"Tempted?" Illya's warm breath ghosted against the prone skin of Napoleon neck as the dark agent turned to regard him and quirked an eyebrow at the mischievous smile that greeted him.

"With?" To his great credit Napoleon feigned disinterest to the gorgeous well built blond who teetered precariously on high heels and smiled coyly at him.

A sound not unlike a grumble echoed across the table as Illya tipped the vodka down his throat. "It is most unlike you to pretend Napoleon. Go and enjoy yourself, there is nothing in the rule book that says you need to sit with your recalcitrant partner." Illya frowned again, nodded to himself and poured another shot of Smirnoff into his glass.

"There are times you ungrateful Russian I actually like your company."

"Now would not be one of them." Illya tipped the vodka down his throat as if the volatile liquid was nothing more than water.

"You've had enough."

"Of many things." Illya conceded.

"I meant the vodka partner."

"This is not vodka. This is a westernised version of a true drink. This will not get me drunk Napoleon, and you do not have to baby-sit me." The frown progressed into a glower.

Napoleon picked up the bottle and looked at the label. "It says vodka."

"Smirnoff is not vodka, its what westerner's drink when they are slumming it." Illya spat. "There are times I long for a bottle of Kutskova."

"Next time we are overseas I'll buy you a bottle."

"If there is a next time." Illya's voice rumbled softly.

Hours they had sat at the club, drinking, watching, and winding down from a long mission. One betrayal too many, one death too many had left them both on edge and frayed, and Waverly had ordered down time, fearing that his 2 top agents were both burned out.

"If." Napoleon agreed and clinked his glass against his partner's in a show of solidarity.

"You fascinate me." Illya peered into his glass and dropped his shoulders, a gesture of defeat that pained the American to see.

"Me or the vodka?"

"Perhaps both. Mainly you, I envy your armour Napoleon."

"Definitely too much vodka." Napoleon warned.

"Never enough, not for this."

"Speaking of this, what precisely are we talking about?" All elegance in the American fled in the force of the statement as Napoleon sat back and looked around.

The lounge was crowded, not overly so for a Thursday night, but nevertheless busier than Solo would have thought. Dark furnishings so like clubs around the world, so like too many other places where danger had lurked to be truly comfortable. Silence had descended and it was no longer comfortable. Both skirting the issues, neither wanting to speak the awful truth of their hearts, they were both tired, aware that if they left the field of battle all might fall. But still their hearts no longer beat to the drum that called them to fight. And in that on this evening they both faced their own mortality and frailty. The essence of fear, not of death, no that was the sweet relief but of living, of needing to be alive in this world. That was truly terrifying for both of them. Borne by the weight of despair they contemplated everything other than their lives.

"What we never speak of." Illya dared the truth, and Solo felt the weight lift from his shoulders. The Russian was always braver of heart and Solo smiled for the first time.

"We never speak of it because if we do, we can't put it back in its box Illya."

"Perhaps it has grown so far that it cannot be kept in the box, that at some time we must face it and our fears."

"No doubt but I'm not ready Illya, not for that." The quiet voice distressed.

"Yes I know, but what I do not know is why you put up with me."

"Who else would have me?" Napoleon brightened grateful for the momentary reprieve. They had lived passed another crisis, where they both had questioned their ability to stay in the game.

"Many, many others. I am rude and arrogant, often cruel and manipulative and at times Napoleon, totally lacking of morals."

"True but you never blur the lines; innocents are that, innocent and destined to be protected. I on the other hand blur the lines constantly."

"Yes with your countless women, you cause more disruption than is necessary, but I have learned to accept that."

"Thank you, so why can't you accept that I have learned to trust no other than you?"

"I do accept that, what I don't accept is that we sit here like old men scared out of our wits at the simple prospect of living."

"Your tired Tovarisch."

"Tired of this half life." And the fire blazed behind sapphire eyes. "Tired of the blood Napoleon, sometimes." He stopped and rubbed at his eyes and held his hands before him in the dim light of the candle. "Sometimes I think I will never be rid of the smell of the blood and cordite."

"I know." Napoleon reached out capturing the strong square hand in his own, squeezing gently until the tremor passed.

"Yes I suppose you do."

Silence again and the vodka and scotch remained untouched as they looked at the pretty lives that people led. They studied the faces around them, searched for signs of danger, and relaxed minutely when they felt the tension ebb.

"We are hunters Illya. Their life." Napoleon waved expansively at the crowded dance floor. "Is not for us. We do not belong here in suburbia. For a while it is pretty and safe, but then the adrenaline would sing for release and where would we go if not on with our lives?"

"It would suffocate us." Illya agreed. "But still there are times I crave it. The normalcy of it, the essence of home."

"Tell me old friend, do you feel at home in Russia anymore?"

"No, not really."

"And you never go out without your gun do you?" He nodded knowingly toward the discreet bulge under the dark jacket.

"No, but neither do you."

"My point is that we are not normal, and never will be. We are the men who walk in darkness."

"You've been reading too many of your comics again." Illya smiled and sat back. "Nevertheless - I am tired Napoleon."

"Anything specific or just a general malaise?"

"Of looking in windows."

The scotch made an abortive stop to his mouth as he turned to stare in disbelief at his partner.

"Care to explain that to me?"

"Bozhre Moi! You American's take everything so literally. I meant looking into windows, these peeking into other lives."

"It's called being a spy." Napoleon teased gently.

"Oh excellent witticism's. You know full well what I mean."

"Yes."

"Except of course you manage to touch the other lives, your women give you a greater sense of connection than I can achieve. Perhaps that is why I am discontent and you are not."

"I'm not content if that's what you're meaning to imply, I simply cope better."

"Because you can still touch something, that it alive and beautiful. You can enter into their worlds and fit in; you could be urbane if you wanted to."

"And you couldn't?"

"No. I do not belong, even in the Russian quarter."

"And so since we both agree we are pariahs and outside the normal function of humanity we have little choice but to follow the path."

"Yes, we follow; sometimes I would like to lead." Illya shrugged elegantly. "Besides look."

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This page is an unofficial site that exists only for the fun of it. All characters and situations from the television show "The Man from U.N.C.L.E." are property of Norman Felton and Warner Bros. Nothing ill is intended by this use of any television characters in these amateur efforts. Any fiction linked to these pages is the intellectual property of the amateur author who created it and is not presented here for profit.