Dutifully Napoleon followed his partner's gaze and saw the woman that had caught his attention. In downtown Manhattan she was an anomaly. And in the spy business anomaly usually meant trouble. She was perhaps the most innocuous woman God ever crafted, her pale brown hair pulled back into a soft bun, luminous blue eyes that shone from beneath pale lashes in a gentle country face. Thirty years ago perhaps she had been beautiful, but now she was old, and the creases that marked her passage through time had not been kind. The gaze that held his was resigned and sad, though passing into her sixties her movements were still graceful and she held herself well despite her reliance on the thick cane that tapped across the dance floor.

Napoleon smiled as she approached and sketched a glance at Illya. His partners reaction startled him and he had no time to ask the question for the glower when she approached.

"You have forgotten to stand in the presence of a lady." Her soft voice thick with derision as Illya slouched back and toyed with the glass of vodka.

"No." He answered finally. "I'm just not in the presence of a lady." He tossed the vodka back.

Solo stared in open mouth disbelief as Illya treated her with contempt and offered no solace or even comfort her years should have afforded her.

"Indeed you're not." Without asking she slid into the seat next to the younger man and waited.

"Forgive my friend things at work have been hectic, my name is Napoleon." He smiled charmingly as he watched the proud Russian back straighten.

"Her name is Sylvania." Illya spoke around another glass of vodka a grim smile playing on his normally cherubic face. "How did you find me?"

"It was not easy, but we still share some connections."

"Yes, an unfortunate oversight on my part, one I shall have to rectify soon." Menace poured from him, yet he remained calm and almost impassive. "Since you are here, and at some great effort, you should tell me what it is that you want."

"I would have thought that was obvious."

"Evidently you did not think well enough on this exercise, what you want I cannot and will not give, so I suggest you go back to those who can."

"Illya."

"Nyet! Leave now I will not give you the benefit of a warning next time." Illya stood abruptly and glowered.

"As you wish." In one swift movement she stood, inclined her head to Solo and tapped away on her cane.

"Ah partner, care to explain?"

"Not particularly." Illya sank back down into the seat and pushed the vodka away with disdain.

"Old women wearing velvet and lace don't usually have that affect on you." Napoleon felt the tremulous fear begin to crawl across his skin as Illya sighed.

"No, usually they don't." He picked up his jacket and scanned the room. "I'm tired." He announced suddenly.

"We both are, and I will drive you home, but not before you tell me who she is." Napoleon whispered urgently.

"My mother."

Cold air, brutal and unforgiving slapped Napoleon hard in the face as he jogged to catch up to his partner. Fingers brushed against the too light coat as he turned the Russian around to meet him.

"Mother?" the one word carried with it the weight of disbelief, fear and confusion as he arched a brow.

"Perhaps you thought I was hatched." Illya's voice controlled arrogance as he sighed and the venomous tone slithered away into the ether as he saw the hurt look cross the American's features. "I told you my manners were sorely lacking Napoleon, and now I have even managed to offend you."

"If I were to wither and crawl away each time you offend me my friend I would have faded a long time ago."

"Ah, so you are used to my acerbic nature?" the ghost of a smile flickered and just like a summer frost was gone all too soon.

"And I am also used to you changing the subject when it doesn't suit you to answer." Napoleon tugged on the sleeve of the jacket and steered them Uptown towards his apartment. After a few minutes of silence Illya stopped and looked around.

"Why are you taking me home with you?"

"Because tovarisch I am not having this particular conversation with you in a club, a street or on that derelict piece of furniture you call a couch."

"And if I don't want to talk?"

"We could take this to Mr. Waverly directly if you so desire."

"That wouldn't be my first choice."

"Really?" Napoleon rolled his eyes and kept a brisk pace, aware that Illya followed behind.

~~~**~~~

Without invitation Illya rummaged in the fridge and began to pick at the leftover's as he searched for the ever present bottle of vodka. The frown grew darker when Napoleon shut the door of the ice box and glared at the blonde.

"Talk first, food later."

"And vodka?"

"Perhaps later as well but coffee is on and you and I will discuss this woman who claims to be your mother."

"There is no claim Napoleon, she is my mother."

"Biological?"

"Yes."

"So why the animosity?"

"I will get no peace on this will I?"

"No."

"Very well. Bring the coffee and let us become comfortable."

Dutifully Napoleon followed with two steaming mugs before he sat down on the couch. It took several minutes before Illya turned to him, either content or steeling himself for an awful secret to be revealed as he stared out over the flickering lights of Manhattan.

The silence broken by a mournful sigh as the broad linen clad shoulders slumped and Illya clasped his hands behind his back. "She abandoned us." The simple awful truth shattered the peace that surrounded them.

"Is that all of it?" Napoleon loosened his tie and laid an arm across the back of the sofa. In all the years of friendship, something's were just not discussed. It was the unwritten code of the agency, what you do not know cannot harm, knowledge was used like a whip to geld many and purposefully they had both avoided such intimacy.

Napoleon admitted that what drove the quiet Russian intrigued him. What complexities made up the psyche of his partner? The secret things that made Illya the man he was beyond the mundane. The interest in music, in food, in science, but what lay beyond that? They knew little of each other.

"I was young and my mother was ambitious." The last word twisted the gentle mouth into a bitter line as Illya continued in a voice whisper soft. "She was unskilled but not untalented. Opportunities for her were few and when my father died it fell to her to shelter and raise us. A task she used her considerable charm and beauty for." The syllables glided like a caress across the snow and in the words a hidden anguish, one he fought hard to control. To most it would appear he succeeded.

"I see." Napoleon nodded.

"I doubt it Napoleon. You come from a close family, forgiven of most things, but never abandoned."

"So she abandoned you?"

"We were in the middle of a bitter winter, outside a tiny village, miles from town or help. She said she would return and we waited for weeks, slowly the food ran out, what little there was and to venture out in the blizzard for wood was suicide. There was so little I could do and no one passed that way much, too worried about their own families to brave the winds and snow." Shoulders slumped as he turned to hide the pain in his soul, afraid to reveal too much of himself even to his closest friend. "My sister was barely eight and Maht simply did not come back. We were a burden to her prostitutions, how could a well placed man want her when she already had children? And why would he? In time we came to terms with it."

"So what does she want now?"

"I have no idea and no desire to find out."

"Nevertheless I'm concerned she found you so easily."

"As am I, I will ask Mr. Waverley to assign you a new partner tomorrow."

"Now hold on a minute there!" Napoleon was on his feet. "By all means let us both go to Mr. Waverly and find a way around and out of this mess, but I'm the CEA and I do not want another partner." Calloused hands gripped the firm shoulders and squeezed once before he smoothed across the tense muscles, fingers cataloguing the long scar across Illya's back that had never truly healed.

"Never trust, never believe." Illya whispered.

"I'm not asking for what you would not normally give me my friend. Only that you sleep and think clearer tomorrow."

"I'm tired." All it took was the heartbeat and Napoleon was back at the never spoken of decision. To stay in the game or leave while they were young enough, when there was still enough left in their souls to believe that life can be simple.

"You know where the spare room is Illya, go and sleep, we'll talk in the morning."

"I should go home."

"She found you in a club in the city how much more of an easy target would you be at home?"

Illya frowned but nodded his ascent as he padded down the hall to the spare room.

There was a time when it was dangerous to know too much about the man who was his partner, dangerous for his friend, dangerous for himself. He feared getting involved, afraid of what was behind the brittle façade that Illya kept up to the anguish that lay hidden. He justified the need not to know and felt at ease that their friendship was free of that particular burden, but now, for his friend, for his safety and for his soul it was time to know.

And because of that, Napoleon Solo was scared.

---

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