Illya stood by the window, his back to the door and the bed where his partner slept soundly. Scrubbing at tired eyes, he froze as a shadow crossed his soul, the memory still bitter and painful stabbed at him relentlessly. Try as he might to ignore it, when it had first come to him this morning he could not. Searing him in its intensity as he looked at the small, mutilated form bound on the cold steel bed, the memory had stayed and forced it’s way back to him. Illya never considered himself a coward, never understood how fear could conquer him until his knees buckled as the vision assaulted him ruthlessly.

He rocked silently as he closed his eyes against the memory and found his vision clearer than he dreaded.

RUSSIA: 1959 Kiev.

The huge slate gray building sat squat in the center of gray concrete, silent children filing in orderly fashion around the exercise yard under the stern and reproachful eyes of the senior matron. She herself had never had children, never wanted any and treated them with something close to contempt on a good day. A loyal citizen of Russia, a comrade to the system never questioned her ill-designed career and never dared hope for a life beyond the bleak walls. Perhaps that was why she resented the children, that they could escape, most likely those who lived would, but she was stuck doomed forever in her own despair. So, she was good at her job, despising the cause for her own internment. But she couldn't like the sirota placed in her merciless care and prayed for the day retirement would take her away and give her peace from her own heartache and shattered dreams.

Illya cowered, barely nine years old and too thin. He moved with the skill and grace of an automaton in line with the rest of his comrades. Unlike them, he had known his parents and sobbed silently for his mother every night, praying that she would come and rescue him.

Yet every night as he lay awake waiting for them to come and take him away, cruel hands pulled at him that were not those of his parents. Never would they strip him so bare, or lay him out like a tiny deity to worship in their cruelty. Never would they have forced him to capitulate to their wicked desires every night. Never would he be so wounded in their embrace as he felt their hot breaths upon him.

He had only screamed once, clawing frantically away from his own private terrorists when he turned to see the face in the doorway. The matron watched with lust-filled eyes as the men took advantage of them. He saw the rubles that passed between them as they had entered night after night into their tiny room. It was in that moment that he knew pain and defeat, that no one would ever come for him again.

The child who had been Illya Nickovetch Kuryakin died that night, the child who would laugh as the snow fell, who had played happily with his sisters and parents. The little boy who found wonder in the summer blue butterflies and the sweet flowers by the streams. The child who woke each day hungry not for food, as he was now, but for knowledge, for adventure, shattered and fell in that stinking cold little room.

The smell of his own blood and vomit, the helplessness awoke something strange and terrifying in such a tiny child. He hardened his heart as he felt the hands upon him. No more did the tears flow. He suffered silently and helplessly as they hurt him again and again. No more would hope grace his heart or desire or need. Gone now, leaving only the will that was the child, and the terrible aching pain that was in his heart grew colder still till it numbed him completely.

He turned cold eyes now on the matron and smiled, low and feral as she crumpled to the ground clutching futilely at her chest, gasping for air as he and his friends looked on. Wonder and hatred filled his heart as she took her last breath in agony. Illya turned away from the ghastly sounds, a grim smile on his ashen lips. With the faint echo of hope in his heart, he prayed that tonight he would be allowed to sleep.

Hope was a brittle and futile thing in his world. He barely survived when it shattered about him that night as the hands reached for him again.

~~~ooooOOOOoooo~~~~

Illya rocked slowly on the floor, his knees drawn up to his chest. Drawing in the fresh cold air as he tried to push the memory away again.

From the moment Illya had left the bed, Solo had been awake, his dark eyes watching the sleek Russian form move with catlike grace to the window. Solo despaired when Illya seemed to enfold upon himself as the silent rage shook him. The Russian looked so vulnerable, the despair so silent, so controlled that he thought, perhaps for a moment, that he mistook what he saw. Until Illya raised his face, the eyes squeezed tightly shut as he was illumined by the pale moon cresting beyond, and Solo saw the fine aristocratic features contorted in remembered pain.

In all the years they had been partnered, Solo could count on one hand the number of times he had seen his reclusive partner is quiet distress. Somehow he felt privileged, and proud that this strong and dangerous man allowed him, at least, to know he was human. That feeling dissipated as soon as the pain echoed across Solo's heart.

Illya preferred solitude. He preferred to cope in silence. Had for years kept his space and the wall intact but on nights like this, with so infrequent confessions of pain in the drawn features, the American held still by sheer force of will. Solo found it hard to stay in the bed and not reach out to the distressed man. Napoleon had made no sound, no rustle of bed linen, no change in the carefully schooled breathing, but he knew that Illya was aware of being watched. It was part of the sixth sense they had for each other, part of the skill honed to keep them alive.

The despair seemed to choke Illya for what seemed like ever, and when he drew in a shuddering breath, his eyes still squeezed shut as he rested his head on his arms.

"I know you're awake," Illya said, his soft accented voice surprisingly even.

Solo automatically got up from the bed and grabbed at the robe that hung on the bedstead. With great tenderness Napoleon laid the heavy robe around the still quaking shoulders. Aware that he was invading a personal space, Solo slowly pulled Illya into an embrace, giving his partner every opportunity to rebuke him. Illya stiffened for a moment at the touch. Terror barely controlled strung Illya's nerves so tightly that he had to consciously enforce calm.

This was Napoleon, his partner and best friend. The only person now who could touch him intimately, and never hurt him. Finally, drawing a long shuddering breath, Illya relaxed minutely before he leaned back against the solid chest. Breathing deeply the warmth of his close-pressed friend to replace that cold he still felt in his soul.

"Bad dream?" Solo asked quietly.

"Bad memory," Illya corrected.

Solo stilled his own rage. He had read all those years ago the history of the man in his arms. Was painfully aware of the abuse the child had suffered and fully understood the word hatred.

Solo rocked slowly, carding his hand through the golden hair as he spoke softly.

"Do you want to talk about it, tovarisch?" he finally asked.

Illya drew a deep shuddering breath. "What's there to say, Napoleon? You know what happened to the sirota, what they did to us in the priyut dlya sirot."

Solo did a quick reshuffle, to recognize the words. Illya rarely reverted to his native tongue except during times when he was distressed and this more than anything gave the American reason to pause.

"You're not in the orphanage now, moy droog. You're not alone anymore, either." Solo hoped he got the translation right and felt the body in his arms sag.

"Forgive me, Napoleon. You should not have to witness my stupidity."

"No." Solo's voice was rich with emotion as he spoke to his partner. "For once in your life, Illya, please, listen to me. What happened was not your fault. You were a child, a victim of their cruelty, don't punish yourself now, please. And never apologize to me, not for that."

Illya shivered. "Please Napoleon, don't."

"Don't what?" Solo asked softly, his hand still stroking through the thick blond hair.

"Don't do this, Napoleon." Illya jerked out of the embrace, but tangled in the robe as he was, did not get very far.

"Do what?" Solo asked as he wrapped strong arms about his partner again, pinning him back against his chest.

"Pity me." Illya's voice trembled slightly with ill concealed self-loathing.

Solo's heart lurched in his chest as he tightened his grip reflexively. "Never, tovarisch."

"Oh, really?" The icy tone dripped with sarcasm. "What else do you call it?"

Solo closed his eyes and inhaled the scent of freshly washed hair, the sweet musk that was Illya, and sighed softly. "Love." He offered his heart.

"Bullshit," Illya reproached scornfully as his body stiffened and surged forward.

Solo sighed again and made no move to touch his partner, all too aware of the thin line he was treading, the one that could break both men in an instant. "I understand, Illya."

"Do you?" The Russian clearly did not believe him.

"Will you listen?" Solo asked softly. A strange almost euphoric calm overcame him and he found himself drawn to the huddled blond before him.

"Listen to what, Napoleon? A pretty fairy tale designed to humiliate me even further?"

Solo took a deep breath and asked again patiently, "Will you listen?"

Illya, caught in both arms and robe against the American, nodded sadly. Solo skimmed his fingers across the broad back.

"All right then, you know I have never lied to you or teased you when it was important, don't you?"

Again the tight convulsive bob of the head as Illya nodded.

"You also know me better than any man or woman alive. I should think perhaps, the same can be said of me for you."

Illya shuddered but forced himself to stay silent.

"Do you trust me, Illya?" Solo employed the palm of his hand against the shoulders now, stroking in a gentle rhythm.

"Yes," Illya answered softly.

"How much do you trust me?"

"With my life," came the immediate response.

"Yes, in the field we are so in tune with each other. Sometimes, it's as if we can read each other's thoughts."

Illya nodded his agreement.

"Does it really surprise you, that this closeness should manifest itself in private as well?"

"I have never doubted you to be my friend, Napoleon." Illya sounded confused but waited for his partner to finish what he had started.

"Is it such a stretch now to think I might love you as well?" Solo asked softly.

"Yes, it is. Napoleon, you are nothing if not territorial. I think your fine sensibilities have been offended." Illya's voice dropped, pain registering in the thickening accent as he pulled away from the soothing hands.

"You think, because I know Bodie has had you in an intimate way, that I am jealous?" Solo asked.

Illya nodded, scooting across the carpet. "I think your possessive streak is showing. I am not your toy to be played with, or an item to be possessed, Napoleon. It is simply not prudent or safe for you to you become infatuated with me during a dangerous mission."

"Oh, Illya, I deserve your wrath." Infinite sadness tinged the American's voice. "You watch me go through a different woman every night. Surely that tells you something. I do not, as many suspect, have a raging libido and most of my paramours are sadly left wanting. They no longer fill the void, and I don't have the patience to seduce them for a temporary diversion."

"So you attempt to seduce me instead? Why, Napoleon? Because you are bored?"

"No, please, let me finish. I'm in so deep now I don't think I could free myself even if I tried. I am possessive of you. I will kill anyone who harms you in anyway, Bodie included. But it is not the tub thumping of an alpha male, Illya. I love you, I have loved you since our trip to Peru."

"Why?" Illya asked, suddenly angry.

"Because you are the other half of me. We know each other too well, I trust you and am only every truly comfortable in your company. With you there are no masks. Illya, please." Solo's voice took on a disturbing quality and somewhat belatedly Illya recognized the fear lurking so close to the surface in this usually urbane man.

"What?" His own voice reluctantly softened as he felt Solo's warm hand on his arm.

"Look at me."

Slowly, Illya turned around, and fell into pools of liquid chocolate. He lowered his gaze to the carpet and felt as though he spun helplessly in some temporal vortex. "I can't." If possible Illya's voice grew even fainter.

"Are you afraid of what you might see? Or is it that you truly do not want me?" Solo reached forward to raise the lowered chin, the half gesture aborted as he tried to read the mood of the man before him.

"Oh, Napoleon. You know I want you, I have loved you, forever." Still Illya fixed his sight on the carpet, unable to look at the man who sat on the floor with him. "Your desirability is not an issue. Nor is my commitment to you."

Solo reached out again, this time tipping the out thrust chin towards the light. "Then, if that's not it, Illyusha, what is?"

Illya's lips twitched into a soft sad smile as he looked at his partner. "I...I don't believe that you love me, that you could, or would." Illya shrugged sadly, the luminous eyes bright with fear.

The strong hand traveled up the curve of the Russians face and cradled the flushed cheek. With infinite care Napoleon pulled his partner to him and bestowed a gentle kiss to the high brow, his lips doing no more than caressing the skin. It was enough to break the tenuous control Illya held over his emotions as he whimpered low in his throat and closed his eyes.

"Then I shall have to convince you, my love."

Illya sagged against the broad shoulder as Solo, continued the careful stroking on his back.

In all of his miserable life, Illya thought, he had never once, felt so loved and cherished as he did now in his partner's arms.

Long moments passed without the need of words or actions. Content to hold and be held, they nestled against each other.

"Illya?"

"Hmm?"

"I had thought you had come to terms with your past. What happened?"

"You didn't see the crime scene this morning, you didn't see the body on the bed.”

Illya knew full well that Napoleon had not. The American also knew that Illya would not forget and slowly shook his head.

"No. Illya, talk to me, please." The words whispered against the warm throat, Solo's lips registering the rapid pulse.

Again that shudder as Illya calmed his traitorous body. "I understood, Napoleon."

"Understood what, love - the killer?"

"No." Illya shuddered again, burrowing further against the warm strong body, "The fear that boy went through before he died. The helplessness, the brutality that had laid him bare before he was slaughtered."

"Understood it, because you were afraid and helpless as a child in the orphanage?" Solo asked, rocking his partner. Never once had he ceased the gentle stroking and he smiled as Illya relaxed further against him, despite the content of their conversation.

"Yes. It's all right, Napoleon. It was a long time ago, I survived."

"Did you?" Solo asked softly as he felt the tremor that still lingered.

They stayed wrapped in each other's arms, as the Russian settled into his partner's broad shoulder. When the cherished form grew heavy and lax, Solo stood, pulling the smaller form up with him, and with difficulty scooped Illya into his arms before putting him back to bed. He marveled to himself that it was Illya's manner that made him sometimes seem so vulnerable, the terrible aching lost look that shone in the bright blue eyes. In the gloom those same bright blue eyes looked up, blinking away the unshed tears. Unable to resist the temptation, Solo reached out and stroked the cherubic face before he moved away. Illya sniffed miserably and curled into the feather quilt, stung by the sudden abandonment.

The door snicked open and from across the hall, Illya heard the sounds of running water. Solo closed the door behind him and pulled the warm wash cloth out to wipe Illya's face, taking his time and ministering to his friend with great tenderness and care. He used the hand towel he carried to dry him off and pushed the tightly curled body across the bed. Illya felt the bed dip as Solo climbed back into bed and wound his larger frame around him. A strong hand reached around his body and drew him closer still, murmuring softly into the perfectly formed ear.

"Sleep, my Illyusha."

Illya found himself pushing back against the solid form, even the proprietary tone soothing and comforting his ravaged soul. "Napoleon?"

"Yes, leubeouf?"

"We'll talk, tomorrow - yes?"

"It's all right, Illyusha, you're tired, shush....sleep now."

In all the years he had been Solo's partner, Illya had never disobeyed his superior's order. Tonight would be no different and he drifted off securely content in the strong arms that wrapped around him. The bright thread of hope warmed his heart, that even for a moment that he could be worthy of love and honor. That of all people, Solo would commit to him if he asked. With a soft smile on full lips, he fell asleep knowing that he was finally worth something to someone, and it was enough for the ice to melt a little more.