Illya regretted his words the moment he stepped through the doors of the Soho club. Dressed in dark pants and his trademark black turtleneck he felt incredibly vulnerable as eyes turned to look at him. Under the harsh fluorescent light his blond hair shone. Each glimpse of bright light accentuated the lithe-muscled body that moved with a dancer's grace under his clothing. Inwardly he shuddered at the attention.

The club itself was exactly what he expected. A large central bar, with stools placed at precarious intervals around the padded-leather exterior. The top of the bar was covered in old, battered beer mats. The few booth tables along the side were crammed full of young men and women.

Illya sniffed, catching the pungent tang of hashish and pot, interwoven with the yeast of the beer. He moved towards the throng and through the tiny packed dance floor between the door and the bar. In another place and time he may have enjoyed having the pressed bodies seeking to draw him into their tribal rituals. He would have listened to the beat of the music. Perhaps he would have swayed to the rhythm and immersed himself in the freedom for which he so longed. But this was not to be, not in this place, perhaps, not ever. Hands reached out to cup his buttocks and he could not tell if they were male or female. He gritted his teeth and longed for the steadying weight of his gun. Instead he smiled shyly and found solace at the end of the bar.

Within seconds of ordering his drink, he was approached. He looked up, a tall dark man with a neat-cropped moustache and beard on his pale face. The pupils of the man's pale eyes were so dilated that his eyes appeared black.

“’Ello love,” the man drawled.

Illya looked up from under long lashes and smiled. “Hello.” Deliberately he kept his voice innocent and shy as he inspected his admirer.

“Wanna drink?” he swayed slightly as he leaned closer.

“No, thanks. I...ah...already have one.” Illya let the full force of his cold stare bore into the man, making sure he knew he was not interested.

With a show of good grace his suitor moved away. Seconds later he had turned his attentions to a group of young men who were watching the soccer on the TV above the bar.

Relief washed over Illya, like a soft summer breeze.

~~~oooOOOooo~~~

Solo sat hunched in the Ford Escort, his shoulders rounded against the cold, his body trembling in barely-disguised outrage as one man after another propositioned his partner.

So far none had been more insidious than hopeful suitors. A cacophany of cockney accents and nasal twangs rang in Solo’s ears. After more than two hours of the stakeout, they began to irritate him.

“Take it easy, Napoleon,” Bodie said softly. “Illya, can take care of himself.”

“Yes,” Solo answered absently, “that is precisely what I am worried about.”

“Ey?” Doyle asked, his head coming up from the newspaper he was reading in the back seat.

“He means, old son,” Bodie smiled as he spoke, “that if Illya gets pushed too far, it won’t be him we will need to mend.”

Doyle chuckled. “Oh, if it really bothers you, Napoleon, I could always go inside and chat your partner up instead of the faceless hordes.”

Solo glowered Doyle who sat in the backseat. “No thanks.” His voice was dead level and too calm, Ray noticed as he suppressed a grin and went back to reading.

Silence fell in the tiny car, the only sounds the rustle of paper as Doyle flipped through the sports section and the awful music crackling through Illya’s wiretap. Another faceless voice approached Illya.

“I never thought to see you in a place like this, Illya.” The voice was crisp clear and close. Solo sat bolt upright in the car at the same time Bodie fiddled with the knob and turned the sound up.

~~~oooOOOooo~~~

“I never thought to see you in a place like this, Illya.” He stood close enough for the Russian to feel his body heat. He turned his face and looked up into deep brown eyes.

“Claude?” Illya choked on his vodka as he stared at the man before him. The athletic body was clad in a Saville Row suit, beneath which the ripples of muscles were clearly visible. The handsome face smiled down at the smaller man. Illya felt the heat surge to his groin as he smiled.

Claude pulled out the stool next to him and sat down. “It’s been a long time.”

Illya nodded. “Yes. Cambridge was the last time we met.”

“Rumour had it you were recalled to the Soviet Navy.”

Illya nodded again, beating back the unusual surge of arousal that coursed through his body. “I was, and you, if the rumours were true, were off to make your fortune in the European banking community.”

Claude laughed, the sound rich and melodic as he flirted gently with the Russian. “I repeat, I never expected to see you in a place like this.”

Illya colored slightly. “Neither did I.” he answered honestly. “So, did you?” the Russian asked again trying in vain not to look on the handsome face perplexed at the reactions that were stirring within him.

“Did I what?” Claude asked leaning closer to the blond.

“Make your fortune in Europe?” Illya asked with a little difficulty.

“Oh that. No,” Claude answered with a deep throaty chuckle. “Actually I had to go to Australia to make my fortune.”

“Ah, the Antipodes.” Illya laughed and suddenly the tension eased.

“So what are you doing here?”

“Drinking vodka,” Illya answered.

“Ah, as elusive as ever, Illyusha.”

“No not really,” Illya muttered. “I’m on holidays.”

“From teaching?”

“What makes you think that?”

“Come now, don’t be coy. You were the best student the old man ever had. The whole grade was sure you would have made Professor by now.”

“If memory serves me correctly, the entire grade and the rest of the school ignored the Russkie,” Illya answered with no real heat.

“And whose fault was that? You were not exactly the most endearing of students.”

“And we were not exactly friends either, Claude, so what’s the point now?”

“Tell me Illyusha, are you always this offensive or do you save your venom only for people who want to make friends with you.”

Illya sighed wearily as he turned to look into the brown eyes of his companion. “If the truth is offensive then so be it, Claude. I have no time, and less inclination to start a friendship that can never be anything more than what it is.”

Claude sat back and perused the serious young man before him. “And what is it?”

“Sex.”

Claude smiled widely, “Well, well, moya lubovenka, it would seem that your social graces are not as lacking as I first thought.”

“And the answer is still no. So knowing this I suggest you find someone else to chat up.” Illya’s words were succinct and clipped as the big man stood.

Instead of moving away, Claude came close to the seated man. One hand pressed between the dark-clad thighs and stroked at the half-erect cock. Illya hissed and held his ground, deciding that flinching away from his touch would only encourage him more. “This tells me something else,” Claude cooed softly in his ear.

Another voice echoed behind Illya, “It tells me, that you are trespassing.” Green eyes locked with brown as Ray came forward and wrapped a propriety arm around Illya’s shoulders. “Sorry I kept you waiting,” he breathed contritely against the soft lips before losing himself in them.

The kiss was long and passionate and after long moments, Ray stepped back and looked into large blue eyes. Confusion was written across the guileless face as Ray traced a hand across his cheek.

“Sorry,” Claude stammered.

“If you don’t move your hand I will break it off at the wrist and shove it up your arse,” Ray said sweetly without losing eye contact with Illya.

Claude withdrew his hand away from Illya's rapidly expanding cock.

“Next time you stand me up, milok, I shall not wait to be mauled by strange men. Can we leave now?” Illya asked as he looked down at his drink, his face flushed pink with embarrassment.

Claude withdrew as he stared into Doyle’s face.

“Sorry, anything else would have broken your cover,” Doyle whispered close to Illya’s ear. He still had the slight body pressed against his side and unconsciously his hand wandered over the hard muscles of the Russian’s back.

“You, ah can let go now Ray. I think you made your point,” Illya answered softly.

Ray nodded and took the stool next to Illya as he looked into his friend’s face. Despite his relationship with Bodie, he found something compelling about the man before him. It pulled at his mind and body and refused to be assuaged. With regret he looked down into the glass of scotch that appeared on the bar in front of him and sipped it. Only now did he fully understand Bodie’s reluctance in parting with this particular treasure.

“Shit,” Doyle said softly as he downed the rest of his drink.

Illya raised his own glass before swallowing the volatile liquid in one gulp. “Shit indeed. Shall we go?” Illya was already standing and heading for the door as he himself moved towards the exit.

~~~oooOOOooo~~~

“And that was?” Solo asked his voice lethally quiet as he fought for control. Illya knew that the calmer Napoleon got, the angrier he was, and despite having only seen the American in a true temper once, it was enough for the Russian to respect it.

“Claude Perkins.”

“Who is?”

“He was in the same graduate class as I was at Cambridge,” Illya answered softly, stripping the wiretap from his jacket as he got into the small back seat of the Ford.

“Someone else you forgot to mention, tovarisch?” Napoleon’s words could have cut steel, they were so precise and wounding.

In the front seat of the car Bodie winced and caught Illya’s eyes in the rear view mirror. Regret and a silent apology passed between them as Solo pushed into the car.

“Stop it, Napoleon,” Illya warned.

“Gladly,” Solo answered and Illya’s heart constricted. Somewhere in his Slavic soul he knew that being with his partner was not to be and resolved his heart to that pain now, rather than later.

He scooted across the small seat and allowed Solo more room and sat slumped in the corner, confused and dejected.

The ride home was completed in silence, even Ray and Bodie kept their own counsel until the car pulled up outside the neat house. Illya got out and stood by the side of the car, strapping on his shoulder holster and covering it with his jacket. He looked at Solo’s face and saw the anger there and backed away. Doyle said something to Bodie, as Illya turned away and began to walk down the street.

“Wait up,” Bodie called softly.

Illya stopped and turned for once his emotions clear in the distressed features. “Go away, Bodie.”

“Not that easy this time, Illya.”

“Really? Then let’s make it easier shall we. Why don’t you finish what you started all those years ago?” Illya goaded, taking his anger out on the Englishman.

Bodie flinched, and set his jaw firm. “Meaning?”

“If you want to stop me, Bodie, put a bullet through me,” Illya spat.

“Try not to be stupid.” Bodie said through clenched teeth.

“Or you’ll what?”

“I’ll stop you. I have orders Illya, I can’t let you out alone. Not with some nutter gunning for you. Be reasonable.” Bodie changed tactics and attempted to calm the irate man down.

“Oh yes, orders. Well in the pecking order of agencies UNCLE holds seniority over all other agencies, so technically that makes me your superior. And as your superior, I don’t need or want a baby sitter. So, put a bullet through me or get out of my way,” Illya’s words dropped heavily between them.

“And I am yours.” Solo’s voice was unmistakable and very soft. Bodie backed away and looked between both men.

“Is it safe to leave?” he asked half-jokingly.

Both Solo and Illya nodded. Bodie considered the tension in the air for a moment and then nodded. “Please try not to kill each other, I hate paperwork.” he chided as he left.

“Sorry,” Solo said as Bodie retreated back to the house.

“Not good enough Napoleon,” Illya spat.

“Meaning?” Solo’s calm became palpable.

“When did you stop trusting me to do my work?” Illya asked.

“When do you start telling me the truth?” Napoleon rejoined.

Illya took a deep breath, the pain in his eyes making Napoleon wince visibly. “I have never lied to you Napoleon, or kept anything from you that you had a right to know.”

“Illya, please can we go back to the house and discuss this?”

“No.”

“Illya, please,” Solo’s voice began to croon softly. He knew also that he had crossed that line, that he had allowed his personal distaste of the situation to endanger all of their lives. Luckily, they had not found Chris tonight. Solo shuddered to think what could have happened if they had.

“Please what? Take me back to the house so you can humiliate me further in front of our hosts? To prove finally that your jealousy is a matter of fact and not conjecture? So you can show the world that you no longer trust me?” Illya was angry, his blue eyes blazed as he stalked towards Napoleon and looked him directly in the eyes, refusing to back down on this point.

“You are over-reacting.”

“Really? And you weren’t? Tell me Napoleon, what would you do? Should I react the same because some woman came on to you? Lord knows, half of the free world has slept in your bed at one time or another.” The words were aimed to hurt and found their mark as Solo flinched.

“Illya I’m sorry, I just felt like a voyeur.”

“So your sensibilities have been offended. Congratulations. But it solves nothing.” Illya lost none of the sting in his voice.

“Please. I do trust you, and I do love you,” Solo answered gently taking a step closer his partner.

“Don’t,” Illya commanded. Solo immediately stood still and frowned, the hurt showing in his eyes like an open wound as he looked at the Russian again. Illya’s heart melted. The vulnerable look in the dark-brown eyes, the slight stoop to the proud shoulders and he found he could no longer inflict this pain on his friend. “Don’t...” He took a step closer, “...ever, do that again, Napasha.” He caressed the side of the face with the back of his hand.

“Thank you,” Solo took the square fingers in his hand and pressed a kiss to the palm.

“Come on, we can still get arrested for lewd behavior in England.” Illya tugged gently at the hand and turned towards the house.

From the park across the road, a pair of binoculars watched the altercation and frowned. “Well, well, well,” Chris muttered.