed under his breath. The body did not move, and the flash of fear that went through the cobalt eyes was almost his undoing. Slowly his feet caught up with the urgency, and the flutter of breath escaped the huddled man. Illya moved like quicksilver as he laid a gentle hand on the hunched shoulder.

Emaciated from the lack of water and food, the body under the thin layers of clothing shivered as a fresh breeze blew in from the open hatch, and Illya felt the first of hot tears spill down his face.

Uriel moaned as Illya turned him in towards his body, cradling the cold flesh against his own. Open wounds bled through the material and his hands, the once long elegant fingers were smashed. Napoleon wrapped him in his own coat and called for medical, before he bestowed the gentlest of touches on Illya’s hair.

“They broke his hands,” Illya whispered horrified.

“He is still alive , dushka.” Napoleon wiped at the tears that spilled down the gentle face and drew both men into his arms. For the first time, Illya sagged into the warmth and comfort and waited for the medical team to arrive. Solo knew in that minute, no matter the multitude of women that warmed his bed and occasionally touched his heart, no one would ever come close to the blond Russian in his arms.

Though unaware of the exact process of what to feel, a life without Illya wasn’t something he could consider. To that end, he was doomed.

Napoleon Solo had finally fallen in love.

~~~oooOOOooo~~~

“How is he?” Napoleon asked. He signed the report on his desk and put it into the out box, tapping his cygnet ring on the desk as he carefully watched his partner.

“Critical.” Illya rubbed the base of his neck, his clothes still rank and sweaty from the liberation. Bruises festooned his hands and along with it, dried blood.

“Doesn’t tell me a whole lot.”

“They beat him, tortured him, electrocuted him, and broke his hands. He’s been without water and food for four days and has pneumonia.” Illya picked the blood off his hands and rubbed to ease the pain.

“Yes well, Mr. Waverly has called in Dr. Auton to examine his hands. Apparently for all intent and purposes they will heal with little loss of mobility. In the meantime, I’ve no doubt the doctors have sent you home to rest as well.”

“It is what they said.” Illya sat down desolately on the couch in their office.

“Illya, he is alive and will survive this.”

“What if he never plays again?” Stress etched every taut line in his body as he sank back against the soft cushions. Bruises he was unaware of receiving protested loudly and he winced.

Napoleon knelt on the floor before the Russian and cupped the proud jaw in his palm. “Would you give up?”

Illya shook his head.

“He is a Kuryakin, Illya. He won’t give up either, just as you wouldn’t. Come on, it’s time to go home.”

“I could do with a shower,” Illya said as he wrinkled his nose.

“Filthy Russian,” Napoleon laughed. “By the way, whatever did happen to Stella?”

Illya’s smile was enigmatic as he walked away.

~~~oooOOOOooo~~~

“You should take me to my home, Napoleon.”

“Yes, I should, but I am under orders, and until we apprehend the Thrush agent in Russia we have concerns about your safety. So for tonight at least, you stay with me.”

“If I must.” He let out a long suffering sigh.

“I insist. In fact,” said Napoleon as he held the door open, “You should take a shower; I’ll get you a robe. Go, clean, I’ll make dinner.”

Illya stood in the small foyer and waited for the door to close behind him. The sound of the lock being thrown startled him and he jumped. Napoleon chuckled and as he did, Illya pivoted and laid the softest of kisses against the warm lips and pulled back. His large hand cupped the side of Napoleon’s face.

“Thank you,” Illya whispered. Unused to seeing his partner vulnerable, Solo felt the air knocked from his lungs. A sweet face already softened by sleep and fatigue with blue eyes the colour of cornflowers cut through him with an innocence, and Solo drew the first breath in what seemed an eternity. And just as the illusion proved almost too good to be true, Illya chuckled low and dirty deep down in his throat almost a purr of satisfaction.

“You have lost the ability of speech?” he taunted gently, not relinquishing his hold on the senior agent.

“You, ah have that effect on me, Illya.” Solo smiled shyly as he headed to the kitchen.

Freshly showered, shaved and stuffed with a hot meal, Illya reclined on the couch, a glass of tea on the coffee table in front of him, soft jazz played on the stereo and the distant sounds of running water came from Napoleon’s shower. Manhattan skyline etched in black and silver against a sunset of purple and orange, and for a moment he felt more comfortable than he had in years.

Exhausted beyond reason, he curled onto the couch and propped his head on the small scatter cushions and closed his eyes. Senses assaulted him, and the subtle musk and sandalwood of Napoleon’s cologne tickled at his nose. Warmth in the air soothed his lungs and the crackle from the fire that burned lazily in the grate soothed his soul. He felt warm and safe and revelled in the sensations that washed over him, grateful for the respite from the storm of his life.

Strong hands worked at his feet and a sigh escaped his lips as he partially opened heavy lidded eyes and watched as Napoleon eased out the kinks from impossibly high arched and slender feet, strong and supple not unlike the man himself, and Solo bent to his self appointed task with a loving commitment Illya fancied he’d never seen in the man before.

“What is it you want?” Illya’s voice was a soft purr as he watched Napoleon. For a moment he stopped his ministrations and when no remonstration came, he continued slowly and gently with the exact amount of pressure. There was no rancor from the dour Russian, just genuine interest.

“Anything you give me,” Napoleon admitted at length.

“You would settle for that?” Illya folded his hands behind his head, the pale robe slipping open to reveal golden thighs, though slender as has always been Illya’s want, heavily muscled. Napoleon dared to caress higher, up over the calves of his legs, kneading the muscles and deep in thought as he teased a sigh from the Russian.

“I would rather not settle for anything. I would rather you wanted me as I want you and we can build from there.”

“Say it, Napoleon.”

“Say it?” Without hesitation he untied the belt of the robe and ran his hands higher still over body and abdomen, soothing and loving every scar. Every bruise on the revealed pale flesh received the tender assault. “I love you.”

Illya captured the fingers in his own and brought them to his lips, eyes never leaving each other as he smiled. “You mean it?”

“I may have a dozen ladies, Illya, but I don’t tell them I love them. I never have with the exception of my wife, and now I find I’m confessing to you and you’re the least likely to believe me.”

“No.” Illya pulled Napoleon on top of him and ran his hands down over the strongly muscled back. “I’m the most inclined to believe you,” he whispered into the dark fringed ear. “Because I know that it’s not something you would say to me without meaning. That you would never be as foolish as to play a game that you cannot win with me, so yes, Napasha ,I believe you.” Illya turned the dark head up to accept a kiss that deepened by the second and had both men pant in need and desire when they broke apart.

Never, in all his days, with all his ladies had Napoleon felt such passion, and to find that his partner, his Russian was able to raise an ardour in him that left him reeling surprised him.

“Do you want to sleep with me?” Napoleon kissed his way down the thick neck.

“Nyet, I want to make love to you.” A ripple of pleasure washed over the American as he rubbed his body against the one below him and felt an answering desire as firm flesh collided.

“Bed?” Napoleon asked.

“Bed,” Illya agreed.