He finished his bath and returned to his room to find clothing laid out for him. After he dressed in the slightly-too-large clothes, he stepped from the room just in time to see a clean, robe-encased and slightly damp Illya emerge from the bathroom. He stepped over and embraced him, reveling in the warmth from his skin and the smell of soap and aftershave. "Come to my room," he whispered into Illya's ear.

"Not now," the Russian whispered back. "We don't have the time before Mark comes looking for us. He has a meeting later with one of his contacts; we'll be alone then."

"Better hurry before it gets cold," the subject of their conversation called from the kitchen. Illya wiggled out of Napoleon's arms and darted into his room, emerging a few moments later fully dressed.

Dinner was simple fare: a hearty stew garnished with grated cheese and served with crusty French bread. Pots of both tea and coffee were available to drink; though Illya raised an eyebrow at the latter. Coffee was a rare and expensive treat; the only people who could afford to drink it regularly were THRUSH elite. He watched as Napoleon poured and drank as if there was an endless supply of the stuff, and carefully kept the resentment he felt away from his features.

After dinner, Mark said he had somewhere he had to go and left. Napoleon watched from a concealed window as he opened the door to his yellow Beetle, got in, and drove away, a part of his mind contemplating how easy it would be to have a bomb planted in the car. If the man actually was the resistance's black market connection he could effectively cripple their organization -- at least temporarily -- by eliminatiing him. Then he could have a "new" connection come in -- one who reported everything the resistance received from him to his THRUSH masters. Not to mention the satisfaction he'd receive from having someone who'd threatened to hurt his Illya blown to bits.

Thoughts of Illya turned him away from the window to seek out the man who'd promised to come to him after they were alone. He was sitting on the sofa staring out into space as if steeling himself for some ordeal. Ah, my Illyusha, I'll prove to you this night I'm no ordeal to be endured, he thought, but a joy to be savored. I'll make you fall so deeply in love with me you won't think twice when I ask you to join me in THRUSH; you'll know your place is by my side.

Illya for his part was wondering how soon the seduction would start, and if he would be able to stomach the touch of a mortal enemy. The incident with the coffee forcefully reminded him no matter how handsome and charming his soon-to-be paramour was he was still a THRUSH agent and a very dangerous man. It would not be the first time he'd have to kill someone to whom he'd given himself, and he doubted it would be the last. Love was something he'd never felt and couldn't afford; it made you too vulnerable, despite what Father Waverly said. Perhaps it was necessary for some to sacrifice love so others could love safely.
Napoleon joined him on the sofa, throwing one arm across the back behind Illya's head and beginning his seduction by toying lightly with the hair at the back of the Russian's head. Illya responded by stroking the side of Napoleon's head from temple to jaw. Napoleon leaned forward to capture Illya's lips with his own in a gentle kiss, which quickly turned passionate.

As kisses and touches turned to licks, nibbles, and caresses, Napoleon noticed something, which began to bother him: Illya's responses were rote, memorized things that had no feeling behind them. He pulled back and studied the Russian a moment before saying, "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to push you into something you don't want."

"But I do want you," Illya protested, placing Napoleon's hand on his erection. "Is this not proof enough?"

"Your body is responding to being touched," came the reply, "but there's nothing behind it; you don't appear to care one way or the other if we make love. I don't want a casual fling, my Illyusha; from the first time I saw you I wanted something more between us. I think you feel this as well, even if you won't admit it, even to yourself; some part of you knows we were meant to be together. Listen to it, and open your heart to me, as I've opened mine to you."

Does he truly think I'm going to believe his sweet, insincere words? Illya thought. I'll have to give him the standard diversion. The best -- and worst -- part of the story was every word of it was true. "Forgive me; it isn't easy to share any part of myself with anyone. As a child in the camp I was called 'pretty' and drew a great deal of attention from the guards. They took all the 'pretty' children to the barracks at night." He didn't have to fake the shudder which ran through his slender frame; all he needed to do was remember the feeling of being half-smothered and certain he would be split in two from the relentless pounding of blood-engorged flesh into an opening too small to receive it without damage. "After I escaped, I tried to find work, but there was none to be had. I sheltered in abandoned buildings and picked through garbage for food. Then a man offered me a meal if I would give him a blowjob, and I learned to tolerate the touch of strangers in exchange for food, money and a warm place to sleep. I survived, but there was never any pleasure from it."

Napoleon was horrified; he knew such things went on, even in the American "detention centers", but had never considered the consequences. How many of those abused little bodies didn't survive? He doubted anyone even counted them; they were as much "non-persons" as the survivors from the fire this morning. He shook off the mental image of a small, bloodied Illya being repeatedly raped and returned to the here and now.

"My Illyusha," he softly breathed into his ear, "let me show you how joyous the joining of two people can be." This might be his Achilles' heel, Napoleon thought. If he's never experienced the pleasure of sex, he might mistake it for something else, or begin to crave it in and of itself. Then I'll have him.

Illya gave Napoleon a shy smile and followed him into his bedroom. Oh, yes, he thought, this is where you take your time pleasuring me until I'm a quivering mass of overstimulated flesh too incoherent to put much more than the words "Yes, please, there!" together. Then of course I'm supposed to be your love slave for life. It might actually have worked, too -- if it hadn't been done to him several times already. He was looking forward to comparing Napoleon's technique to his other lovers' abilities.