"So be it," Napoleon intoned, then leaned forward to capture the perfect lips.

Illya Kuryakin knew that he had never been kissed like this -the intensity, the passion, tongues dueling and teasing lips and teeth as his knees seemed to turn into liquid. And he wanted it -all* of it...this pampered, upper-crust THRUSH officer whom he did not want to trust and yet overwhelmed him and made him feel like a giggling schoolgirl having her first crush...this man who confused him about emotions he did not know he even possessed...this member of an organization that was against everything he had ever believed in. No. Just then, Kuryakin pushed himself away; struggling through the fog that had descended upon his brain. "Nyet... Stop...I must not..."

Solo's eyes narrowed with ill-concealed anger as the Russian pulled away and grabbed a robe, pulling it about his still naked body as he cast a worried glance at the crumpled form of Mark Slate on the carpeted floor. Not able to stand anymore, Napoleon grabbed Illya by the arm. "What's wrong! You. . You can't possibly prefer to put up with his abuse!"

Kuryakin's eyes blazed. "I can take care of myself!"

"He was going to *rape* you!"

"No. He...he has been drinking -he didn't know what he was doing!"

Napoleon sighed heavily, relaxing his grip. "Like *that's* an excuse. Illya..." He gently caressed the smooth pale jaw. "When I promised to join your cause, I *meant* it, but I still have contacts and I can still have him put away -you *don't* need to be afraid of him anymore!"

"No."

Napoleon stiffened. "Why *not?"

"Because," Illya sighed in defeat, offering a vague gesture to the opulence around them, "if you have not guessed, Slate is *not* a member of the cause -he is a powerful black marketeer. We.... We provide him with access to our safe houses and in exchange, he gives us supplies -medicine, food, other things. Without his contacts, my people would not have even the few necessities they now possess. They would fall victim to their injuries or illnesses...or they would starve."

"And in further exchange, you have to let him-"

"No." The ice returned to the pale eyes. "This...was an aberration. It will not happen again."

"You can't be sure."

"I *am* sure."

A slight smile touched the full lips and for some reason that he could not fathom, Napoleon Solo believed that the little Russian meant exactly what he said: it-would-not-happen-again. "All right," the THRUSH officer replied coolly. "I accept that -for now. But if I even suspect..." He turned in the direction of the bathroom, the words 'I will kill him' unspoken, but hanging silently in the air.

"Wake up, 'Sleeping Beauty'."

"Ohh crikey..." Mark Slate blinked dazedly and gingerly touched the blue-black welt that stretched along his jaw. "Blimey, Illya...you didn't tell me he'd hit *that* hard!"

Kuryakin handed the bewildered Englishman an icepack. "I...was not certain that Solo would *hit* at all," he answered truthfully and then frowned at the cut on his palm -the mark of a promise...now, a symbol of deceit. Damn... "However, it would seem that Solo is someone with which we can work after all."

Slate studied the grim Russian for a moment. "You...*are* all right with this, aren't you? I mean, I know we didn't tell Don Solo, but Father Waverly said that we had to test the bloke...to see if Captain Solo's really the trustworthy sort he makes out he is."

Kuryakin closed his fingers over the stinging wound, loathing the trickery that he once wouldn't even have hesitated to perform. Duty first...always.

"Of course."

Hot, soapy water dripped from Napoleon Solo's fingers as he leaned against the warm porcelain of the bath and methodically peeled a thin sheath of cosmetic synthetic skin away from the slight hollow beneath the heel of his left hand to reveal a tiny, familiar metal device. He hesitated for a moment examining the wound he had made on his hand -he didn't really understand why he had made the pledge to Illya or why it meant so much to him to keep it, but keep that vow he would...even though duty had to come first. Kuryakin...Illya...would be furious with him when he learned the truth, no doubt, but he was certain he could eventually convince his little renegade that his -their- place was with THRUSH.

"Open secure relay to Central," he whispered into the minute communicator. "Solo reporting. Assignment going as planned -will report again at next scheduled report time. Close relay."

Napoleon sheathed the device, ignoring the tickle of guilt at the back of his brain.

Duty always had to come first.