Napoleon Solo awoke to the feelings of warmth and tapered fingers running through his hair. He stretched like a pampered panther reveling in the touch. 'Illya' his mind supplied. Opening his eyes confirmed where the warmth came from - the Russian's body still covered his like the perfect fitted sheet, add to that a pale blue comforter covered them both. Blue eyes met his. The love he saw there caused his heart to overflow with happiness. "Hi", he whispered.

Illya chuckled. "Hi, yourself, sleeping beauty", he greeted his lover. 'Mine' The thought send a thrill through him the likes of which he'd never experienced. "Sleep well?"

Napoleon frowned in mock exasperation. "Really, Illya, if you're going to wear me out like, I'm going to be an old man before my time", he chided.

Before Illya could reply the soft rustle of a loose robes alerted him to the fact they were no longer alone. Keeping his movements natural he whispered to the man under the covers. “Lie still, Napoleon, we have an intruder."

"I heard", Napoleon whispered back, but obeyed.

"God be with you, my sons", intoned a proper British accent, before either man could react.

Both men relaxed as they recognized the voice of Father Alexander Waverly.

"Bad news, Father?” Illya asked. Illya. The blessing was a code phrase for danger.

"Extremely, my sons; especially for Mr. Solo."

Napoleon felt a chill pass through his soul that even Illya's body warmth couldn't dispel. 'Like that old superstition of someone walking over your grave.' "What is it, Father?"

"A secret that must now be revealed to you, my son, and, I hope, you can forgive me for keeping from you." The older man saw the fear in the younger one's eyes. "Are you ready?"

The chill turned to frost. "Yes."

"You were betrayed."

Solo started. "Slate!” he hissed the name automatically sprang to his lips.

Waverly nodded. "He is a factor, yes, but the main component is your father."

"Don Julian?” Solo asked, puzzled.

"Yes. He IS THRUSH."

For several seconds, Napoleon merely stared at the priest, letting the revelation sink in; a moan of anguish escaped his lips, his body beginning to tremble uncontrollably. He was so shaken he didn't feel the strong arms that embraced him, pulling him close, nor the soft insistent voice trying to reach him. 'Now Illya will think I've betrayed him! He will hate...'

"Mr. Solo!" Father Alexander's voice cracked like thunder in the silent room.

This did nothing to penetrate his near hysteria. "Illya...” he whimpered, then the damn broke and tears flowed unchecked. For several minutes Illya comforted this man to whom he had willingly given his soul, truly understanding his distress. Finally the flood passed but he did not let go. "Napasha", he called softly.

A whimper.

"Love, listen to me. You could not have known and Father Alexander couldn't have told you while you were at the hideout. It makes no difference between us."

That got Solo's attention. He lifted tear-reddened eyes to the Russian. "Truly?"

As he had so often done in the past days, he sealed their scarred palms together. "Truly."

Solo shook his head, slowly, not taking his eyes from Illya's. "Now I understand when you said it was no coincidence we met." He swallowed hard, trying to keep his emotions under control. "First I'm told my family is dead, then I find you and discover my father survived, now, just when I've finally found happiness, this happens." He looked from Illya to Father Alexander and back to Illya. His decision made, he exerted pressure on their joined palms, purposely causing pain. "I love you, Illya. If what you say is true", he pressed harder to emphasis the point, "swear to me that you will take care of your people first."

Illya ignored the pain and exerted his own pressure. "I love you, too, Napasha, and I swear. What will you do?"

Napoleon's eyes grew cold. "I will see to my father. Now I know why I disliked Slate. He is a Hunter and will return to bring me to my father. Unfortunately, he doesn't know I know and will be hunting him. This will give you and Father Alexander time to move...” A sudden thought occurred to him. "Does he know all of your locations?"

"No." It was Father Alexander who answered.

"Excellent", Napoleon replied without looking at the priest. "I put their lives in your hands. Let's move."
 

Twenty minutes later, showered, shaved and dressed, Napoleon returned to the room and nodded in approval. Except for the now barren furniture, there was no evidence it had been occupied.

Before he could say anything the sudden high-pitched bleeping of a communicator alerted him to the presence of an intruder, then he heard a voice he loathed. "I'm in, sir. I have guards covering all the exits", reported Mark Slate.

Strong arms embraced Solo from behind. "God be with you, Napasha. I love you and we will take out the guards", it whispered in his ear.

"And with you, Illyusha. I love you", he replied in kind, then the embrace was gone, leaving only himself and Slate. Napoleon ignored the emptiness that threatened to overwhelm him, concentrating instead on the task. Taking out one of two concealed switchblades, he melted into the shadows, he waited.

"I'm preparing to close in, sir. This should take only a matter of minutes. Knowing him he's probably still sheathed inside the little bastard Kuryakin..."

"Exercise caution", replied the voice of Don Julian Solo. "He is, after all, my son."

But Slate wasn't listening; he had been so intent on his task that Napoleon's attack caught him completely unprepared. He was dead within seconds, his throat slit from ear to ear.

"Slate!” Don Julian voice filled the spacious room.

Napoleon picked up the communicator. "Hello, father. If you want me please send someone more experienced."

With those words he snapped the communicator in half and exited the building. He was on the run now, a hunted man, and a traitor. So it. Whatever happens to me Illya and the resistance will carry on.'