Pairing: Napoleon/Illya
Rating: NC-17

Standard Disclaimer: The Man From UNCLE belongs to others. No copyright infringement is intended. This is fan fiction and I make no money from this. Any original characters in these stories are mine.

MFUfic - List serve - Round Robin 4
Status: Completed

Part One - Glo

The wide avenues of central Paris were crowded with café after café. Each with its own apron of tiny cloth-draped tables in the sunshine, wire chairs filled with lazing patrons. Glasses of wine, cups of caffe latte, pastries and crepes. The blue sky was reflected in late morning puddles not yet evaporated from the night's short, windy shower.

Illya Kuryakin sat alone at one of the tables of the Café Roman. He was dressed in his usual dark turtleneck and jacket, but wore rather battered looking jeans below. His scuffed suede boots were damp from his walk through the early morning wet streets. The turning colors of the autumn foliage could not outshine his bright blonde hair, appropriately long and shaggy.

A thick book, one of Proust's, was at his elbow, but his attention was on his glass of chilled vodka. The champagne pastry sticks that the waiter had brought with it were untouched. The Russian, feeling very much the exile, sat hunched and wary. 'I am getting so tired of playing the bait. Why can't Napoleon ever be the one they want?'

Restlessly, he pushed his dark horn-rimmed glasses back up his nose with his middle finger, thinking longingly of his tiny flat back in New York. There he could have actually read this book and enjoyed his vodka. Here, well, here he was simply posing, dangling from a hook. And, so far, there had been no takers.

A shadow fell over his table, blocking the heat of the sun. He squinted up at the dark silhouette in front of him, rimmed in
reddish-gold light, backlit by the sun. "Napoleon." It was not a question. He sighed. End of game.

"Sorry, tovarich, but Jean and Simone just called in. Our quarry took their bait instead of ours. It's their case now, my friend, we are free to go."

The dark-haired man in front of Kuryakin did not sit. Instead, he held out a hand imperiously and waited.

The Russian needs waking up, Napoleon Solo thought warmly, as he caught the pale hand placed reluctantly in his own. I'm glad this assignment didn't pan out for us, though Illya will probably never believe me. He tugged and the blonde rose to his feet, hand still held firmly in the brunette's grasp......
 

Part 2
by  Loke

They were nearly back to their car when Solo's communicator sounded.  He pulled it out, activated it, and spoke.  "Solo here."

"Mr. Solo," the unmistakable voice of Alexander Waverly, head of UNCLE, issued from the instrument in Solo's hand, "there's been a development in another case that requires your and Mr. Kuryakin's attention.  Report to Paris HQ for briefing immediately.  This has top priority."

"On our way, sir," Solo responded.  "Close Channel D."  He deactivated the communicator and returned it to his pocket.

"Sounds like trouble."  Kuryakin had been listening over Solo's shoulder.

"Shall we go and find out?" the senior agent asked, leading the way to the car and getting in.  The Russian followed.

When the pair arrived at the HQ, they were immediately directed to the Branch Chief's office.  Li Shaozu had distinguished himself in field service on three continents before being promoted to administrative service and working his way up to Paris HQ Chief.  Slightly shorter than the two agents in front of him, he was an expert in martial arts and a crack marksman.

"Gentlemen, please sit down."  His voice betrayed very little of an accent. "I know you were alerted to the situation before you came in; I'm to give you all the details of the case UNCLE currently possesses."

He handed Solo a folder, and he tilted it so his partner could read it over his shoulder.  "As you can see," Shaozu continued, "we suspect THRUSH of being behind the recent overthrow of the democratic government in the small Caribbean nation of San Pablo.  We can't allow their presence so close to both Cuba and the US; we don't need another missile crisis.  The
two of you will be going in undercover as male models."

"Both of us?" Kuryakin asked.  "Couldn't I be the photographer instead?"

"We don't want THRUSH getting any ideas about anyone running around with a bunch of cameras," Shaozu said, "so we convinced a magazine who was going to be doing a spread there to include the two of you in their group of models.  Any checks of the photographers will disclose they're completely legitimate."

"Don't worry about it, tovarish," Solo advised, "I'll give you all the help you need."  'This might be a very interesting assignment, indeed.' he thought. A chance to see his dour Russian dressed in high fashion was not to be missed at any cost, except the mission.

"You'll also be getting advice from the magazine's fashion director," the HQ chief reassured them, "so you shouldn't be too out of place.  Here are your tickets; your flight leaves in four hours.  Any other questions?"

"What, exactly, will we be modeling?" Kuryakin asked with a little trepidation in his voice.

"Various items of male apparel," Shaozu replied, "or so our contact informed us."

"I see."  He was having definite misgivings about this.

They were dismissed to pack and catch their flight.  While Solo was looking forward to this assignment, his partner was most definitely not.  He growled and grumbled all the way through Customs and onto the plane.

"Models," he complained for the umpteenth time, "posing for a camera. Surely they could have found a cover that didn't . . . expose us so much."

"It will be all right," Solo tried to soothe him.  "It isn't as if the pictures were ever going to be published.  The only people who will see you are the ones at the photo sessions."

The Russian refused to be mollified, and sulked across the Atlantic while his partner ignored him and flirted with the stewardesses.

 Part 3
by Kei

The camera loved Napoleon.

That was what the undercover UNCLE agent was being told.

The camera just *loved* him.

And, no doubt, did Napoleon Solo secretly love the camera. Illya Kuryakin sighed grimly resigned to his part in this affair. But this was almost too much. Maybe it had been because of the thin thread of seemingly prescient Roman blood woven into his Slavic heritage, but he had had the feeling that something was going to go wrong with this mission -and it had.

In a way.

Upon arrival in San Pablo, Roman Day -the ever-flamboyant chief photographer for *Wave* Magazine’s modeling caravan- had decided that the “modeling” portfolios that UNCLE had provided for him of their two agents were simply not good enough. “A favor I do for UNCLE,” he had said, “but *these* pictures -no, no, no! I cannot in good consciencee have *my* models carrying such poor quality portraits! Terrible lighting! Poor quality! Your ‘photographers’ lack the souls of *true* artists! I am a *professional* -I will capture your true essences *myself*!” Thus was the Russian UNCLE agent here, waiting while his partner had another series of shots taken while Roman Day told him how much the camera *loved* him, while the Russian seethed at the unnecessary delay in their mission...and openly dreaded that his turn was next.”

“I guess ol’ Roman didn’t like your portfolios, right?”

Illya was distracted from his grim musings at the sound of a slightly accented female voice. “You are correct. Miss..?”

“’Gina’ -just ‘Gina’,” said the tiny, olive-skinned young woman with a brilliant smile as she practically bounced on her toes. “And *your* name is -don’t tell me...I try to make it my business to know- *Nick*, right?”

“Err...yes, that is-”

“See!” Gina gushed. “I make sure to know the names of the new guys -seems more friendly, ya know? ‘Nick’, huh? One name just like me and ‘Twiggy’ -she’s my idol. I wanna be just like herr some day!”

“Uh...that would be-”

“Roman re-shot *my* portfolio too -no less than *five* times, I’m telling you. Though, between you and me, Nick...” Gina lowered her voice conspiratorially, “*I* think he just does it to get his rocks off, ya know?”

Illya grimaced inwardly and pasted on as realistic a smile as he could at the moment as his self-introduced companion continued to talk -and talk, and *talk*. Not even Napoleon, when he was feeling particularly loquacious, could talk his ear off like this! It was at that moment that Fate decided to kindly intervene and Kuryakin heard Roman Day’s voice: “Nick, love, your turn. Chop - chop, darling, we haven’t got all day!”

The Russian agent scowled at his partner’s knowingly amused expression. “Yes, ‘darling’,” Napoleon whispered. “Do ‘chop -chop’”. Metaphorical daggers shot from Illya’s eyes to land in Napoleon Solo’s back as the dark-haired agent allowed himself to be swooned over by the ever-chatty Gina -someone was definitely going to die this day.

“Did you encounter any difficulties, Gina my dear?”

“Are you *kidding*!? Chat them both up to the point of distraction, lift  wallets, eyeball them, put them back -piece of cake. You didn’t hire me for just my pretty face, ya know.”

“Yes, I know. We also hired you for your exceptional photographic memory. Did you memorize all pertinent information?”

“Piece of cake.”

Part 4
By Ravenschild

"And the information Gina?" The man was smooth.  Almost too smooth as  he ran his hand over the young woman's thigh.

"You will get in when we have agreed on the price." She answered sullenly though her pretty features were still transfixed into the grin she wore.

"Ah come now love, we already know the price." He fingered a small packet of white powder and dropped it back into his pocket before she had a chance to reach for it.

"The dark one, his name is Anthony Sinclair, he is legit, full time male model, worked on some of the better fashion journals and has a thing for the ladies."

"How on earth can you tell that?" The dark glasses were pushed back to reveal coal black eyes that quizzed the girl.

She giggled, "He has at least four phone numbers of differant air hostesses from his flight.  Came directly in from Paris and is on loan from a prestigous company in Stockholm."

"And the blond?"

"Russian. Though his passport says British, he is fairly new to the game, seems his agent thought it would be a good diversion for him."

"Diversion love?" he reached into his jacket pocket and retrieved the small bag.

"Hmm yes his last few assignments have been on very private showings if you get my meaning.  She is trying to expand him into a more profitable avenue.  Her letter of introduction was in the wallet as well.  He's only young, twenty four, though I suspect a little younger. Normal residence is in London."

He dropped the bag into her hand as he bent to kiss her on the head. "As always my darling you have done very well.  Now go, enjoy."

She smiled as she made her way across the carpark into the flashy red convertible.

Illya fumed as he retreated into the cooler air. "You have got to be  kidding." he muttered a filfthy slavic curse and even Solo colored at the words.

"Illya it's an assignment." the words were pronounced with great care.

"Yes well assignment or not I will not allow him to paw at me."

"Illya your not being rational."

"According to you I seldom am.  If there is a person to be bait, it will be me, I seem to fit the fetishes of every raving crack pot in every city across the globe.  I am tired of it Napoleon."  Wearily Illya sat down heavily and ran his hand through his hair.

"I agree that nine assignments back to back is asking a lot, but you know we are four teams down." Solo poured a glass of water from the glass jug on the table and handed it to his partner.  Illya took it will ill grace and would not be mollified by the facts.

"This makes me nervous Napoleon."

Solo was silent, Illya never admitted his fears and when he did it unnerved the American who had come to rely on the recalcitrant Russian's stoicism.

"How?" Napoleon pulled his chair closer to his friend and watched the intricate play of emotions across his face.

"I do not like being oggled, nor do I like being touched by men. It makes me nervous."

Solo smiled. "And here I was thinking you were secretly gay."

"I am." Illya answered softly and with the confession he felt as if his heart would break.

Part 5
by Jatona

 The smile disappeared from Napoleon's face as suddenly as it had appeared.  'Surely I didn't hear....??'

 "Move over", he commanded. The Russian obeyed but remained silent.  Napoleon seated himself beside his friend.  "I didn't quite get that",  he prompted, trying to draw the blond out.

 "You hear very well, Napoleon", Illya retorted.

 Napoleon moved closer, then turned, slightly.  "Yes, my friend, I hear very well indeed; however, it is so unlike you to make that personal a confession."

 Illya mistook the American's tone as patronizing.  "And what would you care?", he snapped.  "Do you want to replace me now with one of your females?"

 Solo winced at the contempt in the normally calm voice but this was too important to them both to back out now.  "No, Illya, that is not my intention.  There is, and always will be, one person I've wanted in my life."

 "And whom would that be?"

 "You."

 The simple reply, spoken with unmistakable sincerity and without hesitation, caused the Russian to turn his full attention to his
friend.  "What are you trying to tell me, Napoleon?"

 Napoleon met the blue eyed gaze squarely.  "I am saying that I love you, Illya.  I have from almost the beginning and I always will.  Oh, I know my so called reputation doesn't inspire trust and I will not lie by promising you forever.  No one lives forever.  What I can promise is that as long as I live I will be faithful to you and, if you accept me, try to make you happy......"

"Napoleon?", Illya interrupted, softly, touched more than he could say by the American's declarations.

 "Yes?"

 Illya glanced around to see if they were being observed 'In truth I could care less who sees us' he thought, then leaned forward and took those pouty lips in a quick kiss that promised there would be more than a discussion when this assignment was over.

 Napoleon, his heart overflowing with happiness at that one sweet gesture, was about to deepen the kiss when Day stuck his head around the corner of the partition they had taken refuge behind.

 "Illya, darling!", he cajoled, ruffling the mop of blond hair.  "I do owe you an apology!  You are magnificent!!  I'd like to shoot some more, please!"

 The two men glanced at each other, it was Illya who replied.  "Only if we can do this together AND have the negatives."

 Day frowned, slightly.  "What about the assignment?"

"We will chose which ones you can use."  This from Napoleon.

 Day was silent for several seconds, then sighed.  "Oh, very well! Let's get to it!"  As he started back around the petition he stopped but did not turn.  "By the way, I had your UNCLE men pick up Gina."

 Illya's ears prickled.  "That's the model I was talking to.  Why?"

 "She, too, has a photographic memory.  She lifts the wallets, memorizes key info, and replaces them before the victim even knows what happens."

 "Blackmail?", Napoleon asked.

 "That among other things."

 "Do you think she suspects we're more than we are?", asked Illya.

 "Not at all.  You see while you were getting ready, I placed your photos in false wallets and replaced yours with them.  When her 'suppliers' try to run a make on that info they will be very disappointed."

 "Why?", both asked.

 "Because both men have been dead for about five years."

Part 6
by Loke

"And you don't think they will find THAT unusual?" Napoleon said, reaching for his wallet -- or rather the one which had been substituted for it. Illya pulled out his own substituted wallet while his partner opened his and read the name.  "Excuse us a moment," he told Day while reaching for what appeared to be an ink pen.  He pulled off the top and spoke into it.

"Open Channel D."

A perky female voice answered and transferred him to Mr. Waverly. "Is there a problem, Mr. Solo?"

"Yes," he answered,  "It seems Mr. Day 'helpfully' substituted our IDs with his own.  Unfortunately, the two gentlemen have been dead for five years. I'm now known as Anthony Sinclair, while Illya's currently wearing the sobriquet Danya Ivanovich."

"Why did he feel it necessary to do that?" Waverly asked.

"One of the other models has a photographic memory, talented fingers, and an expensive habit.  She's probably already given her suppliers those names."

"I see.  We'll get right on it.  If there's trouble in the meantime, use your own discretion.  Waverly out."  "Use your own discretion" meant if they were caught in a lie they were to ad lib as best they could and hope their story sounded good enough to the bad guys.

Napoleon closed his communicator and turned to "Danya".  "Shall we join our impatient photographer?  There's nothing more we can do right now, and we do HAVE to look like models."

They worked together for another hour and a half, modeling various outfits. Illya continued to draw most of Day's interest -- he claimed the Russian's angry pouting was sexy as anything he'd ever seen -- but Illya drew the line at modeling the barely-there swimwear the photographer proposed.

"Nyet!  I do not care HOW fashionable it is, or how many wear it on the French Riviera!"  He stormed off to the dressing rooms.

"Let me talk to him," Napoleon offered, and went to find his now seething partner.

He found his partner sulking in a dressing room and gave him a fond smile.  "Day's right, you know -- you're sexy as hell when you're angry."

"Then I should be completely irresistible at the moment," Illya growled.

"Well, if you say so," purred Napoleon, reaching for the other man.

They were interrupted by the door being thrown open by a pair of well-armed men.  "You two -- come with us.  No noise, or it will be the last noise you make."

Part 7
by Kei
 

It was a nightmare -there was no other word for the situation. Though neither UNCLE agent was wearing those "barely there" swim wear that Roman Day had been so eager for them to model, the fact remained that being the equivalent of "half-dressed" in summer wear that left just as little to the imagination left no room for a gun...or a weapon of almost any kind.

Not that they were in a position to do anything about their present situation at the moment.

Napoleon caught sight of the significant glance that Illya gave him -with the quick look at the make-up tablle- that left him puzzled and yet willing to go along with whatever inspiration was brewing in that smart, quick-thinking Russian's head.

Hoping that he had read his partner's subtle signals right, Napoleon forced a false, and hopefully mollifying, smile to his lips. The two very well-armed men, who had their weapons trained on his and Illya's chests, were wearing uniforms of the local police...and if Intelligence was correct, the local constabulary here were little more than armed thugs that their enemy allowed
to run rampant. All things considering, he would have preferred to be dealing directly with THRUSH. "So...officers..." he asked carefully "...are we under arrest?"

"'Arrest...'" the taller and meaner of the two repeated with a grin as if the idea had only just occurred to him. "Yes, you might call it that."

Again Illya inched ever so carefully towards the make-up table. Napoleon felt his heart begin to thud heavily against his breast bone. What *was* that crazy Russian thinking? "Might I ask what the charges are?"

"I don't see the point of reading them to you, Mr. Sinclair, as you are obviously quite *deaf*. I believe I told you to make no noise."

"Yes, but *surely* you can-"

"Mr. Sinclair..." *Tall* thug's grip on his semi-automatic machine gun tightened. "You might as well know that we can actually make do with only *one* of you so-" *Tall* thug's threat was suddenly cut off as a billowing cloud of white powder flew into his and his companion's faces, choking and blinding them, their hands instinctively flying up to bat at the suffocating particles.

Several well-placed blows to their heads put them out of their misery.

Napoleon could not help the grin that spread across his handsome visage as he took in the sight of Illya, himself half-covered in the same perfumed cosmetic powder, as he set down both container and puff. The elder agent was met with a scowl. "I do not care if you *are* CEA. If you ever...*ever* tell anyone at UNCLE what I just did-" the Russian sputtered.

"Don't worry, Tovarisch -the 'powder puff' maneuver will remain our little secret." Napoleon began to search their supine would-be assailants. "Now, let's see if we can find out just *who* these bozos are -and who sent them."
 
 

Part 8
By Ravenschild

Napoleon whistled long and low as he checked the taller officers wallet. Nothing of interest in the mundane information but a tiny scrap of paper gave them their first clue.

On the far side of town in the more well respected suburbs was a club. Not just any club, but THE Club. UNCLE had kept a dossier on it for years never able to find out more than basic ubiquitious information, though ultimately they knew it to be a front for one of THRUSH's money making schemes. This one they knew dealt with the wholesale of sex slaves, all male, all
attractive and all of 'model' standards. Napoleon was prepared to bet his pension that they were to become the latest recruitments and that given their interest in his partner the real target had been Illya. He kept the last peice of information to himself unwilling at this present time to voice his opinions. Yet despite all of the details they had gathered and garnered
they could never quite prove their point.

Illya's search of his guard proved fruitless and he had abandoned the task in favour of changing into something more appropriate. Solo stood and offered the slip of paper to his partner.

"I take it our sleeping friends were on commision." Illya said disgustedly as he slipped on his shoulder holster and jacket.

"So it would seem, curious that they only needed one though." Solo followed Illya's lead and changed as well.

"Are you saying we are a matched pair?" Illya looked non plussed as he tied their guests up.

Napoleon just smiled and answered the shrill beep of his communicator.

"Open Channel D - Solo here."

"Ah Mr. Solo." Alexander Waverly's voice sounded disapproving even from this distance. "Seems your little friend with the photographic memory has met with an unfortunate accident."

"Overdose?"

"Yes well they were certain to make sure she died, her car went over a cliff at top speed."

"Ouch" Illya mouthed as Solo looked at him and brushed off some stray powder from the end of his nose.

"We've just had a run in with the local constabulary, since we've done nothing untoward it would appear they had another adgenda." Solo answered.

"Indeed?" Alexander waited for the rest of the report.

"One of them had a calling card from the club with our current location scrawled on the back."

"Interesting. Mr. Solo you are aware that The Club in question is a THRUSH front and a bank if you will. I suggest that you put your efforts into making contact within this establishement."

"That would mean sending one of us in as bait." Solo winced as Illya glared at him again.

"Yes, preliminary reports suggest that our Mr. Kuryakin would be most suitable for their how shall we say, tastes."

Illya sighed and pulled out his gun, making certain Napoleon could see he was checking the clip.

"Sir that may not be a good idea."

"Well if you can come up with a better one Mr. Solo I would appreciate hearing about it."

Solo winced again as a fine sheen of sweat broke out on his upper lip.

"I'll let you know sir."

"Waverly out."

"Illya before you say anything." Solo never got to finish the sentance.....
 
 

Part 9
by Loke

Roman Day popped his head in the door, and was instantly covered by two UNCLE Specials. He goggled at the pair,
whatever he was going to say forgotten as Napoleon reached out and pulled him inside.

"We have a slight problem," indicating the pair of policia tied up on the floor. "We think they were trying to take us, or at least
'Danya', to this club." He showed Day the card he'd found on the taller of the pair.

"I've heard rumors of this club," Day told them. "It's a very bad place; young men go in there and disappear, even young men
from good families, and the authorities do nothing. They say there's a dungeon in the basement, with all the equipment, and *everything works*."

"A fully equipped and working dungeon," Illya said. With his luck, he'd end up in it.

Napoleon grimaced inwardly, thinking the same thing and hating himself for having to do what he was about to do. "Do you have a contact we could use -- someone who can get us inside the club?"

"I know someone who occasionally goes there," Day said. Then his face suddenly paled. "He was with me the day I received your portfolios -- he asked me if I could introduce him to you," he said, turning to Illya.

"Call your friend and ask him if the four of us could go to the club," Napoleon told him. "What's your friend's name, by the way?"

"Are you mad?" Day asked. "You'd simply turn your friend over to a stranger, just like," he snapped his fingers, "that?"

"Not 'just like that' " Illya replied. "We need someone to get inside the club, and if your friend has been eyeing me for an escort
already, it will rouse no suspicions if I go along. Black tie, I suppose?"

What the two agents wore that night was a far cry from "black tie", and Illya was especially resplendent in the latest in summer evening wear. He was introduced to Day's friend, Eugene ("Call me Gene") Anderson, a tall, broad-shouldered man with dark hair and eyes like a bird of prey -- and Illya (or Danya, as he was introdduced by Day) was the prey.

They went to the club and ate dinner before heading to the lounge area for drinks and dancing. Gene asked Danya to dance, but the man declined, saying it was too soon after dinner for such exertions.

Half an hour later he asked again, and this time Danya complied, after a few strange thumping noises from under
the table.

It was the longest five minutes of Illya's life, as he was unmercifully groped by his partner. The worst part was he had to stand there and take it under the eyes of everyone in the lounge, offering only a token protest. Finally the music ended and he was walked back to their table, with Gene so close behind him he could feel the man's erection against his ass.

"Danya's" face was flushed with more that just exertion, but he had no idea how he looked with his eyes cast down and that
touch of color on his cheeks. Others saw, and were envious of the man walking so close behind him, but none dared challenge him for such a prize. Napoleon wanted nothing more than to snatch him up and carry him far away from this pit of predators, but he knew duty dictated he allow this to continue to its inevitable end.

Gene signaled the waiter for another round of drinks, asking for a bottle of champagne. When it was brought, he made a
production of opening the bottle in front of them and pouring it out himself.

The next thing Napoleon knew, an hour had passed and he was in a brothel across town, lying naked in bed with an equally naked woman who wanted to know if he wanted to do it again. He pushed her away, got out of bed, dressed and went in search of the others. The madam swore only two of them had come here, asking for the usual service. Day he found almost immediately, but of Gene -- and more importantly, Illya -- there was no sign at all.

Part 10
by Kei
 

"Ohhh..."

Awareness returned in painfully sluggish stages, like trying to swim to the surface of a sea of mental mud. Mouth felt full of cotton...limbs weak and shaky...eyelids like leaden weights. Illya Kuryakin blinked dazedly, vision resisting his brain's commands to focus. Where was...no, he was *not* going to ask that clichéd question. *Where* he was probably wasn't all that important at the moment. That he was obviously *not* where he last remembered being, in that club, was the thing to ponder.

Again, the Russian UNCLE agent tried to sit up, but a wave of vertigo forced him to fall back against what felt like the firm softness of a mattress and pillows. '*Think*, Illya Nickovetch Kuryakin -*think*!' Drugged...also obvious. But not because of the champagne. No...*he* hadn't drunken any of it and neither did he remember Napoleon doing any more than putting the glass to his lips. A skin-absorbed drug painted on the glasses then -a single touch would have been enough tto feel the effects...but none of the times he had experienced contact poisons had left him feeling as weak and washed-out as
this.

The Russian UNCLE agent hesitated to guess what he had been dosed with after the initial drugging...

...and Napoleon -did their captor (captors?) do the same thing to him?

Making a supreme effort, Illya pushed himself to his feet...had to find out. Had to find Napoleon.

Sight finally clearing, Illya made a once-over of his surroundings -a room, not a bare cell...small, handsomely decorated, French Provincial perhaps, windows...ah yes, the windows were barred -no surprise there- and the glass was at least an inch thick and heavily glazed, almost certainly shatter-proof...couldn't even see through the thick panes to whatever lay beyond. The door..? Illya weaved unsteadily as he made his way to the sealed entrance -of course, it was locked and a search of his person revealed to his dismay that someone had thoroughly patted him down. His lockpicks were gone.

So...it was a cage. A gilded one, but a cage nonetheless.

It was at that moment that Illya's stomach chose to turn traitor and he was forced to hobble on shaking legs to what proved to be a washroom. Nearly half an hour passed before the vomitous nausea passed, reducing him to suffering shuddering dry heaves. "I am sorry. Some react to the exceptional purity of my product that way initially...but it passes."

Suppressing his surprise, Kuryakin followed the familiar voice to its source, eyes once again becoming slightly unfocussed. "What...what did you give me?"

"A common narcotic that my new government is encouraging me to produce and refine." Eugene Anderson reached over Kuryakin's shaking shoulder to flush the toilet before lifting and carrying the feebly struggling UNCLE agent back
to the bed beside which a steaming basin of water had been placed. Anderson dipped a cloth into the soapy water and insistently began to clean away the remaining mess, ignoring Illya's weak attempts to push away the roaming hands. "Tut-tut... Come now, you couldn't prefer to remain in this state, could you, Danya? Or would you prefer to be called 'Nick'? Gina told me that your friends call you 'Nick'. Danya Nicholai Ivanovich...a very attractive name for a very attractive acquisition."

Acquisition? *Now* it all made sense. The Club... The kidnapping and sale of young, appealing men as sex slaves... Illya found himself wondering what he had done in a former life to deserve a career full of missions like this. Anderson made him sit up, rinse, and spit into a bucket. "*You*," Illya managed to say, "may call me 'Danya'."

Anderson laughed heartily. "So spirited! Just how my customers like them. Very well -for *now* we will be formal and I will use your professional appellation. However...I should imagine that we will soon be good friends." The door opened and a man in a butler's uniform entered, bearing a napkin-covered silver tray. "And as your 'new' friend, allow me to reintroduce you to an 'old' friend of yours that Gina told me about. It should encourage you to be more amenable to our new arrangement."

The linen cloth was lifted from the tray and Illya's eyes widened in horror at both the sight of the filled hypodermic needle and remembered information on the person whose identity he wore, partial knowledge that Eugene Anderson obviously possessed -the thing that had led to the real, late Danya Ivanovich's death...

...heroin addiction.
 
 
 

Part 11
By Ravenschild
 

Illya grew pale but sat up straight, mustering all the dignity and sensuality he could under the circumstances.

"And just what makes you think," he whispered softly, blowing hot streams of air into his captor's ear as he leaned foward, "that I would not be amenable to this arrangement now?"

Eugene stilled his fingers on the hyperdermic and replaced the cloth, dismissing the servant with an imperious command.

"Well now, your profile did not tell me a lot about your personality."

"Profiles rarely do." Illya relaxed as the tray was placed back onto the table and stretched showing off his body in the soft light.

"I am sure we can come to some arrangment." Eugene leant across the smaller man and traced his fingers down the well defined yet slim torso.

Illya smiled slowly, his mind and body returning to his own control, all the while shuddering at the thought of any intimacies with this man. Fervently praying that he had some of Napoleon's skills to call on.

"No doubt, besides." Illya purred as he sat closer, his body heat sending waves of desire coursing through Eugene's body. "I thought you said your client liked us spirited."

"He does. He has unusual tastes."

"Oh?" Illya came closer still. "So you won't be my new master?" he lowered his eyes a little, playing subserviant, taking in all the details that would assist his escape and departure from this place. Wherever this was, he thought to himself.

"Unfortunately not little one, and as much as I'd like to play with you and bend you to my will, I doubt his Lordship would be pleased to have so recently tainted goods."

"Then I am to be sold to a Lord?"

Eugene chuckled evily as he ran a hand up Illya's flank, cupping his genitals with a large warm hand. Illya smiled. "No, it is simply a title he prefers us to use for his slaves."

"Then I shall make him happy for you." Illya purred again.

Eugene leant foward and brushed a kiss across the sweet lips. "Well now, I should think that there will be little need for you to dance again to you old mistress." He looked at the cloth covered tray and picked it up walking to the door. "However," the tone changed abruptly, harsh and sinister, "You have not yet earned my trust. Behave and you shall be well treated. I
should hate to have to discipline you- and your old friend would indeed be used."

The door closed and the locks being set on the outside were audible as Illya went back to the bathroom and showered the scent of the man from his body. His body tremblied as he let the hot water run over him.

Napoleon made his way back to the hotel room he shared with Illya and dropped down onto the bed. His back and head hurt, his shoulder ached from the last assignment and he wanted nothing more than his partner in the room with him. Alive, safe and well.

Solo sighed heavily and opened the pen top to his communicator. "Open Channel D."

"Ah Mr. Solo." Waverly's voice sounded softly from the other end of the communicator and the agent wondered if the old man ever went home.

"Illya has been taken to an unknown location and is most probably the latest aquisition of The Club."

"I take it then his abduction was not planned by us?"

"No sir it was not, I miscalculated badly, I did not realise that they would take the bait on the first night."

"I'll expect a full report. In the meantime make contact with the local field agents, we have recent information which may allow us to become the purchasers for our errant Mr. Kuryakin."

"Of course sir. But I'll need another agent to fill that role. They know me."

"Indeed Mr. Solo, I shall arrive shortly. Waverly out."
 
 

Part 12
by Loke
 

Napoleon showered, shaved and changed, then went to make contact with the local field agents. He'd already told Day to file a missing persons report for "Danya" despite his protests it would do no good. "They'll be expecting you to make a fuss over your missing model," he told the photographer.

The field agents weren't very helpful, except to say their informants were claiming a very high-ranking THRUSH official had arrived on the island and was expecting a special "present". Given the gentleman's known sexual preference, it was highly likely the "present" was Illya, and he'd be turned over at the club.

It was suggested this be allowed to happen, as it would be a good way to get a man deeply inside THRUSH Central. He might even be able to discover the whereabouts of the others who'd disappeared. It wouldn't be the first time a field agent had to perform sexually in the course of his duties. "Duty demands" was a fact every field agent understood and accepted.

That didn't mean Napoleon had to like it.

Illya was given lunch and told he'd be having dinner at the club.

"Dress your best and behave -- you'll be on display," he was told.

A few hours later a group of people entered the suite to prepare him for theevening. He was carefully shaved, bathed, groomed and dressed in an outfit Napoleon would have envied -- white silk shirt, an ice blue suit and tie that precisely matched his eyes, and tie tack and cufflinks of mother-of-pearl.

Gene cast envious eyes at him and sighed, knowing this treasure wouldn't be his to hold tonight, if ever. It was vaguely possible what was left might be passed down to him eventually, but how much of his beauty would remain by then?

He offered an arm and "Danya" took it, allowing him to escort him to the waiting car. He was disappointed to note the dark tinted windows in the limousine's rear, meaning he wouldn't be able to see their path to the club.

"What do you want me to do -- besides behave -- after we arrive?" Danya/Illya asked.

"It might be a good idea to model the suit you're wearing, or perhaps we could dance again," Gene offered. Illya shuddered deep inside himself at having to dance with -- and be groped by -- the man sitting beside him.

They arrived at the club, and when "Danya" saw the tables were set up to leave an aisle through the middle he knew a cue when he saw one. Thanking Roman Day and his persistence, he strutted down that aisle like it was a runway, sliding off the jacket and slinging it over his shoulder at the end while making a professional turn, then returning to his "date". He let his
frustration at the situation show clearly on his face, giving him that sexy pout Day claimed was his best expression.

He watched the maitre`d while he ate; the man seemed to be looking over the diners as if trying to find something. "What is he doing?" he asked Gene.

"Following the bidding on you -- it's a silent auction," the other man replied. "When the auction's over, the winner will come over and take my place."

They'd just finished dessert when a gentleman rose at the other side of the room and approached the table. He was tall, gaunt, bald and wore a monocle. "If I may?" he asked with a pronounced German accent.

Gene nodded, got up, and left, and the German took the empty chair.

"It is most peculiar to see you here, Herr Kuryakin," he said, stunning the Russian.

Part 13
by Kei

No...it wasn't possible.

He wanted to scream -and he wasn't ashamed to admit it.

At least, to himself.

Napoleon Solo clenched and unclenched his hands, his head tilted against the cold white wall of this section of the corridor outside of what served as a forensics' unit for a country that preferred not to ask questions at all when death was involved.

It hadn't been the best of ideas that he had ever suggested, to put out a "missing person's" report on on one Danya Nicholai Ivanovich -as he had mused before, the powers-that-be in this country didn't like to pursue matters in death. They liked even less to question when a person went missing -the end result was usually the same.

That was what he had feared...

...and that fear seemed to have been made solid reality when he had received that phone call not two hours ago. The police had found a body, he had been told, fitting the description of one Danya Ivanovich. As he was known as a close associate, would he come identify the body, please?

And he had come...

...dreading the moment.

...fearing it actually.

Other UNCLE agents had ended their all-too-short careers as "John Does" found dead in some hidden alleyway or washed up on the beach of one of a number of countries. It was the way it was...the way it could be. Every UNCLE agent knew it.

But he had never been able to wrap his mind around the idea that that would be the way Illya would end his too-short life...and then he had seen the body.

The damage had been extensive. The body, which had been dragged from the nearby waters, hadn't been in there long, but it had been long enough for some kind of sealife to get at it...but even more than that, someone had taken great pains that no definite identification could take place. The face...oh God, the face was beaten beyond all recognition...and there could be no
fingerprints.

Someone had cut off the man's fingers.

Napoleon had excused himself...and had then thrown up.

Illya...

It wasn't fair.

"Mr. Sinclair..?"

Napoleon looked at the local coroner, eyes haunted. "Yes?"

"I am sorry for your loss...and I fear that Mr. Ivanovich was not the first."

"I...I don't understand."

"It is not generally spoken of, but this country may be host to a serial killer with particular tastes."

"Explain."

"There have been found eight young men so far...all blonde, slight, all with similar birthmarks."

A light went on in the UNCLE agent's head. "Birthmark? He...the corpse has a birthmark?"

The coroner frowned in open puzzlement. "Yes...on his left thigh. A small one."

That little light of inspiration suddenly burned brighter. During the course of their career together, he had seen Illya Kuryakin naked several times -and his little Russian had no birthmark.

"Thank *you*, doctor!" Napoleon said, the famous "Solo" smile lighting his face as the coroner looked on in puzzlement. "But hold off on that identity confirmation.
 

"*You*..." The word slipped out of Illya Kuryakin's mouth before he could stop it. "But *how*?.."

A familiar enemy smiled. "Does it matter? I was dead to the world...and so, now, are you."
 
 

Part 14
by Jatona
 
 

"Forgive me, but I believe you have my property."

Both men looked up at the newcomer. They noted he was extremely handsome - classic Saxon features, in his mid-40ss, a broad masculine frame that spoke great physical prowess, and dressed to the nines.

Illya immediately thought of Napoleon but had no idea why.

For the German the man was an intrusion. "You are rude, sir. We were in the middle.....", he began.

".....of nothing", the man finished.

The German pushed his chair back and rose, slowly. "You have no idea who you are dealing with", he said, making certain the intruder heard the threat in his voice.

"Neither do you", the man replied, unruffled. He snapped his fingers and the five nearest tables emptied, their occupants now surrounding them.

The German held his ground. "What is your business with this man?", he demanded, pointing to Illya.

"I have the highest bid." The man held up his sheet. "The blond is mine and that is all you need to know." With that the man walked past the German and held out his hand. "Come."

The command tone, mixed with a definite sense of urgency, was unmistakable.. Illya did as he was told.

The man now turned to what were obviously his bodyguards. "Pay Mr. Anderson and see that this man", he pointed to the German, "does not interfere", he instructed a lethal looking female with flaming red hair.

"Yes, sir", she replied. Turning slightly she beckoned to Anderson who obeyed her summons. "You will find a briefcase on the third table directly behind us. Bring it to me then open it", she commanded.

Anderson did as he was told. His eyes grew round with what he beheld. 'How much was your bid, sir?", he asked the man.

"Ten million dollars. I consider him worth it."

Anderson grinned and closed the briefcase. "I agree. Nice doing business with you."

The German bristled. "You will answer to THRUSH for this!!", he snarled.

The man shrugged. "Whatever plans you have to thwart me I suggest you cancel them. Now, if you will excuse us."

"Anderson??!!", the German screamed as he struggled against his captors.

Anderson hugged the briefcase to his chest. "Business is business and rules are rules."

"The usual, sir?", asked the female.

"Naturally. When you have finished return home."

Without waiting for an answer the man headed for the rear exit with his prize.

"Why do I have the feeling I've just been rescued", Illya murmured, finally breaking a ten minute silence.

"Your instincts serve you yet again, Illya Kuryakin, you have been."

"You have me at a disadvantage...."

"And it must remain that way. You have nothing to fear from me. In return you must agree to let me help you."

Illya was instantly alert. "Do I have a choice?"

"If you mean are you truly 'my property', you are not. By now the money in Anderson's possession has dissolved and, of course, there was no written receipt."

Illya's scientific curiosity was aroused. "Dissolved?"

"A little invention of mine and that is all I will say on that subject."

"Of course. Might I ask, what do you get out of this?"

"Revenge."

"If I'm not being too impertinent, for whom?"

"Danya", the man replied; then, seeing a strange leer on the Russian's face he laughed, a deep, rich sound. "Your are wrong. Danya was a very dear friend from University. When I found out about his disappearance, I promised his family I'd find whoever was behind it and make them pay. Through my own investigation I found out your German companion had
purchased Danya from that place, got him hooked on heroin, used him and then murdered him."

"Did you know the German was involved with a terrorist organization.....?"

"Yes. THRUSH. I did research on them and discovered they do not like failure. His death at the hands of my people is better than what thisTHRUSH would have done. Am I correct?"

Illya nodded. If this man was powerful enough to 'research' THRUSH, he had to know about UNCLE. The confirmation came in a most unexpected way.

The man reached inside his breast pocket and brought out a familiar looking object. He held it out to the Russian. "I believe you will need this to contact your people."

Illya took the device. "Open Channel D."

The response was immediate. "It is good to hear your voice, Mr. Kuryakin", answered Waverly. "Are you all right?"

"I am fine, sir and on my way to headquarters."

"Excellent. Might I inquire how you managed to escape?"

"A private citizen 'bought' me, sir."

"I beg your pardon?"

"I was up for bid as planned. He bought me for ten million; however, he doubled crossed Anderson. The money was treated with a chemical that dissolves the money. He'll have a lot of explaining to do to his banker."

"Indeed Most clever."

"I thought so, sir. By the way, I have a favor to ask."

"Ask."

"My companion wishes to help us. I know it is our policy not to involve civilians but, trust me, he could prove invaluable."

Silence. "I see", Waverly finally said. "His name?"

"For his safety, and mine, he wishes to remain anonymous."

"And you trust his man, Illya?" This from Napoleon Solo.

"I do, Napoleon, as I would you. Think. Money or no he could have kept me and taken me out of the country, beyond even UNCLE's jurisdiction."

"True, Mr. Kuryakin, and we have used civilians before with reasonable success. Not to mention we owe him for your life."

Illya smiled to himself. "Might I take that as a 'yes', sir?"

"Only if he understands that we are in command here."

Illya was delighted to see a smile curve the man's generous mouth. "He understands, sir."

" Very well. What's your ETA?"

At that moment the limo stopped. "Stand by." Pushing a small black button he turned to his companion. "Yes?"

"You are two blocks away from your headquarters. My limo will follow until I know you are safe. I will not betray you."

Illya nodded and pressed the black button again. "I'll see you in ten minutes, sir, and thank you. Close Channel D." Illya secured the instrument and turned to his companion. On an impulse he gave the man a quick kiss. "For Danya", he whispered, then exited the limo.

The man watched Illya through the one way window as his limo followed the UNCLE agent until the Russian finally turned into a restaurant. "For you, Napoleon,. I pledged I would love you always that night in Korea and, in whatever capacity, I would be there whenever you needed me. I will always keep my word."

 Part 15
by Loke
 

Illya entered the restaurant, gave the maitre d' a code phrase, and walkedinto the men's room. He entered the last stall, ignoring the multi-lingual "Out of Order" sign, and flushed the toilet. The sound covered the noise of a secret door opening, and Illya went through into the local UNCLE HQ. He identified himself, was given a badge and escorted to where Waverly
and Solo waited.

"Good evening, Mr. Kuryakin," Waverly greeted him. "I've just received a report from the agent I'd sent in to retrieve you. It appears the German had some highly-placed friends -- with well-armed bodyguards -- in the club as well. It was quite a lengthy shootout, allowing him the time to thoroughly search the club's office. The net result of the evening's activities are that most of the THRUSH-backed government is dead and we have several new leads on the missing young men. We're already moving to put an interim government in place until new elections can be held, which means your work here is through. A good thing, too, since I'd like you to start looking for the young men who are still missing from the club."

"What about our anonymous ally?" Illya asked.

"We're already working on identifying him," Waverly replied. "By the next time he contacts you, you'll have a name to go with the face, and as much background as we can acquire. You've doubtless had a long, tiring day -- why don't you let Mr. Solo take you to your new hotel room so you can get some rest? I'll want the two of you well rested and ready to go in the
morning." His agents took that as a dismissal and left.

Illya was somewhat concerned -- Napoleon had been quiet through his interview with Waverly and continued his silence on the way to their new hotel. The change of rooms was necessitated by Illya's cover being blown; staying in their old room was too risky now. Even Roman Day and his models had been packed up and moved out of the country.

Napoleon was being quiet for a reason: he couldn't think of anything witty to say to this vision of godhood which had replaced his partner. 'Be careful what you wish for,' he told himself ruefully, 'you just might receive it.' He'd wanted to see what Illya would look like dressed to the nines, and now he'd gotten his wish. He could barely think straight when he looked at him, and he could tell his partner was oblivious to the effect he produced.

"Napoleon," Illya asked, "why would someone pay 10 million dollars for a sexual partner?"

It took him a moment to answer; he had to locate his tongue, which was somewhere down in his throat. "Was *that* the winning bid?"

"Yes."

He wanted to say, 'Because you're so beautiful, and so innocent looking,' but wasn't sure Illya would care to hear it, especially the last phrase. "I don't know. Maybe it gives them a sense of power to think they own something so many others want."

They parked in the lot and went upstairs to their room, Napoleon leading the way. He unlocked the door and waved Illya in before him, closing and locking it behind him. When the Russian turned to say something to him, Napoleon pounced.

He wrapped one arm around Illya's waist, pulling him to him, while the other hand went behind his head, sliding into and mussing the formerly well-coifed golden locks. He covered his partner's lips with his own, pressing gently and sucking lightly on his lower one. Napoleon's tongue darted out, asking for entrance, which Illya happily granted. They tasted each other, tongues dancing and exploring.

When they finally broke for air, Napoleon said, "I thought I'd never have the chance to do that, so I resolved to kiss you half-senseless the first chance I got."

"Is that *all* you want to do?" Illya asked shyly.
 

 Part 16
by Kei

Napoleon allowed himself a low, throaty chuckle as he carded the flaxen hair with his fingers -did the man in his arms have *any* idea of how much power he held over him...any idea of what he could make him do or feel with a single word? "Hardly," Solo whispered into the shell-like ear. He tugged at the blue silk tie and it came undone in his hand. "But...I suspect that you
are a *little* overdressed for what *I* want to do with you."

Illya's crystalline eyes sparkled. "I could say the same of *you*, Polya," the Russian replied a little breathlessly as timidly questing hands began to explore his partner's form with growing confidence. "Perhaps we should both-"

The phone began to ring.

Napoleon rolled his eyes in exasperation, silently spitting a curse at whatever lower powers seem to take a great delight in interfering at the worst possible moment. The ringing persisted. "We *could* ignore it..." he suggested.

Illya pressed a finger to Solo's lips. "Not in *our* business, lyubov." The Russian nodded to the obstinately trilling mechanism. "You* answer that while *I* shed this suit." He shuddered. "I suddenly feel the need to rid myself of Anderson's scent."

Napoleon watched Illya disappear behind the door leading to their sumptuous bedroom suite, before forcing himself to ignore the ache in his groin and lunging for the offensive communications' device. "Hello?"

"Napoleon..."

Solo stared at the receiver, the rich baritone voice on the other end, immediately forcing him to recall faint glimpses of a hundred memories... of stolen, passionate moments in a world at war, of tender words spoken in a familiar accent that hinted both of an expensive exclusive English schooling and humble Scottish birth. "*James*???"

"It took you long enough to remember."

"Oh, *I* remember." Solo didn't care if the words *sounded* bitter because they *were*. "I should have known... So, I assume that it's *you* I have to thank for my partner's rescue?"

"Of course."

"Then 'thank you', James." Napoleon sighed, suppressing the old hurt of a love that circumstances and individual career choices had made impossible. "*What* do you want?"

For a long moment, there was silence...a moment so long that Napoleon began to wonder if the connection had been lost. "What I want, Napoleon, is your attention -because I will not say this twice: the raid on 'the Club' was not entirely successful. Eugene Anderson and the THRUSH leader known as 'the German' are counted among the missing ...and, as we both know, the German does not take insults well."

There was a low sigh, but before Solo could speak: "Roman Day and the 'Wave' Magazine caravan, along with their UNCLE escort, met with an unfortunate and fatal *accident* when their flight succumbed to 'mechanical failure'." Another pause. "Watch out for your partner, Napoleon -the German does not give up his 'treasures' easily." Nothing more was said.

Napoleon's knuckles whitened as he clenched the receiver. James..? *James*! Damn you, Bond, *answer* me!" But the only response was an electronic whine as the connection was finally broken.

Heart pounding with anxiety, Solo stalked over to the bedroom door, yanking it open. "Illya, we-"

The room was empty.
 

Part 17
by Jatona
 

Solo fought against the panic that threatened to overwhelm him. "Illya!!??" he called out.

"I'm out here, Napoleon," replied the familiar voice from the balcony.

Solo rushed to the spot and sighed with relief. There stood the Russian, wearing only the expensive trousers, leaning against the
railing as if nothing had happened. "Are you all right?" he asked merely for the sake of hearing his own voice.

Illya remained where he was. "I'm fine but, if you will join me, I have a matter which requires your attention."

Solo obeyed stopping within inches of the blond and looked over his shoulder. "Company?"

Illya glanced down at the man hanging over the railing of their twentieth floor balcony. The only thing that kept his captive from
plunging to his death was the firm grip Illya had on each of his wrist. "Indeed. Not very talkative I'm afraid."

"And you'll get nothing out of me!", he man hissed.

Solo tsked. "Oh, dear, that could prove unfortunate for you. You see, we get very upset when people simply drop in unannounced; however, on such occasions, we feel an explanation is due. Are you certain you have nothing to say?"

"I am THRUSH. I am prepared to die!" the man snapped.

"You are a fool!" Illya retortred. "However, if that is what you want I'd be most happy to oblige." To prove his point he let go on the man's left wrist.

"All right!" the man croaked, realizing the Russian was crazy enough to let him go. "What do you want to know?"

"First, do you know who we really are?" This from Solo.

"Yes."

"The German sent you then?"

"Yes."

"For the purpose of reclaiming me?" Illya demanded.

"Yes."

"Where were you to deliver me?"

"To his private estate. I do not know the location."

"Yes. He would consider you too unimportant to know such things. And what of Mr. Solo?"

The THRUSH agent leered up at the blond. "He was to be my reward."

"Ah! Is this the same reason the German wants me?"

"Naturally."

Illya sniggered. "So, like a good THRUSHIE you flew up here to do your duty; against two experienced UNCLE agents no less. Your carelessness has caused your partner's death and, soon, your own....."

"Now, now, Illya" Napoleon purred. "Let's not be hasty."

Illya glanced back at his partner and pouted, a gesture he knew the American loved.. "You're such a party pooper, Napoleon. What do you suggest?"

Napoleon chuckled, seeing the devilish gleam in those sapphire eyes.

"Well, I seem to remember a place the German frequented. Rough trade and all that. Perhaps when they find out our friend here knew him..."

Illya turned his attention to his captive. "Hmmm. A definite possibility, wouldn't you say?"

The man sneered. "Do that and you lose the German."

Illya considered that bit of information. "True. What do you propose?"

"I'll help you get the German."

"My, what an offer. Why the change of heart?" asked Napoleon.

"First pull me up."

Reluctantly Napoleon let go of his lover, moved over to the railing. Together they hauled the agent back on the balcony, yet ket near the railing as a reminder. "You were saying?" Illya prompted.

The man bristled.. " 'Kuryakin and Solo will be a pushover because you will catch them in bed with their guards down.' " he said, mimicking his employer.. "Now look at me, one of THRUSH's finest, a captive of the 'pushovers'. Well, if I am to go down so will he!"

"Sensible. The phone is over there", remarked Solo.

The man stalked over to the phone, UNCLE agents on his heels, snatched up the receiver and punished in the pre-arranged number.
 

 Part 18
by Loke
 

The THRUSH agent held the receiver to his ear, waiting for someone to pick up on the other end. The phone was answered with a single word. "Well?"

"I have the requested item," the agent said. "When and where do you want to take possession?" He felt pen and paper pushed into his hand, and wrote the directions he was given down on it. There was a time -- two hours from now -- and a place -- an empty house near the fields that made up the island's second main industry. Sugar, and the rum made from it.

Illya had finished changing by the time the meeting was set and the agent hung up the phone. He'd also called in a pick-up squad on his communicator, and two UNCLE agents arrived minutes later to take the Thrushie in hand. He'd changed suits with Napoleon since the two men were the same size and coloring.

"What's the plan?" Illya asked, noting his partner's change of apparel.

"I go in as our recent guest," Napoleon replied, "and you go in as a blanket-wrapped bundle in the backseat. I'll try to get them to allow me to ride along as they're taking you to the German. If not, we'll take them at the house, or failing that, we'll make a strategic withdrawal."

They pulled up in front of the house two hours later, a wide-awake and well armed Illya Kuryakin in the back wrapped loosely in a blanket. The first complication to their plan showed up almost immediately -- the German was there to claim his prize in person, and had brought a dozen others -- all heavily armed -- along to make suure he kept it.

He opened the rear door nearest Illya's head and ran a hand through the Russian's golden hair. "Do you know, my sweet," he murmured, "how long I have wanted you? Danya was but a substitute for you, my beauty, and in the end a poor one. I first saw you in Paris, while you were studying at the Sorbonne. I would have taken you then if not for your KGB watchdogs. Since
then I've watched you from afar, knowing there would come a day when I could snatch you up with impunity. That day has now come, and I can scarcely wait to have you."

Illya remained immobile and relaxed, though he was shocked by the German's words. To think this brute had watched him for years, and ruined another man's career and life because he resembled the object of his lustful obsession! He realized with a sinking heart he could do nothing without endangering his partner, and hoped Napoleon would find a way to get clear so
the backup team could move in.

He heard shots, and took it as his cue to move. The German was still looking around trying to locate the shooters and paying no attention to Illya. The Russian shot him in the head twice without a second thought and dived into the front seat, started the car (Napoleon had thoughtfully left the keys in the ignition), shoved it in gear and drove toward where the shots were coming from. He only slowed down long enough for Napoleon to dive through the back window, stopping after they were safely behind cover. The pair then joined the backup team in firing on the THRUSH agents.

It was over fairly quickly, with all the Thrushies down and most -- including the German -- dead. It was only while they were examining the bodies they discovered half of them had bulletholes which could not have come from the backup team. Ballistic analysis of the bullets would show they were of British manufacture -- the type favored by Her Majesty's Secret Service.

Waverly debriefed his two best agents over breakfast in the restaurant fronting the HQ. "It would seem you gentlemen have had a busy night," he quipped, "perhaps you can get some sleep on the plane." He handed them airplane tickets, passports, and file folders. "Your cover identities and mission particulars are in here. You'll be going in to locate and retrieve as many of those missing young men as possible. Good Luck and Godspeed, gentlemen."

The two men said their good-byes and left quickly to pack. The plane to Mexico City left in less than two hours. They'd be catching a connecting flight there, and would eventually end up in Hong Kong, one as a seller, the other as the merchandise.
 

Part 19
by Kei

Tired...

He was so very tired and yet, he could not sleep.

Napoleon tried to find a comfortable position , but the task was beyond him. First, a short Mexican flight, and now this seemingly endless one to Hong Kong, but neither airline had apparently heard of comfortable seats. He glanced to his side, his gaze lingering on the covered bundle that he saw there. Of course Illya was sound asleep, curled up -his partner could doze off anywhere. Deep in the realm of Morpheus, the Russian's sleep-relaxed face had lost the lines of tension that had been etched into the pale flesh since this mission had begun -he looked so young, so vulnerable and innocent thatthe senior agent was tempted to gently draw his fingers against the supple skin.

But he couldn't.

With the very real possibility that they were being watched at this very moment, it wouldn't have been wise to appear *too* chummy when *he* was supposed to be bringing Illya in to be sold...to the very sex slave ring that had provided the German with his blonde "toys" -"toys" with which he would *play* for a while because they *looked* like Illya, only to eventually kill
them because they were *not* Illya. UNCLE intelligence indicated that the master of this ring still wanted his blonde acquisition. The "mysterious" loss of ten million dollars had left this unknown individual determined to make up for the loss...in flesh.

Napoleon sighed, hoping that the minor appliqués that altered his appearance would be sufficient -Eugene Anderson was still at large and could recognize him without them. For all he knew, the man could be waiting for them at the airport in Hong Kong. The UNCLE agent glanced at his watch -two hours to go. Two hours to mentally go over and perfect his explanation for how he had gotten "their property" to accompany him with such seeming docility.

"You look tired, Polya...you should try to sleep."

At the whispered words, Napoleon furtively touched the uncovered smaller hand, its fingers momentarily curling around his own. "No can do...wouldn't look good for your *captor* to fall asleep on the job, would it?"

Illya seemed to mull this statement over for a moment and then nodded slightly. "True." He lay back, the silence stretching until: "Are you going to tell me about him?"

"Who?"

"Our secretive benefactor."

"I don't know what you-"

"I heard your conversation on the phone at the hotel." Illya shrugged. "At least, some of it."

"Oh." Napoleon squeezed the slender fingers. "We were part of a secret international task force during the war. James was my superior officer. It was totally against the rules, but somewhere along the way...maybe after one too many lonely, fear-filled nights...we became intimate. We, or maybe just *I*, fell in love. It didn't last though."

"Why?"

Napoleon laughed a little sadly under his breath. "Who can really say? I always told myself that it was because our budding careers made no room for a relationship like ours. Maybe we just didn't have the guts."

"I see." There was another silence, a stillness so complete that Napoleon thought that the Russian had drifted off again, but: "Napoleon?"

"Yes, Illya?"

"I think he's still in love with you."

********************

Two and a half hours later, the airliner touched down on Hong Kong soil.

As both UNCLE agents entered the airport lobby, Napoleon tightened his grip on Illya's arm, unhappily playing his role as a peddler of human flesh...a grim, but wise precaution, they immediately realized.

There was a greeting party waiting for them.
 
 

 Part 20
by Jatona

The 'greeting party' consisted of ten - five men and five women, all well dressed in expensive business attire. A tall redhead stepped forward and held out two glasses. "Welcome to Hong Kong, gentlemen. I'm certain, after such a long flight, you wish to refresh yourselves. Two Martinis, shaken and stirred." she said, politely.

Both men relaxed but Napoleon was puzzled when Illya stepped forward and bowed. "It is nice to see you again." he said.

She smiled. "Good to know you are well, sir." she replied. "Now, to business," she continued, addressing them both once more. "Everything is ready for you and we," she indicated her companions, "are at your disposal."

"Our staff," Napoleon confirmed taking one of the Martini's from her. He took a sip and nodded in approval. "Always the best", he muttered.

"Always," the redhead repeated. "Now, if you'll follow us...."

An hour later the two UNCLE agents found themselves once again in opulent surroundings but this Villa dwarfed their previous location: the foyer and livingroom alone were bigger than Solo's entire apartment; the kitchen was ultra modern and well stocked; the spacious bathroom included a sunken tub; and the master bedroom could have slept ten full grown adults easily.

While they unpacked the routine check for cameras and bugs was performed. Once the 'all clear' was given Illya embraced his lover. "Napasha?" he whispered in a convenient ear.

"Hmmm?" Solo murmured, returning the embrace and pulling their bodies close.

"Would you be angry if I told you something?"

Knowing the man he loved all too well, Solo had a pretty good idea as to the subject matter. Once a thought found its way into the Russian head, it got resolved, be that within 2 minutes or ten years. "No," he replied, honestly.

"Very well. I know the last name of our secret benefactor."

"I see. Would you enlighten me by whispering that last name in my ear, O Wise One."

Illya obeyed and, although the American made no move, the slight intake of breathe was not lost on him. "I take it I am correct?"

Solo pulled back a little to study his lover's face. 'Beauty and brains! I am a lucky bastard!' "How did you come to that
conclusion?" he asked.

"Simplicity itself, Napasha. There is only one man in this world who drinks his Martinis shaken but NOT stirred. It is only logical that a perfect code would be a Martini both shaken AND stirred."

Solo chuckled. "Never try to fool a Russian. Now, I have a question."

"Shoot."

As if on cue Solo's erection chose that moment to assert itself. "Later," he groaned. "First, why are you being so understanding about this?"

The seriousness in that voice was evident of its importance to the American. "He still loves you, Napoleon and I know he still holds a special place in your heart. I would hope that, were our positions reversed, you would still remember me."

Solo's smile lit his entire face including his eyes. "If I'd met you first James never would've had a chance. I've always thought you and I were fated to me, you know; like soulmates. Does that make sense or am I just babbling?"

Before Illya could answer the question the phone rang. He sighed. "You know, Napasha, we'll need a lot of time off to make up for these rude interruptions," he quipped.

Napoleon nodded, his dark eyes promising 'And we'll get it!'. "Yes," he spoke into the receiver.

"Curtain's going up," the familiar voice on the phone. "I'll meet you on stage."

"Right." Solo replaced the receiver and turned to his partner. "It's show time!"

 Part 21
by Loke

Illya knew as he followed his partner down to the waiting limousine and rode to the club where he'd be "sold" he was taking a terrible risk. There was no way to guarantee the tracker they'd hidden inside him would keep signaling if he got too far away or there was a lot of metal between the device and its receiver. There was also the risk to his person -- he'd have to actually be turned over to his new "owner" and taken -- hopefully -- to the location of at least some of tthe missing men.

James handled the introductions and set up the auction with the club's maitre'd while Napoleon and Illya were led to seats. There must have been some fairly lively bidding; the maitre'd's head bobbed and weaved like a skier on a giant slalom before finally giving a final nod to the gentleman who their information said had purchased most of the missing men. He came over to the table where the three men were sitting with a flunky carrying a suitcase trailing behind him.

The flunky pulled out the table's empty chair and the gentleman sat down and introduced himself as "Mr. Smith". It wasn't his actual name, as the three men knew and his own distinctly Oriental features pointed out. He snapped his fingers and the flunky placed the suitcase on the table and opened it. "Do you wish to count it?" he asked.

James and Napoleon both shook their heads in negation. Napoleon closed the suitcase and they rose, leaving the table and Illya in the hands of his new owner. They walked out to their limo and tuned their receiver to Illya's frequency. Shortly thereafter, the Russian and "Mr. Smith" emerged from the club and got into a waiting limousine. They waited a few minutes until they
were certain they wouldn't be seen, then followed.

Inside "Mr. Smith's" limo Illya was already feeling the effects of the drug which had been slipped into his last drink. He was too weak and dizzy to fight off the hands which quickly stripped away his clothing and began to fondle and nibble his skin. His "Please, no," wasn't altogether an act for his captor's benefit.

"You’re so beautiful," the Oriental murmured against his skin. "I wonder why the German didn't keep you for himself." He pulled back and looked at Illya's face. "I think I'll do what he would have done instead of selling your favors like I do with the others I've purchased -- at least until I tire of you." He leaned forward and crushed the other man's lips beneath
his own while one hand snaked down to the Russian's crotch.

Meanwhile in another limo Napoleon and James were tracking Illya and keeping their distance. James couldn't help but notice how nervous his former lover was. "He'll be alright, you know. He's trained for this, and he's been in this kind of situation before. I've been following his career since he became your partner."

"You know as well as I do there are any number of things which could go wrong," Napoleon said worriedly. "We have no way of knowing what's happening inside that limo." He didn't want to think, let alone mention, what would happen to Illya if the ruse was discovered. If only it was that which was bothering him most. He knew why his partner had been purchased; he only hoped "Mr. Smith" wouldn't go too far before arriving at his destination.

"Bloody Hell!" James said suddenly. He fiddled with the receiver, trying to regain the signal which had been lost. "Here," he said, passing the gadget to Napoleon. He then pulled an earpiece from a cufflink and a mike from his tie tack. "We've lost the signal. Tracking contingency two is now in effect. Report when you hear anything." He lowered the mike but left the
earpiece in place. "Don't worry old son," he told Napoleon, squeezing his hand in an old gesture of affection, "he won't be lost for long."
 

 Part 22
by Kei
 

“So very, *very* beautiful...” Illya cringed inwardly at the sensation of the Oriental’s lips against his skin, the unwanted touch causing the knot of dread in his stomach to tighten, almost to the point of panic...but he could do nothing about it. Whatever drug he had been slipped, it was working fast -he was far from numb, but he was all but paralyzed, his limbs refusing hisevery command.

The German had liked his playthings spirited.

The Oriental obviously liked them...quiescent.

Slim, tapered fingers quested past the Russian operative’s sensitive genitalia and behind, stroking the equally sensitive flesh between the solid cheeks. “So... Can it be -a *virgin*..?” Illya cursed his captor’s perceptive touch -yes, there had been no-one...not even the few times he had felt the all-too-human longing. There had been no time for such things for the driven student he had been and the single-minded UNCLE agent that he had become...Napoleon would have been the first.

But not now.

He knew what the Oriental intended.

Illya felt himself turned onto his stomach and mentally steeled himself against what he *knew* was coming. It was part of an UNCLE field agent’s training that one be prepared for the possibility of rape, but even when taking instruction, he had never been able to comprehend how one could actually be prepared for such intimate violence...but...for the moment, at least, the cold fingers moved away from Illya’s most sensitive flesh and began to trace the faint lines on his back, scars left by Mother Fear’s “disciplines”. “Ahh...now, I see how your former owner ‘trained’ you so well...” the Oriental said in a tone that spoke approval. “But you need not fear *that* from me, my silver fox...” A trail of equally chilled kisses traced the slightly trembling Russian’s spine. “...as long as you remain obedient to-”

“*Sir!*”

The Oriental’s head snapped up at the sound of his chauffeur’s voice from the other side of the partition. “I *told* you I was not to be disturbed until we arrived!”

“Yes, sir, but I just received a message from the Estate. Your man from San Pablo -Eugene Anderson- turned himself in at the gates.”

“*Has* he..?” The tan countenance twisted with an angry sneer. “I suppose he can explain away his attempted deception and return my money!”

“Actually, sir, he’s come offering information -to you alone- in exchange for his life.” There was a pause. “He says that he has learned things that could affect your entire ‘business’. Should I tell security to *deal* with him?”

A vulpine smile crossed the Oriental’s lips. “I think...not. Anderson would not be so foolish as to try my patience with ‘unimportant’ prattle. Make haste and let us see what Mr. Anderson has to offer as appeasement.”

In his drugged haze, Illya listened and waited, heart rate spiking at the mention of the name of the former proprietor of the Club -how much had the man deduced of UNCLE’s involvement in this affair, if anything? Entire missions had been scrapped, and operatives’ lives lost, for less. The Russian UNCLE agent felt something, a blanket, being placed over his naked form and
allowed himself a mental sigh of relief at what seemed to be a reprieve. “Sorry, my little silver fox,” the Oriental whispered in his ear. “No time for pleasures just yet...but there *will* be. I promise you.”

“Thank you, my dear. You *are* a treasure.”

Napoleon looked up from the formerly well-manicured fingernails he had gnawed all but to the knuckle since the Oriental’s limo had escaped sight. His traveling companion set the car phone down. “James?”

Britain’s primary secret service operative nodded. “The car has been sighted. We *know* where they are.”
 

 Part 23
by Jatona

"And WE know where you are, Mr. Bond", came a voice from the direction of the balcony. "If you both would be so kind as to rise, put your hands where I can see them, and face me", came the afterthought.

James cringed as he recognized the voice. **I saw him die!** He knew the intruder had to be the mastermind behind this. **And I get caught like a greenhorn** Motioning Napoleon to remain seated, he obeyed the command, rising slowly with his hands over his head, fingers locked. He forced a smile, more for courage than arrogance. "So, I am correct. SMERSH is involved. To what do I owe this pleasure?"

The Eurasian grinned but remained in the shadows. "The pleasure will be all mine, Mr. Bond, but I doubt you will benefit from it", he replied, then turned to face the still seated American. "Your name, my handsome one", he demanded.

"He is of no use to you", Bond interjected. "I'm the one you want!"

The man tsked. "Now, Mr. Bond, do not underestimate my intelligence, again. We know each other too well. Would you care to introduce us, then?"

Bond remained silent and positioned himself between the Eurasian and Napoleon.

The Eurasian sighed. "Oh, dear, I see we are going to be difficult. A pity. Tonga!"

Bond felt his insides freeze as he watched the figure emerge from the shadows at its' master's call. Nothing in man's darkest nightmares could compare to the dwarf. Bond always thought of him as a dark lump of flesh onto which someone curved misshapen eyes, nose and mouth. What passed for legs were mere stubs of flesh.

Tonga smiled, displaying rotting teeth, then pulled a reed-like device from the burlap sack slung over his hunched shoulders. This he pointed at Bond.

"James, look out!", Napoleon shouted.

The warning came too late. A soft rush of air, the sting of a paralyzing dart.

The poison raced through his system. Quickly he sat on the floor while he could still move and watched helplessly as the same fate befell Napoleon.

Bond's mind raced. He knew this poison - the paralysis it caused was not permanent if given the antidote within half an hour. If not, death would follow the paralysis, all the body functions simply shutting down.  Now the Eurasian came out of the shadows and approached Solo. Stopping within inches of the American he reached out and caressed the strong jawline, traced the full lips and tickled the cleft in the chin. All the while he watched as dark eyes blackened with hatred. "You are a beauty, my sweet, and I shall enjoy watching your perform", he purred.

**Perform?** Napoleon was puzzled. The only parts of his body that worked were his eyes and his brain.

"Strip him and carry him down to the limo while I attend to Mr. Bond", the Eurasian ordered. His companions obeyed. Once the room was cleared he walked over to Bond. "We must take our leave now, Mr. Bond, and here is the antidote." He removed a syringe from what seemed to be an hidden pocket in his jacket and injected the fluid in the agent's unresisting arm. "There we are! You will be fine in about ten minutes, long enough for us to be away. Goodbye."

With a slight tradition bow he turned and headed for the balcony.
 

"Mr. Kuryakin", whispered a voice in his ear. "Lay still and just listen. I work with Mr. Bond's. He and your partner were ambushed.. Mr. Bond was temporarily paralyzed and the top man is on his way here with your partner. This is to our advantage. The top man likes to watch and he expects a good show. He is going to pair you with your partner. Fortunately, to him you are just two beautiful men he acquired, and he has no idea who, and what, you really are."

Illya stretched, sensuously, and turned beneath the man so they would be face to face. This hid their conversation from any surveillance equipment. "Unfortunately for him, once Napoleon and I are reunited, he will find out!", he mouthed.

 Part 24
By Loke

"I've found you someone to play with," a voice told Illya as he dumped Napoleon's naked and blanket-shrouded body on the floor of the limo's rear, "but not here, and not just yet. The two of you need the proper setting to give the best performance." This wasn't Mr. Smith; the voice was completely different, and the Russian agent wondered if this was the man they'd come to
find.

The limousine sped through the evening as Napoleon recovered from his paralysis and tried to figure a way out of his present situation. He wished there was some way to communicate with his partner, but Illya was up on the seat while he was down on the floor. He wasn't even in a position to catch Illya's eye.

The car arrived at its destination and the two men were unloaded and carried inside. They were taken to what appeared to be film set, which it was -- for porn. It appeared their performance was going to be filmed for distribution. They were unwrapped and dumped on the bed which was the set's main area.

"What a lovely contrast of light and dark," their captor remarked, "you're so beautiful together. But you won't stay together if you don't start getting better acquainted. I'm always looking for new talent for my BDSM films -- and realism is such a plus in those.""

Illya and Napoleon moved into an awkward embrace and began touching each other. Making it look like he was nibbling Illya's ear, Napoleon asked, "Still in place?"

The other man moved as if to reciprocate and whispered back, "Yes. Did I mention I *hate* cameras?"

For an answer Napoleon pushed his partner down on the bed and covered his face with kisses, covering his whispered, "We'll have to keep distracting them until we're found." What was still in place was the tracking device in Illya's sinuses, put there during their layover in Mexico City. It was very small and had a limited range, but it was the only device which could be
implanted quickly without leaving a trace.  Napoleon kept up the charade, moving down Illya's neck to his chest and
teasing his nipples to rigid attention with fingers and tongue. He moved further down, nibbling ribs and French kissing Illya's navel as his partner moaned and ran his fingers through the other man's dark hair. Napoleon was just beginning to wonder how far he was going to need to take this when he heard a muffled explosion and the sound of running feet.

He met Illya's eyes and quickly flipped him off the bed and into their captor, who'd taken his eyes off the pair momentarily. The two men tumbled to the floor while Napoleon tackled the nearest guard. By the time James arrived with his people and the local UNCLE backup, the two men had disarmed all the guards by holding a gun to their main captor's head. The guards quickly joined their brethren in custody.

"Lee," his former lover said, passing him a blanket, "you're beginning to make me feel redundant."

"All in a day's work," Napoleon replied, wrapping himself against the cold and the admiring glances of the women among their rescuers. He turned to locate his partner, and laughed out loud to discover him busily burning every reel of film on the set. "Did you manage to locate the rest of the missing men?"

"Our people are on it right now," James replied. A young man ran up and gave him an update: all the missing young men had been accounted for or located. He gave them an additional piece of data which sent shivers up both men's spines -- Gene Anderson had been found in one of the guest rooms, waiting to report on everything which had happened on San Pedro. "My God, that was almost too close. If Anderson had made that report --"

"Illya and I would have been starring in a snuff film -- as the victims," Napoleon finished the other man's sentence and thought.

"It looks like the only things left now are debriefing and paperwork," the British agent said, "and getting you and your partner dressed properly."
 
 

Part 25 (Robin’s End)
by Kei
 
 

It was all over.

The mission that had taken them from one hellish situation to another, and from one hemisphere to another, was finally complete. Done.

A sex slave ring that had thrived, ultimately, due to the co-operation of two of the world’s most powerful terrorist groups -THRUSH and SMERSH- had been crushed, its surviving victims freed, operators and patrons duly dealt with, and another source of the witches’ brew that was heroin -cut off...at least, for now.

And James had disappeared.

Again.

Napoleon brought the crystal goblet to his mouth, draining the last of the fine wine that remained, a slightly wistful smile on his lips. That his once and former lover had disappeared like that failed to surprise or worry him. He had always known that James would make his exit like that eventually. Without warning. Without a goodbye. Yet...somehow...he could no longer find
it in himself to be angry or bitter. It was simply James’ way of doing things. The way it had been when they had parted those years ago.

The quickest and, therefore, the least painful way.

At least in theory.

He had been in love with that arrogant Brit once -and Illya was right, there *was* still *some* small echo of that old emotion buried deep within his heart- but not like before. Someone else had taken its place...and *this* time, as wonderfully startling as the realization was, he knew that he was *not* going to let that someone get away.

Illya was too important to him to allow it.

Completion of assignment, paperwork, and debriefing had left both agents too weary to question when they learned that *someone* had rented the Villa, in which they had recently stayed, in their names until the end of the month -the chauffeur-driven limousine that had dropped them there had been an especially nice touch as both had also little more energy than to crumple onto the familiar huge bed and fall asleep in each other’s arms.

That had been several hours ago...

...and now...

...awake, showered, and refreshed, Napoleon Solo -C.E.A. of UNCLE- realized that he was as nervous as he had been on his first date. *This* mattered *that* much. Illya mattered that much. “Polya..?”

Eyes of dark brown met eyes of crystalline blue that peered out from beneath a fringe of blonde still damp from the shower the elder agent hadn’t realized had stopped running. Napoleon found himself drawing his fingers through the limp golden strands. “Did you know that you’re beautiful?”

Warm red colored the Russian’s pale features. “Did you know that you sound nervous?”

There was a low, soft laugh. “I guess I am.”

Smaller hands embraced the broad, strong shoulders. “Why?”

“Because you’re...because you’ve never...”

“So?”

“The first...*your* first...” Napoleon swallowed deeply, suprised at his own discomfiture. “I want it to be perfect for you.”

Another soft laugh -this time, from the small Russian. “I do not doubt that it will be.”

“Illya, I’ve never...with a virgin. Not even my wife.”

“Then you do not wish-”

“No, that’s not-”

“If you have changed your mind...”

“No! Of course not.”

“Napoleon..?”

“Yes?”

Softly, but not quite shyly: “Make love to me?”

The smile reached from Solo’s lips to his eyes. “Yes.”

It began with a kiss that was more than a kiss, hands touching hands ...touching the warm skin of each other’s body as though being introduced anew, Illya allowing Napoleon’s experienced touch and, tentatively at first, following with his own...fingertips feeling the smooth, hard planes of his partner’s form like *this* for the first time.

Robes slid to the floor to reveal their naked bodies. Napoleon began to kiss his partner all the more thoroughly, lips tracing the strong jaw, the bared throat, and down the lightly furred chest, pausing to take each dusky nipple into his mouth in its turn, before tracing the heaving ribcage with his tongue and all the way down to the gold-crested member.

Illya gasped aloud, gripping Napoleon’s shoulders as the wet warmth of his lover’s mouth enclosed him, stimulating him to almost painful hardness.

“Bed?” Napoleon asked breathlessly.

“D-da...yes...”

The kisses continued, thoroughly, intensely as they both sank onto the silk-covered bed, Illya’s hands tracing Napoleon’s chest, Napoleon kneading his Russian’s small, firm buttocks. “Illyusha..?”

“Yes..?”

“I love you...you *do* know that, don’t you?”

“Polya...I love you too.”

“Are you ready?”

“Da...very definitely yes.”

Napoleon rolled so that Illya was on top, gently thrusting his member against his lover’s; Illya, with growing confidence, doing the same until the sweetly intense friction became increasingly urgent, sensations building up to a seemingly impossible peak -and they both came, one after the other, in an explosion of pleasure, and the small Russian collapsed against the larger
man’s rapidly heaving chest. “Bozhe moi...bozhe moi...”
 
“Ilyusha...”

“Mmmn..?”

“I love you.”

“You already said that...”

“Do you mind?”

“No. Polya..?”

“Hmn?”

“I love you too.”
 

EPILOGUE:

The low hum of the engine of a long black limousine cut the stillness of the night, moving unnoticed on the lonely stretch of highway. Within the vehicle, a lone passenger carefully unfolded the photo-sleeves of his wallet, dark eyes gazing at snapshots known to exist by only a few, lingering on one -the image old and yellowing; that of himself and the younger man he used to call
*lover* as well as Napoleon, both of them wearing the fatigues of war.

James Bond smiled to himself and slipped a new shot into the one empty sleeve that remained: a picture of Napoleon, somewhat older though no less beautiful, and his golden-haired partner, eyes lingering on the image for a while longer before hiding wallet and pictures within the folds of his blazer.

“Sir?”

“Yes, driver?”

“Moneypenny called earlier. She said that ‘M’ is *not* happy about you taking an unauthorized ‘vacation’.”

“I see. Better get us back home as soon as possible then, I suppose.”

“Yes, sir.”

Another smile touched the secret agent’s lips at the mental image of the dark-haired young American who had once fought at his side.

He had kept his promise.
 
 
 

---The End---