Napoleon Solo snuggled down into the increasing warmth of the material that enveloped him, ignoring
the strangeness of its’ feel - a mixture of satin, gold, silk and flesh...!? //There you go again, dreaming of the
Russian// he mind chided.  Solo smiled to himself *Yes, and quite a bit lately*.

There materials suddenly shifted and Solo, on instinct, reached over to pull them more snugly
around him.  What his fingers encountered brought him instantly alert.  Flesh!  Actual living flesh!! *I’m not alone; but
who...?* Intrigued he shifted.  Instantly strong, definitely masculine arms, tightened their hold.   An extremely pronounced
erection pressed between the cheeks of his buttocks.  The shock almost sent his mind into overload.  *Okay, time for
some answers*

Keeping his back to his companion, his heart beating like a triphammer in his chest, Napoleon took a deep breathe
and touched - a thigh.  The other man remained absolutely still. *So far, so good...* Continuing his exploration, his
fingers next encountered a smooth masculine chest.  Still not ready to face his companion, and encouraged by the fact
that the other man did not move away from his touch, his questing fingers inched upward: shoulders, neck, chin, lips,
nose, eyes, a high forehead with bangs....   His fingers froze. *Dear God...!!!*   The hair slipped through his fingers like silken threads of the finest spun gold. *Illya!?*

Letting out the remainder of the breathe he’d been holding, Solo now turned to face his bedmate. Instantly blue
eyes, like twin icebergs, bore into his.  “Hi, Illya”, he croaked.

Silence.

Misunderstanding, Solo turned his back on the Russian, climbed out of bed and began to dress.

“Where do you think you’re going?”, demanded the blond.

Anger, rage and hurt all warred for domination of his emotions.  “Home!”, he snapped.

“Why?”

The question caught him just as he was fixing his tie.  Whirling, he stared at his former partner for several seconds, amazed by the stupidity of the question.  “Why!?  I all but resign from UNCLE, not to mention almost freezing to death, to help you....”, he began, his voice rising with his temper.
 

“You broke your word, Napoleon”, Illya interrupted.

“Yes.  I concede that I did.....”

“As I knew you would”, Illya finished as if Solo had not spoken.

“What!?”

Rising in one fluid motion (the sensuality and grace not lost on the American), Illya moved to embrace his friend.
The body in his arms stiffened.  “Napasha, may I ask a question?”

“Yes”, Solo heard himself reply.

“Do you love me?”

“With my whole heart and soul.”

The Russian drew back a little and looked up into Solo’s face.  “THAT is why I knew you’d come”, he replied, as if
that would explain all.

“Explain that.”

“Do you really think me so dense, Napoleon?  One of the many things I have always admired about you is your loyalty
to a friend.  Of course, you’d come AND I knew Waverly would find some way to ‘legitimize’ it.  Am I correct?”

Despite himself, Solo felt the last trickle of negative emotions drain away.  “You sneaky, cunning,
devious.....”, he grumbled, good-naturedly, all the while molding the exquisite body he held to his own.  “I love
you”, he declared, hoping all the truth in those four words got through.

In answer, Illya Kuryakin leaned forward and took the lips he’d fantasized about for so long in a deep, passionate
kiss.

When breathing became necessary, Illya spoke.  “And I you, Napasha.  Besides, you have a very important role to play
in all this.”