CAMBRIDGE: 1970

Cold damp air seeped in everywhere, from the ill-fitting windows to the rattling door, which hung precariously on the hinges. The KGB were not known for their caring disposition; the fact that he had a roof at all was one of the few things Illya counted his blessings over normally. He looked about the tiny room. Its shabby furniture, overhung with stark, almost bare simplicity, caused his own heart to constrict, and he could not turn and see the despair in his friend's eyes.

"So this is home?" Bodie drawled softly, coming to wrap firm, possessive arms around the slight body. Illya leaned back and frowned, pointing to the lamp and the window. Silently telling his friend that he was being monitored.

"No, this is simply a room. Home is Russia," Illya responded, giving the broad muscled arms a long squeeze before moving away to sit on the edge of the narrow bed.

"When do you go back?" Bodie had missed none of the inflection in the resolute voice, the wistful air, the longing, the need, and yet still for his friend's sake all these weeks he had hung back. Stopped when foolishly he had thought to tell him how much he was loved and needed. Stopped himself making the admission that would cause Illya's immediate return to Russia and the destruction of what family he had left. Stopped himself and caused his own heart to ache, for he knew with sickening clarity that he would not be able to let him go so easily.

"Three weeks."

"So soon?" Bodie frowned, his expression growing dark as he took up his position in the room's single high-backed wooden chair, which offered no comfort.

Illya nodded, "Yes, I have been recalled to start training immediately I graduate."

"Training?" Bodie tried to look past the wall of ice he encountered when he gazed too long in the bright blue eyes of his blond friend. So far Illya had never discussed what would happen when he returned, always pushing the conversation into another direction and Bodie allowed himself to be manipulated. But not tonight. Tonight he needed to know what would happen, how this would affect the man he silently loved.

"I have been recalled to the Naval Submarine Corp."

"You hate the ocean..." Bodie ventured.

Illya smiled a little sadly, "Yes but we must serve our country as best we can."

The Englishman all but shook with ill-concealed rage. Illya hated the water, despised small cramped spaces, and Bodie could think of no punishment worse than being canned into one of those tiny submarines the Russians were so proud of. Instinctively, he knew this was the fate awaiting his friend and his heart constricted, his pain telling all too clearly on his expressive features.

"Bodie, don't." The voice soft and halting as he stared across the tiny bare wooden room.

"You're my friend, what? I'm not supposed to worry about you?"

"No, you're not. We talked about this a long time ago Bodie. Mother Russia looks after her own for the good of the nation."

"What about the individual?"

Illya's smile was small, replete with pain and sorrow before the ice wall enclosed him again, "The individual does as he is told. I am one of the lucky ones, Bodie, I got to study in England and France at the expense of the state. I got to see the world before I go back home."

"Somehow I think that will make it all the harder."

Illya shot a warning glance to the bugged lamp and scowled. "No, it makes it easier."

Bodie stood. The stubborn set of the Russian jaw, the tension along the lightly corded frame and the glaze in the too blue eyes shook the self- contained Englishman more than he cared to admit. He walked across to the bed and lowered his lips to the small pink ear. "No, it makes it harder, and I shall wait forever, Illya. No matter what, I shall be here for you."

The hot breath sent shivers along the Russian's spine and he pushed back in the bed as the frisson of pleasure all but overwhelmed him. "Bodie, please go," he said finally, each word strained and painful.

"Go?" he asked, gently caressing the soft pale cheek. Illya closed his eyes against the tender assault and pushed further away.

"Yes, Bodie, please." The slender form on the bed moved away, attempting to disappear into the wall. Illya rocked slowly, seeing for an instant the pain-filled eyes of his one friend before the Englishman left the room.

William Andrew Phillip Bodie found himself in the cool hallway. Dark eyes bored into him from the house master, the old Russian gent who, with his wife, took care of their charges with all the consideration they could muster. This night though, the kindly old man looked at him as though he was the devil incarnate, and although no words were spoken, no actions taken, Bodie left and knew with a sickening certainty that he would never set foot inside the old house again. Knew also that his heart ached for the loss of innocence and for the fragile soul that wept silently in the cold room upstairs.

~~~oooOOOooo~~~

Bodie awoke with a start, his body wracked with the memory of pain, of loss and desertion. He turned and curled around the solid heat of his partner and sighed into the mass of curls. Doyle stirred sweetly, his arms encircling the larger body and smiled in his sleep.

"'S alright love, go back to sleep," he said softly, petting the short dark hair.

Bodie lay entwined with his partner and felt the terrible keening loss work its way into his heart. Despite the reassurance of the man who loved him, whom he rationally knew was the only soul that could come close to accepting the essence of what he was, the ache would not be eased. And hours later he closed his eyes, drifting into an uneasy sleep, remembering the Russian who lay in the next room, and the sweet heavy weight in his arms.

~~~oooOOOooo~~~

Despite his earlier claims of tiredness, Solo was aware Illya's restlessness, even though he made no move or sound and to the untrained ear would have appeared to be peacefully sleeping in the warm soft bed. Solo knew better. The deep even breathing that accompanied sleep evaded him and when Illya did finally manage to doze, it was fitful and restless. Glancing at the clock the American rubbed his tired face with his hand and turned on his side, watching his friend's back.

The digital display of the clock illuminated the otherwise darkened room and after almost thirty six hours without sleep, he knew the Russian was suffering in stoic silence. Unable to resist the temptation and urge to touch his friend, Solo laid a tentative palm on the shoulder and found to his distress that it was gently shaking and ice cold to the touch.

"Tovarisch?" he said softly. Illya made no move nor sound, and strangely encouraged by the lack of rejection, Solo curled closer behind the slender form.

"Please, Napoleon." The voice, thick with accent and exhaustion, drifted through the room. Moving closer still, Solo wound an arm around the lithe frame, and not for the first time relished the closeness and comfort of the hard compact body next to him.

"Hmm?" the American answered softly and carded his hand through the luxurious golden strands.

"I can't do this, Napoleon."

Instinctively Solo held him tighter. "Do what, tovarisch?"

Silence and a deep sigh. "I can't stay here."

Totally awake and alert now, he turned the slender frame toward him. Solo felt something akin to dread as he looked down into the pinched pale features of his partner. "If you say you can't stay, then we'll go."

"Just like that?" Illya opened an eye and looked up at his partner, a small frown creasing his high forehead.

"I told you once before I was on your side, Illya. Someday you'll believe that."

"I do believe it."

"Good. It's not like you to run from a problem," Solo said gently, his hand traversing the soft cheek as he stared down into startled blue eyes. Almost belatedly, he smiled sheepishly yet maintained the light touch.

"I am not running, Napoleon."

"Then what are you doing?"

"Making a tactical retreat," Illya offered softly. It took a few moments before Napoleon realized he was joking and laughed deep in his chest. Illya smiled and did not move away from the touch.

"Talk to me, Illya."

"About?"

"Your feelings for Bodie," he said softly as he enfolded his partner in his arms. Whether it was the exhaustion or the circumstance of recent revelations, Solo grew bolder by degrees and stroked lightly down the tense back.

"That's just it, Napoleon, I regret the past but I can't change it. I made a mistake back then. I let Bodie in and I knew he loved me."

Solo shook his head despondently, only Illya would think someone loving him was a mistake. "Did you love him?"

Illya shrugged in the light embrace, "I don't know, maybe. I know I don't love him now and that if I stay, I'll only bring harm to Ray."

"Because Bodie still loves you?"

"No, because he thinks he owes me something."

"Does he?"

Illya shook his head firmly. "No, the only person he owes anything to is the man in his bed. Besides it was only a few weeks nearly ten years ago, Napoleon. It is hardly anything to remember."

"I would think even a day with you would be enough to remember forever." Solo said quietly.

Illya laughed and realized he was in bed with his partner, his partner who had his arms around him, and that he felt safe. He pushed away from the comforting warmth and strength to lay back on the bed.

"Napoleon?" he asked quizzically.

Solo pushed up on one elbow and looked down into the serious features and resisted the temptation to reach out again. "You have no idea, Illya, none whatsoever."

"About?" Illya frowned.

"How important you are to people, how you affect even the smallest part of their day."

To his credit, even in the darkened room Illya blushed at the compliment so freely given, and it touched him. "I am not so exceptional, Napoleon, anywhere."

Solo laughed and reached out again, taking the compliant body in his arms and settling the golden head on his shoulder. "Au contraire, Mon ami."

"Napoleon?" The voice was soft.

"Yes?"

"What are you doing?" The innocence in the voice caused his hand to stop its caressing of the flaxen strands.

"Putting you to sleep."

"Oh." Illya settled down, the fine tremors that rocked his body ceased and the rhythmic beating of Solo's heart was a sweet lullaby. "Why?"

"Because you're tired and you're my partner and friend." Solo's voice dropped even softer in the night. "Do you mind?" he asked with heart- wrenching trepidation.

Illya snuggled closer and sighed heavily. "How could I mind?"

Silence, as the body against his grew heavy and lax. He was unaccountably touched by the Russian's complete trust. Illya's hand lay curled on his chest, his head buried deep on his shoulder. Solo looked down at the pale ivory of his partner, as his heart constricted and he found himself thinking how very beautiful and special the Russian was to him. Without conscious thought he leaned forward and pressed a kiss into the high forehead. Illya stirred and smiled, the full lips turned up in the darkness. The relaxed features had lost all of their guarded air, leaving him looking so young and vulnerable.

Solo caught himself abruptly, halting this line of thought. How long had he loved his friend? How long could he continue being silent in the face of the pounding of his heart as it echoed in his ears? Suddenly he felt very sorry for Bodie, to have had this man even for a few weeks as lover and friend, before the cruel ironies of fate had taken Illya from him and beaten him down into the darkness alone, too alone and afraid to think he was worth anything except on a professional level and too afraid to be anything except what the KGB and Russia had made him. To have lost this? To have had to walk away from Illya without looking back? Yes, Solo felt very sorry for Bodie and understood his despair down the passage of forbidding years.

Understood well enough to know he would never give the big brooding Englishman even the faintest opportunity at Illya again. And with it understood that he was not that strong, that he could let the slight blond nestled safe in his arms walk away from him.