Fandom: The Man from U.N.C.L.E.

Pairing: Napoleon Solo/Illya Kuryakin

Category: slash

Rating: R

Word Count: 16,918

Summary: After a mission that almost went wrong, things go right

Notes: UnThemed #4 Table Prompt: “Legend, Eyes, Home” and UnThemed #5 Table Prompt: “Night, Bed, Breathless”

 

What was supposed to be a simple two day escort detail had ended up being a week of hiding and dodging assassin’s bullets and Napoleon was dog tired.  He had been so glad to be shot of the whole misbegotten affair that he had barely complained about doing the paperwork while Illya sulked at his desk, his right hand bandaged and achy.  Napoleon had flirted with the nurses in Medical strictly on auto-pilot while signing the forms to spring his partner, then they had escaped to their shared office to finalize the report and prepare for the debriefing with Mr. Waverly.  That Waverly had sent them both home early and for a long weekend was something for which Napoleon was grateful.  He wanted to drink himself into sleeping for the next day, maybe two.  He hoped that when he woke it would not be from nightmares of Illya bleeding and broken, as he had the last time he had tried to sleep, the night before their flight home from the small desert country they had so narrowly avoided dying in. 

Illya barely argued with him on the drive home when Napoleon suggested that he stay the weekend upstairs in his larger apartment, pointing out that there were several tasks that would be difficult with his hand bandaged, not the least of which was preparing meals.  Napoleon knew he could always appeal to Illya’s appetite to get his way.  He tried not to let the relief colour his words when he told his partner it was no problem to help out.  He also didn’t give voice to the guilt he felt that if Illya hadn’t been saving him from a fall off a five storey rooftop, Illya wouldn’t have had the rope burn on his hand to start with.  It wasn’t their first close call, nor would it be their last, and he knew that his partner didn’t keep score.  But obviously, Napoleon’s subconscious did, for he was plagued with increasing nightmares about every close call, every near death encounter, every by-the-skin-of-their-teeth escape.   

It wasn’t until he was helping Illya pack up a few books and clean clothes in his apartment that he realized his partner was not giving him the usual round of complaints and protests he had come to expect.  He watched Illya out of the corner of his eye, wondering if his partner was just as tired as he after this last mission or if he was being humoured.  But Illya didn’t have the usual smug look he wore when he was just going along with Napoleon to make him feel better.  He looked as tired as Napoleon felt, and that was a bone deep weariness that Napoleon knew would not ease until he had erased the lingering shock of seeing his partner dead.  Of course, Illya hadn’t been dead.  But he successfully made the THRUSH agents, and his partner, think he was in order to effect their escape.  Napoleon could do without that image burned onto his retina.

***

It was a relief to just sit still for a moment, chill glass of vodka in his left hand and the two swallows he’d already taken starting to burn the edge off the throbbing in his right.  Illya laid his head against the back of the couch and felt himself relax for the first time all week.  As missions went, this hadn’t been as bad as it could have been.  So why was his partner acting like they had been on a scenic tour of hell, he had to wonder.  Napoleon, for all his smooth charm and social grace, was the deepest water he’d ever tried to swim, Illya often thought.  And nothing was going to pry the details of what was bothering him out until he was good and ready.  Illya decided to settle in for a long wait.  Perhaps if he got his partner drunk enough, he’d get whatever it was off his chest.  Illya thought about getting up and checking the bar to see how much scotch was there, but a knock on the door interrupted the thought.

The shower was still running, so Illya knew Napoleon hadn’t heard the knock.  As he was approaching the door with his gun in his uninjured hand, he heard a voice.

“Mr. Solo, it’s Mrs. Chalmers.  I’ve brought your mail and some things.”

Illya holstered his gun, rather awkwardly with the wrong hand, then unlocked the door, checking first.  Mrs. Chalmers was alone and burdened with two bags of groceries.

He opened the door and took one of the bags from her, giving a small smile to the older woman.

“Mr. Kuryakin, how nice to see you.  I stopped by your place, but, well, of course, you’re here, aren’t you.” She bustled in, sitting the groceries she still carried on the counter and then started to put them away as Illya deposited the second bag and stepped back.  “Mr. Chalmers, he let me know you boys were back and so I picked up mail and brought some things, you were gone so long, I figured you would be all out of fresh things and,” she opened the refrigerator and wrinkled her nose, “I see I was right.  This would shame old Mother Hubbard herself, it would.”  She continued to chatter on and Illya leaned against the sink and watched her square away everything in the one bag.  “Now, I brought enough for both of you, shall I leave it in the bag for you to take home?” she turned to Illya, finally noticing his bandages.  “Oh you poor thing, what on earth happened?”

Illya held up his hand, “I had some trouble while traveling, nothing to worry about.  But I am a bit handicapped; Napoleon insisted I stay for a few days as I won’t be much good to myself in the kitchen just yet.”

“Well, of course you won’t.  He is such a nice boy, that Mr. Solo, always thinking.”  She went back to unpacking the second bag of groceries, fresh fruits and vegetables and some essentials for sandwiches, fresh bread and the like.  She talked on as she finished, singing praises of Napoleon.  “Now, I have a nice casserole all warm from the oven downstairs, you just wait a few minutes and I will have it up here for you two boys.”

“Mrs. Chalmers, I couldn’t take…”

“Now, just stop yourself.  The Mister is always going on about how I cook enough to feed a battalion, and you look like you could use a few home cooked meals.  Mr. Solo always knows where to return the dishes to, so don’t you worry a bit.”  She paused then, looking back at the mail she had left on the kitchen table.  “I hope you don’t find it presumptuous, I picked up your mail along with Mr. Solo’s.  I usually keep his for him when he is away for a time, and since you hadn’t picked yours up and it was all stuck in the box, I went and got it.” 

She looked so much like a little girl, her hands folded in front of her and contrite, that Illya found himself smiling at her.  “Mrs. Chalmers, it was very thoughtful of you, thank you.”  He reached out and patted her elbow, and her face lit up again with a grin.

“Well, alright then.  I’ll be right back.”

She did return in just a moment, leading Illya to suspect that she had the warm casserole on the hall table rather than all the way downstairs.

“Now, just leave this in the oven until you’re ready,” she adjusted the oven setting, “and maybe some of that fresh bread with it.  That will stick to your ribs, that will.”  She looked very pleased with herself.

Illya was pulling his wallet out as Napoleon joined them in the kitchen.  “Put that away, tovarisch,” he said and crossed the kitchen to reach on top of the refrigerator for an envelope.  He smiled as he handed it to the older woman.  She tucked it in her apron pocket.

“You are a dear, Mrs. Chalmers.  Give my best to the Mister, won’t you?”

“Always.”  She beamed at him like a favourite child.  “Are you sure there isn’t anything else I can do for you?”

“Not a thing, my sweet, you have already gone beyond the call.”

“Tomorrow I take Mr. Chalmers uniforms to the cleaners, why don’t you let me take your laundry and I will leave the claim ticket in your mail box, hm?”

“This was a rather slap-dash trip we ended up on and my laundry is all mixed in with Illya’s, I’ll take care of…” he was interrupted by Mrs. Chalmers clucking at him.

“Oh, that is no problem, you just let me take care of all of it, Mr. Kuryakin isn’t in any state to be worried with his clothes washing, isn’t that right, Mr. Kuryakin?”

“I usually manage…”

“I am sure you do, but you should let someone worry about it for a day or two, shouldn’t you?”  She eyed him and then said, “Medium starch, I’m thinking, yes?”

The look of determination on her face was more than Illya felt up to arguing with so he just smiled again and nodded.  “Of course, Mrs. Chalmers.  That would be very kind of you.”

Napoleon was gone a moment and returned with a laundry bag of their things, she took it and beamed at them.

“Now you boys eat a good dinner and get some rest, you both look like a strong wind would knock you down, you do.”

She hummed happily as she left, Napoleon following her to lock the door and set the alarms for the evening.

Napoleon returned to the kitchen to find Illya sorting the mail.  He leaned against the doorframe and watched.  Illya spoke without looking up from the task.

“I think our doorman’s wife is sweet on you.”

“Well, she’s sweet anyway,” Napoleon said, “and old enough to be my mother.  I think she just misses having someone to look after.”

“And you are some combination of the chosen one and the second coming.”  Illya tried not to grin as he said it.

“Hardly,” Napoleon snorted. “I may have done a favour or two.  That’s all.”

Illya looked up then to find Napoleon with a hint of chagrin in his half smile.  He raised a brow.

Napoleon shrugged.  “They lost their daughter to complications of childbirth and then their son-in-law in Korea.  They raised their grandson as their own, which was difficult for him, having parents so much older, and he was rather bookish besides.  He got beaten up a lot in school.  I may have given him some pointers on self defense.  And then I may have helped him get a scholarship to a school where he wouldn’t get beaten for being bright.  I am happy to say that Lawrence grew up to be quite a capable young man.”

“Well, no wonder she thinks you hung the moon and stars.”

Napoleon didn’t answer.  Instead he picked up his own mail and transferred it to his desk in the living room on his way to the bar.  He poured himself a generous scotch and then watched Illya follow, exchanging his stack of mail for the abandoned vodka on the coffee table.

“There’s plenty of hot water left.  Do you want some help wrapping that bandage so you can have a good soak in the tub?”

At Illya’s sharp look Napoleon continued, “It will be easier to keep it from getting wet in the tub, just hang your arm out of the bath and keep it in the waterproof cover the nurse sent home.”

Illya nodded.  He picked up his drink and started for the hall bath.

“Not that one, use the master bath, it has the better tub.  I promise.”

Illya stopped and turned toward his partner, pure puzzlement creasing his brow.  “I know where everything is in the guest bath.”

“Let me show you.  You’ll love this, I guarantee.” 

Napoleon led the way down the hall past the guest room Illya had stayed in numerous times after difficult missions had left one or the other of them needing observation or Medical wouldn’t release them, or after a late night of drinking made going two floors down to his own apartment an obstacle course he’d rather avoid. 

Illya had seen the inside of Napoleon’s bedroom on many occasions over their years as partners, but hadn’t ever bothered with the master bath, his toothbrush was always in the hall bath.

Napoleon grinned at the wide eyed expression on his partner’s face.  “Over indulgent capitalist extravagance, eh, partner?”

“Worthy of the worst Roman emperor, this bath.  Now get out and let me enjoy it.  I can’t believe you’ve been hoarding it all this time.”

Napoleon laughed and turned to a cupboard and pulled out towels, sitting them on the sink.  “I’ll bring your overnight case, shall I, milord?”

“Blockhead,” was the grumbled reply.

***

Illya settled back in the tub, it really was sinfully delightful.  A huge oval with center mounted faucets so he could lean back and keep his right hand out of the water.  He realized that he wouldn’t have been able to do so in his own tub without having a spigot in the way.  Yes, this was much better than his own apartment.  On the other side of the room was a walk in shower.  Both tub and shower were large, he was certain that the tub could seat three comfortably and the shower might hold five, it was larger than most elevators he’d seen.  Trust his partner to have a bathroom more suited to parties than cleanliness. 

Thinking of his partner brought him back to the issue he was contemplating over his vodka earlier.  What the hell was eating at Napoleon?  The thought made him restless and he decided he needed to get back out to the living room and encourage his partner to have a drink or three and spill all.

Washing his hair one handed wasn’t easy but he managed it.  Drying off was also a bit of an adventure, but he handled that, too.  Dressing was proving to be a challenge.  His pyjama pants didn’t have a button and zipper, but the shirt had buttons.  His jeans had a button and zipper but his turtleneck was easy.  He refused to wear the pyjama pants and the turtleneck.  He finally gave up and donned jeans, skipped the button and pulled up the zipper.  The untucked turtleneck would cover the undone button on the denims and he called it good enough.  They weren’t going out and Napoleon was dressed in what passed for casual in his closet, dark chinos and a cream coloured sweater.  He’d fit right in.

***

“I thought you might have decided to take up residence.”

“I contemplated it, but there is no freezer in there for my vodka.”

“Nor a table for dinner.  Speaking of which, how about some?”

“About time.”

“That’s my partner, thinking with his stomach.”

“It gets me into less trouble than the organs you prefer to think with.”

“Ah, but who has the more fun, tovarisch?”

Illya only rolled his eyes at the grin his partner gave him.  He sat at the table, already set with plates and silver.  Napoleon put a salad in front of him and then pulled the casserole from the oven and sat it on the table to cool enough to eat while they started dinner.  Illya was grateful for food that didn’t call for cutting up.  They ate in silence, as they often did, and it was only slightly less comfortable than it always was; Illya still thinking about Napoleon’s unusual quiet and distraction after this last affair.

“It’s funny you know, I can use a wide range of weapons with both hands, but using a fork is awkward.  We should practice using tools with our off hands, you never know when it will be useful.” 

“Learned ambidexterity is encouraged at Survival School but nobody ever suggested practicing with non-weaponry.  If you write it up as a field exercise, Cutter will love you for finding a new way to torture recruits and future recruits will hate you even more than they already do for holding half the records at the Island.”

“I’ll put your name on the report as well so they can hate us equally, since you hold the records I don’t.”

“Vindictive Russian.”

“It was your suggestion.”

“Not for everyone in U.N.C.L.E.”

“Fair enough.  It’s still a good idea.”

***

It was nearly pitch dark.  He automatically reached under the pillow for his gun and was disconcerted by the pain in his palm, then remembered the injury and reached with his left hand.  He listened carefully, straining to hear what had brought him awake.  It was quiet for a long time and he started to relax when there was noise again.  It was faint, but it must have been loud enough to penetrate the vodka he had medicated himself with instead of the pain pills Medical sent home with him.  Silently, he slipped from the guest bed and padded down the hall toward the sounds, toward Napoleon’s room.

The door was open just enough for him to ease inside.  He stood well back from the bed and listened.  The only recognizable word Illya could make out was ‘no’, and Illya imagined that Napoleon must be having a nightmare about some mission gone wrong or one of the too numerous tortures THRUSH and others had subjected him to over their years in the field.  It was odd though, that he could make out any words at all.  He had shared cramped motel rooms with his partner, as well as cramped beds when budgets were cut or available funds were scarce on a mission.  Hell, they’d shared cots in prison cells and every conceivable small dark hiding place imaginable and he’d never heard Napoleon talk in his sleep. 

He started talking softly, calling to his partner to wake up, telling him all was well, they were safe at home and there was no danger.  He was afraid that whatever trauma Napoleon was reliving or imagining in his sleep would bring his partner awake and on the fight before he could establish that he meant no harm.  He had been startled awake often enough himself in the company of others to know better, and to avoid it.  He never slept anywhere but home if he could help it, and never with company.  He thought about that and realized that the only place other than home that he had ever spent the night with any kind of feeling of safety over the last several years was this very apartment, down the hall from his partner.  He brushed aside this revelation and continued to whisper soothing words to his still sleeping partner, moving closer to the bedside.

Finally he was at the edge of the bed, Napoleon had quieted, but was still asleep, and still had an expression of pain on his face, Illya could see as much from the moonlight coming in the open curtains.

He debated briefly about waking his partner and decided to risk it, as he would want to be woken from whatever visions of horror seemed to be plaguing Napoleon. 

In a normal tone and volume, Illya called Napoleon’s name.  Napoleon opened his eyes, alert and then alarmed when he saw the gun in Illya’s hand.  Illya had forgotten he was still holding it down at his side.

“All is well, my friend.  I heard you call out, I came to investigate, that is all.  I’m sorry to wake you, but you seemed quite distressed.”

“No, no it’s fine, Illya.  Thank you.  Really, it’s ok now.”  Napoleon sat up and pushed his pillow up behind him to lean back on against the bookcase headboard.  “I’m sorry I woke you.”

“The vodka wears off faster than the pain pills, you didn’t disturb me.”

Napoleon scrubbed his face with both hands, reached over to the nightstand to check that his weapon was still there and then leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees.

“Would you like to talk about it?”

“I, ah, think I’m overtired is all.  It’s been a hellish week.”  Napoleon looked up at Illya then, his eyes seemed huge, darker than usual against his skin, the moonlight giving him a silvery pallor.  “Don’t leave me, tovarisch.”

Those were not at all the words that Illya was expecting to hear.  “I’m just down the hall.”

“No,” Napoleon’s voice was soft, so soft that Illya took another step forward.  “I mean, don’t,” Napoleon scrubbed his hands over his face again, “I’m not, ah, you can’t die on me, Illya, you just can’t.”

Illya relaxed, and hadn’t realized he had been tense until just that moment.  He sat on the edge of the bed and laid his weapon next to Napoleon’s on the nightstand.  “It’s not in my current five year plan, my friend.”

Napoleon dropped his hands again.  “You have a five year plan?”

Illya let out a gust of air, not quite a laugh, “Not as such.  But if I did, dying would not be included,” he waited for the space of a moment, and then another.  “Napoleon.  This was not the worst case we’ve had recently.  And we won this time.  What has gotten under your skin so terribly about this one?”

Napoleon sighed and leaned back against the pillow padded headboard again, staring up at the darkened ceiling as if it were a movie screen, seeing again the images from his nightmare. 

***

“Our backup is taking too long.”

“We don’t even know if our backup is on our side, Illya, the Emir’s men might be part of the assassination attempt.”

Illya didn’t answer as he took a shot at the would-be assassin across the roof.  “One more down.”  No malice in that voice, just stating the facts in a cool Cambridge veneered Russian accent.  Napoleon noted that the Russian was filtering through more as the minutes ticked by, the only sign of stress that his partner would let show, if he was even aware of it. 

Napoleon saw a flash, pushed his partner away from the line of fire and dove the opposite direction, shooting on the fly.  When he came out of the roll behind another rooftop obstacle of unknown usage, he saw that the man he had shot was replaced by another, he took his shot simultaneous with the gunman.  He glanced to where he expected to see his partner taking aim and instead saw Illya laid out on the roof, blood covering his face and his eyes staring open to the too bright sky.  With an unholy scream of rage he ran straight for the bastard that shot his partner.  The unexpected move stopped the other man cold, just long enough for Napoleon to leap at him, knocking his gun away and Napoleon had him by the throat, pushing with all his strength against his opponent, bending the man back against the low rooftop wall, over it, wanting to push this enemy clean over and into the open air.  He knew he was growling words but didn’t recognize them, knew he was promising eternal pain and suffering to this bastard if he had to follow him into the afterlife to deliver it, but he had no idea what he said, if he even articulated the words in a language he or anyone could understand.  The heat of his rage pushed him to curse the man, his family, every generation backwards and forwards and wished for the power to make the threat a truth, to injure this bastard as he had been, to wound him as deeply as he had been wounded, with the loss of all he held dear, before finishing him for this life forever.  The gunman, realizing he was not long for this world, grabbed hold of Napoleon, overbalancing him and tipping them both over empty space five stories up from the hard ground. 

Stunned, Illya became aware that he was staring up at empty sky, not breathing as the wind had been knocked out of him, this could not be good.  He gasped a breath.  Then another.  His hands were empty, he needed to find his weapon, but movement was beyond him for a moment.  Finally he blinked and pain slammed him, radiating from the back of his head where he’d struck the ground.  His limbs finally cooperated and he rolled to his side, hands wiping at the wetness on his face and coming back bloody.  He could hear a fierce voice promising someone terrible consequences, he hoped it wasn’t him.  No, he recognized Napoleon at last, but not the Napoleon he knew, this was some vengeful demon taking the place of his partner, explaining in detail how the death of his partner was going to be paid in blood and pain and generations of sorrowing.  And then he saw the other man take hold of Napoleon, and instantly knew what was in his mind, to pull both of them over the roof edge.  Napoleon was either unaware of it, or worse, didn’t care if he plunged over the edge of the roof.  Illya stumbled to his knees, and found he still didn’t have enough breath to shout a warning, so he did what was left, he ran as best he could for the edge of the roof, watching in horror as the pair of men tipped further and further out. 

There was rope tied around a pile of wooden crates of some kind, he pulled on it and it held, he hoped it continued to do so.  Illya threw himself at the two men, grabbing his partner around the waist and hauling back as the balance pushed them over, and the slick blood still on his palm made the rope slide, he could feel the burn on his palm like touching a hot griddle and he didn’t care, he pulled with everything in him, and the weight of the other fell away and Illya had Napoleon still on the roof.  The loss of the opposite force caused them to stumble into a tangle of limbs and thumping bodies on the right side of the wall, gasping for air.

“Illya!”

“I’m a lot,” Illya sucked in another lungful of air, “harder to kill, my friend, than you might think.”

***

“I really thought you were gone.  I don’t know what came over me, I was so, ah, just…” Napoleon couldn’t put the feeling into words, equal parts rage and grief, a feeling he hadn’t experienced in many years, not since the war, when young men he knew well and called friend ended up laying on their backs staring sightlessly into the sun more often than he wanted to remember. 

Illya reached out and lay his good hand on Napoleon’s arm, bringing him back from whatever vision he was seeing.  “It was just a ricochet and head wounds bleed the worst, especially when they are least harmful, it seems,” he knew he wasn’t telling his partner anything he didn’t know, but he felt the need to speak, something, anything to avoid the return of that bleak loss in his friend’s eyes.

Napoleon leaned forward again, his hands coming up to take Illya by the shoulders.  The dark made the gesture, one he’d experienced before with Napoleon, seem more personal than usual.  The sound of Napoleon’s voice, so quiet in the night dim bedroom, was equally intimate.  Illya felt a moment of disorientation.  It passed as Napoleon spoke.

“Just keep breathing, will you, partner mine?  I’ve grown kind of attached over the years.”

“Of course, Napoleon, since you ask so nicely.”

Even in the dark, Illya could see the grin.

***

The next morning, Napoleon was humming in the kitchen when Illya entered.  The smell of coffee and pancakes filled the space and Illya’s stomach growled.

“Eloquent as ever, partner mine.  You are just in time, breakfast is served.”

Illya took his seat and Napoleon sat a plate in front of him.  It was covered in bite size pieces of pancake, fresh berries and a dollop of cream.  The cream was melting on the warm pancakes and the berries were each perfect and Illya’s mouth watered like he hadn’t eaten for days rather than hours.  “Thank you.”  Illya barely had the words out before taking a bite.

“You’re getting better with the fork there, the practice must be working.”

Illya looked up to see Napoleon navigating his own plate with his fork in his left hand.  “You don’t have to, you know.”

Napoleon waved his fork at Illya like a magic wand.  “You had a good point last night,” he took another bite and Illya watched him savor it.  He shrugged, then returned his attention to his own plate. 

The quiet over the breakfast table was again the comfortable understanding it always had been, as if the tension from the night before had never happened.  Illya wondered if it had all been his imagination.  But he had woken alone in Napoleon’s bed this morning where he had fallen to sleep as they talked the nightmares away.  So he knew that part of the dark night was real, so must all of it have been.  He was loathe to bring it up, so didn’t, simply settled in to enjoy the leisurely breakfast and the good mood of his partner.  And he recognized a similar lifting of his own mood compared to last night. 

***

“Napoleon, this got stuck in my magazine, sorry about that.”  Illya handed the heavy envelope over, it was embossed with a crest where the return address would be. 

Napoleon looked up from his desk and took the letter, then sighed and tossed it into a cubbyhole in the desk.  There were several envelopes of the same size and shape already there.

Illya remained standing by the desk, curiosity getting the better of him.  Napoleon finally looked up again.  “It’s an invitation.  I get one every few months.  I stopped opening them years ago.”

Illya only raised a brow.

“My grandfather was a member of a men’s club, the kind with leather chairs and old brandy, discreet butlers and backroom deals among business titans and the best families.” Napoleon stood and went to refill his coffee cup, bringing the pot to warm Illya’s on the table as well.  He spoke again as he returned to the kitchen, “He inherited the membership from his father, who was a member along with his father and on back to Adam for all I know.  U.N.C.L.E. has a better gym, better masseurs and best of all, allows girls in.”  Napoleon came back and sat at the desk again.  “In this day and age, I can’t believe something so archaic still exists.”

“So you’ve never been?”

“I didn’t say that.”

Illya leaned against the back of the couch, ankles crossed and good hand gripping his other wrist, waiting, watching Napoleon study his own hands, then look up quickly as if he’d given something away with that look of introspection.

“Grandfather took me once.  I was fresh out of boot camp and about to ship out to Korea.  He was busting with pride and couldn’t wait to show me off to his cronies.  He had an invitation much like these,” Napoleon waved a hand at the collection of unopened envelopes.  “It was a command performance, best suit and polished shoes.  Dinner was good, fine even.  The only real attraction for me was the library, so that was where I ended up while he played cards.  There was a chess board in there and I was studying the game in progress when a man entered.  He asked me what I thought the next move might be, so we talked about chess and he offered me a game.  He was good.  But I won.” 

Napoleon got up then and walked to the French doors that led to the balcony.  Illya followed, standing next to his partner as he had many times before, listening as Napoleon gazed out over the park across the street and continued his story.

“My family is something of a legend in the club, one of the few founding member families left.  There has never not been a Solo on the membership rolls.  Which is why my grandfather left me his lifetime membership.  I’m the last of the line.”

Illya heard the tone of Napoleon’s voice and knew there was more.  He waited, gazing out at the park and wondering what his partner was seeing, for it wasn’t the bright Autumn trees or the children playing Saturday afternoon games far below them on the last of the green grass.

“Eugene Bernard, that was the name of the man I played chess against and won.  He was probably no older then than I am now.  He was good company, well read, interesting.  He was also a founding family member, we had that in common.  He knew who I was because my grandfather never stopped talking about me, apparently.  Odd since he never said a word to me about much of anything.”  Napoleon shrugged.  “He asked if we could have a rematch another night.  I explained that I was about to ship out overseas, he said to be sure to come home safe and he’d take a rain check.  He shook my hand and thanked me for the game and conversation and went in search of a drink.  I went to find a washroom and it was there that I overheard a conversation.”  Napoleon sat down his coffee cup and rubbed the back of his neck with both hands.   “It seems I was expected to be Eugene’s next conquest.  The men in the washroom had no idea I was there since the looks on their faces when I walked up to the sink made it plain that they thought their conversation was private.  They had nothing nice to say about the man and were appalled that they had to put up with such goings on, but the man was a legacy member, so what could you do, right?  They left as soon as they realized I had heard every word, not a glance back at all.”  He sighed and put his hands in his pockets.  “I asked my grandfather on the drive home about Mr. Bernard.  He said he had heard that I had won a game of chess against him and he seemed to consider it a feat of some kind.  He said that Eugene was one of the smartest men he knew and left it at that.  I never found out if my grandfather knew about the rumours in the club or if he cared one way or the other.  His fellow club members, at the least the two I overheard, seemed to think Grandfather ought to be warned that I had fallen in with that sort.”  Napoleon took his hands out of his pockets to air quote the word sort.   “My grandfather sent me a newspaper clipping when Bernard was named a national Chess Master.  I had been in Korea for six months.  Grandfather died before I returned, and I have never been back to the club.”

Illya watched his partner from the corner of his eye, Napoleon still stared out the window, unseeing.

“There are all kinds of people in this world, tovarisch, and I am thinking that a bunch of old men who want to spend all their free time sequestered away in the exclusive company of their own little small minded cliques simmering in their gossip and pettiness deserve one another.  But I deserve better, and so did Mr. Bernard.”

Illya waited several long moments.  Then he leaned, just slightly, so that they stood shoulder leaning on shoulder, as they had many times in the past. 

“Do you suppose that he knew, your Chess Master, and went to the club just to shake up their narrow view of the world?  Even if the rumours weren’t true, it would still be a thorn in their hide.”

Napoleon was quiet for a long time.  Then he cocked his head at his partner.  “Smart Russian.  It never occurred to me.  Aren’t you the clever one.”

“That’s why you keep me around, to do the thinking.”

Napoleon just laughed, the first real laugh Illya had heard from him in days.  Then Napoleon’s chin went up and he got that look Illya knew, the one that said they were about to trip an adversary or thwart a THRUSH boss.  “Let’s do it.”

Illya swallowed and tried to formulate a response that would not involve his voice changing register, but his partner continued to speak, alleviating the need for answering.

“How about dinner out tonight, partner mine?  Fine food, strong drink, maybe a game of chess in the library.”

“You play chess.  I will read a book in the library.”  Illya held up his bandaged hand, “I am not exactly in the shape to socialize anyway.”

“I will be sure to cut your dinner for you, tovarisch, I’d never let you starve, you know.”  Napoleon rubbed his hands together, planning.  “Wear your blue suit, I have a dark blue silk shirt that will look great with it.  I’ll wear the black, it makes a great foil for the silver sheen on yours.”

“I hate to disrupt the flow of your creative process, but you realize that this will not only ruin whatever reputation you might have gotten from your grandfather in this establishment, but any future endeavors, if what I think you are proposing is in fact part of the plan.  Not to mention that there is no way I am able to dress myself in my blue suit, let alone my blue pyjamas until my hand is healed.”

Napoleon turned to face his partner, giving him a look up and down and back up again.  “Illya, I have stopped you from bleeding out, taken bullets out of you and dressed your wounds, do you think I am incapable of dressing you?  And whatever my grandfather left me in this membership, it wasn’t anything I wanted.  But in case Eugene Bernard was just putting a burr under their collective saddle, I think I owe it to him to continue that legacy.  He was kind to a shy young man who was out of his depth.  And if he wasn’t any of the things he was accused of behind his back, I owe those nosy old gossips.  Are you in?”

“I’m still back at shy and trying to imagine you ever being it.”

“Illya!”

“Of course, Napoleon, you lead and I follow, as usual.” 

“Ah, just what I like.”

Illya just rolled his eyes at his partner, as usual.

***

The dark suit stopped shy of being a tuxedo, but only just and barely; it was that finely tailored.  Perhaps it was in the way Napoleon carried himself that made him think of a tuxedo, Illya mused.  But then, Napoleon always carried himself that way, so that couldn’t be it, could it?  He decided to stop trying to figure out what was different about tonight’s outing because it was making his head hurt. 

Napoleon had spent the afternoon planning their evening at the club like a mission.  Unlike work, they had no reason to fear for their lives so they skipped the blasting cap buttons and primer cord shoelaces.  But they did hide lock picks in their coats, simply out of habit.  They had agreed that the shoulder holsters were a bit much, not to mention awkward for Illya with his dominant hand still bandaged, so they skipped them, opting instead for ankle holsters and smaller guns.

“Why am I not surprised that you have a backup for your backup?” Illya had asked when Napoleon pulled the box off the shelf of the closet.

“Because you know I like to be the boy scout and…”

“Always prepared.”  Illya finished.

Napoleon just flashed him a grin.

“Do you actually expect trouble or are you just that opposed to leaving home without being armed?”

“I don’t think I’ve left home unarmed since I started working for U.N.C.L.E.  And no, I don’t expect that some gang of codgers will follow us out of the club to beat us up.  It’s not like we’re going to a nightclub in the Village.  Then again, THRUSH could have infiltrated, for all I know, better safe than sorry.”

So Illya had watched Napoleon check the guns, allowed him to adjust the fit of the ankle holster for his borrowed weapon and then let Napoleon into his apartment to raid his closet for the evening’s outing. 

Napoleon had gone straight to the bedroom closet, flung back the door and stood surveying.  He ignored the several black suits on one side of the closet in favour of the few nicer suits.  He pulled out a burgundy coat and held it up, turning to Illya who was seated on the bed, having given up trying to protest any of Napoleon’s edicts. 

“You still have this?”

“I like it, Napoleon, it is comfortable.”

“You look like a bandleader when you wear it.  Or maybe the master of ceremonies for a circus,” Napoleon mused, returning it to the closet.

“I frequently feel like I am in a circus, with you.”

Napoleon looked over his shoulder and waggled an eyebrow, “I’m the lion tamer, am I?”

Illya pursed his lips in disapproval, shaking his head, but the smile in his eyes reassured Napoleon of his mood.  He turned back to the closet and flicked through the hangers, coming upon the blue suit he was seeking.  It was just as he remembered, blue with a silver sheen that would look stunning with the dark blue silk shirt.  He wondered if he should offer to take Illya somewhere else after dinner, wearing this, there was no way he’d be going home alone.  Then again, Illya would probably hold up his injured hand and point out that he’d be doing any girl he picked up a disservice in not being able to give her his full attention and skills.  Too bad, that.  Napoleon turned his thoughts back to the matter at hand, so to speak.  Illya’s best black tie, a silk that he rarely wore, would complete the picture.  He laid the suit across the bed and then went in search of the black tie.

“Where are your ties?”

“Behind the black suits.”

Napoleon pulled the suits in question away from the wall and sure enough, a rack of ties.  The one he wanted wasn’t there.

“Where’s the black silk?  It’s the best one for this suit.”

Illya got up and went to the tall dresser, pulling out the top drawer with his good hand.  He took out a long slim box and handed it over.

“This is the original box,” Napoleon looked the question at Illya.  “I’ve seen you wear it.  What gives?”

“It’s the nicest I have.  I didn’t want to risk mistakenly picking it out one morning and having something happen to it at work.  THRUSH does tend to be hard on clothing.”

Napoleon opened the box and lifted the tie, seeing underneath the small card that had come with it.  ‘Happy Birthday, tovarisch’ written in his own hand. He smiled and replaced the tie and shut the box.

Illya’s face was unreadable when he looked at him again.  Napoleon turned back to the closet, reaching down and finding a pair of shiny black shoes, he pulled them out and turned again to his partner, “These?”

“Yes, best I have.”

“And nice they are, hand tooled?”

Illya nodded.

Napoleon raided one more drawer for dress socks and then gathered the suit and box and shoes.  They stopped in the front hall for Illya’s good coat, long and black and with a scarf and pair of gloves in the pocket.  Illya held out his arms for the pile of items while Napoleon set the alarm and relocked the door.  

Napoleon chatted easily during the elevator ride up to his apartment and when they had gone through the opposite routine of exchanging items at the door and Napoleon had relocked his own front door, he took the things in to the master bedroom and then settled with Illya on the couch.

“What’s got you so quiet now, partner mine?  Second thoughts?  You realize that we aren’t doing anything but having dinner.  First, there is no use putting on a show if it’s not necessary and second, it will be show enough when I cut up your dinner.  And you know that no matter how careful we are, people always talk anyway.”

Illya turned sharply to Napoleon, one brow raised.  “You know?”

“Spies thrive on gossip, Illya, and the only thing they gossip about more than the enemy is each other.  You mean you thought I didn’t know?”

“You have never said.”

“Neither have you, tovarisch.”

Illya conceded the point with a nod, somewhat more relaxed now.

“Look, it’s not that I am unaware of your charms, much as you try to hide anything as mundane as pleasantry, and you are a fine example of our gender.  If I were going to cross the street, I could do worse.  In fact, I think there could be none better.” Napoleon did not look at Illya as he said these shocking things, not sure if he was afraid of what he’d see or hopeful.  “The fact remains, people always talk.  And as long as they are talking about us, they aren’t talking about Baker and Smithsen.”

Illya surprised Napoleon by laughing.  Napoleon finally looked at his partner then.  Illya grinned.  “You know Baker came to me in the labs, oh, two years ago now.  He wanted to know how we did it, maintaining a partnership in U.N.C.L.E. and a private relationship as well without the job eating us alive.  I gave some vague answers that seemed to placate him.”

Napoleon laughed.  “Smithsen came to me, must have been about the same time.  He talked all around things for about fifteen minutes and then finally came right out and said thank you for paving the way.  It seems that knowing how we were accepted really made it easier for him to feel secure in his relationship with Baker.  I told him I was happy for him and about that time I was saved by a summons to a staff meeting.”  Napoleon smiled at the memory.  “If they only knew, eh, partner?”

“Indeed.” 

They sat for another moment, both wrapped in their musings, then Napoleon slapped his hands on his knees and leaned forward, looking back at his partner with a gleam in his eyes.  “Do you need help scrubbing your back in the shower?”

“No, thank you, Napoleon.  I’ll cripple along on my own, if it’s all the same to you.”

“Just thought I’d offer my services to a friend in need,”

“I will let you know when I am in need.”

“You do that.”  Napoleon looked sharply at his friend, still very quiet, even for him.  “We’ll need to change that dressing today, want to soak it off in the tub and then I’ll fix it up for you after?”

“Yes, thank you.”

“How about this, I’ll go start the tub filling since adjusting the water is easier with both hands.  Then you can take your time in it.  I’ll be polishing shoes while I wait for you.”

“Fine.”

“If you’d rather skip this, we can just go get a bite at Mama Tonia’s.”

Illya looked up at Napoleon standing over him and a determination set his features.  “No, Napoleon.  I want dinner at this bourgeois club.  And if we shake up some old men who are too set in their small minds and petty opinions, that will just be an added bonus.”

“Like collateral damage that happens to take out the enemy’s home base?”

“Sure,” Illya shrugged.

***

With the bandage off, Illya examined his hand. Still swollen, the palm with a wide angry red stripe across the diagonal from above the thumb to heel and his first three fingers had the same painful mark.  The doctor had said he was lucky he hadn’t ripped the skin off, the blood had lubricated just enough to keep that from happening.  Illya washed as carefully as he could, but it still hurt like the worst burn he’d ever had.  He laid his arm along the edge of the tub and leaned back to let the hot water loosen the tension in his shoulders. 

The door opened and Napoleon came in, bearing a glass of something clear.  “I thought you might need some medicinal spirits after peeling off the gauze.”  Napoleon held up the glass.  At Illya’s nod, he leaned over and sat it on the opposite side of the tub, in reach of Illya’s good hand, then hunkered down to inspect the damage.

“Ow.” 

“It isn’t quite as bad as it looks,” Illya said, taking a sip of the vodka.

“But close.”

“Yes.  Worse would have been watching you go over the side of the roof.  Small price, really.”

“Thank you.  Again.”

“You’ve done the same.”

Napoleon only looked again at the injury, then back to Illya, silent.

“Napoleon, it’s fine, I’ll be fine.”

“I’ll see to it.”

Napoleon stood then, walking over to the shower and reaching in to start the water.  He started to undress, for all the world like they were in the locker room at work.  “Shoes polished, coats brushed, all ready to go.  Our reservation for dinner is eight o‘clock.” 

“Plenty of time for you to change your mind about what to dress me in three times.”

“I won’t be changing my mind, thank you.”  Napoleon stepped under the spray and slid the glass door shut as the steam filled the bath.  Illya finished his vodka in one long swallow and leaned back again to soak in the still hot water.

***

Illya dressed as much as he was able with only one hand, it wasn’t much.  He sat back to watch Napoleon hunting for something in his top dresser drawer. Napoleon wore black dress pants and a smooth white silk shirt, his tie loose around his neck.  Finally he found what he wanted, pulling out a small box and opening it on the dresser top.  He turned to find Illya watching. 

“Ready for your valet services, milord?”

Illya tried hard to keep the smile off his face.  “Yes, if you don’t mind.”

Polished shoes were tied, buttons slipped through buttonholes, tucked and smoothed and tie knotted, Illya was impressed at how quickly Napoleon had him turned out, though he would hate to admit it to his partner.  Then he watched as Napoleon finished his own dressing, tie in place and then peering in the mirror.  At what, Illya didn’t know.

“Come tell me if this is centered, will you?”

Illya joined Napoleon at the mirror, “Your tie?”

“No, the tie tack.”  Napoleon turned.

Illya reached up with his good hand and turned the tack a bit, “Now tighten the clasp.”  Napoleon did that as Illya looked down at the still open box on the dresser top.  “I thought you had lost it.”

Napoleon looked down at the box and then back to Illya.  “No, I just never wear it at work because I’d hate for some THRUSH thug to steal it one of these days.  I usually wear it when I am having dinner with Aunt Amy.  She thinks you have superb taste, by the way.”

The tie tack had been Illya’s birthday gift to Napoleon several years before, and the blue stone in it was a close match to the ring he wore.  

“Tell her thank you.”

“Tell her yourself, she would love to have you over for dinner.  It’s been a few months, you know.”

Illya only made a noncommittal sound in the back of his throat. 

“We look pretty sharp, if I do say so myself.”

Illya looked into the mirror where he and Napoleon were framed.  Indeed, they did look quite well this evening.  The dark wool of Napoleon’s suit was so soft it looked like velvet, enhancing the faux-tuxedo effect, and the crisp white of the shirt made the tie pin look like the reflection of a star on a moonlit snowfield.  The blue on blue of Illya’s suit and shirt made his eyes startlingly dark, and oddly, he noticed that the darkened blue made him match the subtle flash of the ring and pin Napoleon wore.  Unsettled, he turned and walked from the bedroom, unsure if the image of them framed like that was disturbing or the lie of the image of them as a couple was the issue. 

***

They caught a cab and were quiet on the drive to the club, they were used to silent cab drives, never sure who might be listening in such unsecured places.

The doorman of the club took the invitation Napoleon held out and then did a double take.  “Mr. Solo, it’s a pleasure.  Your grandfather is sorely missed.”

“Thank you, ah,” Napoleon held out a hand.

The doorman shook it, “Bowers, sir.”

“Mr. Bowers, thank you.  This is my guest for the evening, Mr. Kuryakin.”

Illya nodded and gave the doorman a slight bow in lieu of a handshake.  “Mr. Bowers.”

“You can just call me Bowers, sir, everyone does,”  the man looked pleased though, with the title of Mister.

“We have never been accused of being everyone, good man.  Now where is the coat check, it’s been a few years since I was here last.”  Napoleon gave the doorman his best ‘dealing with the civilians’ smile and the doorman responded as people usually did, as Napoleon planned, and smiled back, eager to please.  Napoleon helped Illya off with his coat and then smoothed a hand over Illya’s shoulders to settle the line of the suit, then removed his own coat.  He pocketed the coat check ticket and they made their way through the club.

Seated finally, and menus in hand, Napoleon watched the other tables, word had spread quickly and several men had already stopped by to say hello and remind him of his grandfather’s popularity and regularity of visits to the club.  Napoleon wondered if they’d ever get to actually have dinner at this rate.  But the waiter finally brought vodka straight up and a whiskey rocks and was ready for their order.

“I’ll skip the soup if you don’t mind and have a house salad with the rib eye.”  Illya gave his preference for temperature and time cooked on his steak and handed the menu back to the waiter.  Napoleon smiled behind his menu.

“I’ll start with the potato leek chowder and have the rib eye as well, just cook it the way Illya likes his, he’ll end up eating half of it anyway.  And we’ll have the steamed mussels to start.”  Napoleon smiled at the young man as he handed back the menu. 

“Shall I send over the sommelier for your wine choice now?”

“Please.”  Napoleon nodded and the young man turned crisply and the wine expert was practically on his heels arriving at the table.

“Mr. Solo, it was a pleasure to serve your grandfather.  You do know that he kept a selection of wines in our cellar, they are yours now.  Shall I bring you the list?”  At Napoleon’s nod the man disappeared.

“Is this over yet?  We should have gone to Mama’s.  We’d be knee deep in ravioli and rough red by now.”

Illya smiled just the slightest, “You know you love her house red, Napoleon, but I am sure that eventually they will stop talking about your grandfather, at least long enough for us to have dinner, I would hope.”

“From your lips, partner mine…” Napoleon was interrupted by the arrival of the wine steward again, and listened to his recommendations for a bottle to compliment the upcoming steaks.  Napoleon chose something else, just for spite, though he knew his choice was just as good as the bottles suggested to him.  His inherited list was a good one, after all.

“I’m starting to feel like a royal food taster,” Napoleon grinned as he dipped a morsel of appetizer in butter and then ate it before doing the same again and offering in to Illya.

“If you would just put it on the plate, I can wield the fork for myself.”  Illya took the bite and then tried to glare at his amused partner.

They had rearranged the table so they could sit side by side, the easier for Napoleon to hand the plate of cut up food to Illya later, but it did have the effect of making the dinner rather more intimate looking.  Napoleon only grinned at Illya.  “And where would the fun be in that, I ask you?”

Illya rolled his eyes and nodded at the plate of mussels between them in a ‘feed me or shut up’ gesture.  Napoleon grinned and dipped another mussel in spicy melted butter.

The next course was easier, though Napoleon insisted that Illya had to try the soup, holding out a bite on his spoon.  Illya suppressed a growl and then conceded as it did smell enticing.  He nodded his approval.  Then he silently held up a bite of salad, crisp lettuce and tomato with a crab garnish and light vinaigrette.  Napoleon took the bite, fair was fair, and Illya rarely shared his food.

By the time the main course came, the waiter had realized the problem.  “Shall I cut for you, sir?  I see you have an injury.  If I may?”  He held up a fork and steak knife.  Both Illya and Napoleon suppressed a flinch, the waiter none the wiser.

“I have this, thank you though.”  Napoleon dismissed the waiter and started cutting his own plate up for Illya.  He doctored the baked potato the way he knew his partner liked and then traded plates with Illya to start on his own steak.  He heard the smallest sigh of pleasure and watched from the corner of his eye as Illya sampled a bite.  The steak was perfect, just as Illya had requested, and Napoleon smiled to himself.  The disadvantage of sitting next to Illya was that he missed watching Illya enjoy his food, and he did enjoy it, when they had the time to savor.  His partner taken care of, he gave his attention to his own meal, a duplicate of Illya’s.

“Will you gentlemen be wanting dessert, or perhaps later if you like?”

“We’d like to spend some time in the library, perhaps later, Illya?”  Napoleon looked to his partner, who nodded.

“Later, I think, yes,” Illya nodded.

“Shall I have the rest of your wine taken through to the library then?”

Napoleon agreed and they made their way through the halls.  The waiter brought fresh glasses and the wine, then left them to their perusal. 

The library was indeed as impressive as Napoleon had remembered.  He saw that there was again a chess game in progress, but there was dust on the pieces, it had been a long time since anyone had paid attention to it.  Napoleon was looking over the shelves, Illya already settled with a book when two men entered the library, the door opening with the quietest swoosh and then snicking closed again.

Napoleon turned to see an older but still handsome Eugene Bernard and another man, taller and only slightly younger.  Illya stood, the book covering his bandaged hand that held his place.  Shoulder to shoulder they faced the newcomers.

“Mr. Bernard.  It’s nice to see you after all these years.”  Napoleon leaned forward and offered his hand.  Bernard shook it and smiled.

“Mr. Solo, I wasn’t sure you would remember me.  Please call me Gene, won‘t you?”

“It’s important in my line of work to remember people.  Napoleon, please.”

“Sales, I heard?”

“Yes, that’s right.”  Napoleon smiled his ‘talking to outsiders’ smile, a small but seemingly genuine one.  Illya knew he was the only one who knew the difference.

“I’d like to introduce my guest, Louis Hermon.  Louis, this is Napoleon Solo.”  The men shook hands and Napoleon turned to Illya.

“May I present Illya Kuryakin, my business partner and guest.”

Illya gave a small bow and held up the bandaged hand, taking the book in the other and closing it.  “My apologies, gentlemen, for my impoliteness at not shaking hands.”

“Quite all right.  Sales must be more dangerous than I imagined.”  Bernard smiled.

“Some baggage was trying to get away from me, I got a bit of rope burn reining it in,” Illya smiled at the look on Napoleon’s face, a flash of indignation quickly covered.

“Then I guess a game of cards is right out?” 

“For tonight, I think.”

“Then may we simply join you for some conversation, I would so like to catch up.”  Bernard smiled and then addressed Napoleon, “Though we met only the once, your grandfather did like to tell us about your accomplishments, so I feel it’s a bit like seeing an old friend, though I understand if you don’t feel the same kinship.”

“I suspect Grandfather was a fan, he sent me a clipping when you won the Master title.  I do owe you a game of chess.”

Bernard laughed, relaxed.  “Indeed.  I got quite a lot of ribbing after that evening, I must say.  You were very much the dark horse, weren’t you?”

“I hope I may still be.”  Napoleon turned to Illya then, “Will you mind the neglect, tovarisch?”

“Of course not.  I’m sure Mr. Hermon and I can amuse ourselves.”  Illya looked over the other man who nodded. 

“Louis, please, and yes, I am sure in a room full of books, if we can find nothing else to talk about we can debate the finer points of some author or another, don’t you think?”  His smile was broad and genuine, then he turned to Bernard.  “Go easy on the young man, won’t you?”

“What, do you think this is a grudge match?”  Bernard was smiling.

“I know that you can count on one hand the number of games you’ve lost in the last fifteen years, starting with that infamous game.”

“I suspect that Napoleon can hold his own and more, Louis.”  Bernard raised a brow at Napoleon.

“I like to think I can.”

“You see, nothing to worry about.”

The four of them had moved to the table where the chess game was set up when one of the many butlers came in with drinks for the newly arrived Bernard and his guest.

“Mr. Bernard, will you be playing tonight?”

“Yes, Mr. Harris, we will.”

“Allow me to clean this up for you.”  The man left and was back immediately with a cloth and feather duster.  “I don’t understand why it gets neglected this way, I suppose that the cleaning crew is afraid to disturb the game in progress.  Were you going to finish this one?”

“No, though last I was here there was no game going.  Does anyone else play besides me?”

“Rarely.”

“Then we will start from scratch.  Whoever left it will just have to try to remember where they were.”

The butler dusted and cleaned and set the board up, then left again, taking his cleaning tools with him and they were left to their own devices.

Several hours passed, during which the men shared another bottle from the fine selection of the late Grandfather Solo and Illya and Louis found several topics of mutual interest to discuss. 

“You have me at a draw, Napoleon, a perpetual check.  I must concede.  And why are you not on the rolls of the masters?”

Illya and Louis had drawn up chairs to observe.  Illya watched Napoleon shrug in that elegant and off hand way he had.

“Just never had the time for competitive chess, I suppose.”

Illya’s memory flashed to a past affair where competitive chess had been exactly what Napoleon had been up to, and realized that in fact, Napoleon often drew on chess for his strategy.  He did have an instinct for well placed moves in work as well as, he suspected, play.

Gene turned to Louis, “You see, there was no need to worry.  Not unless Napoleon decides to join us at an exhibition, in any case.  Until then, I can be secure in the knowledge that my losses will stay within these walls.”

They all walked back to the cloakroom, Napoleon holding Illya’s coat for him to slip his arms in, buttoning it up against the cold night, tucking his scarf inside and smoothing the lapels.  Then donning his own and turning to see that Louis performed a similar service, holding Gene’s coat for him, though not buttoning it.  He smiled at Illya when they weren’t looking.

“Napoleon, may I offer a ride to you and Illya?”  Gene asked.  “Getting a cab, even in this neighborhood, is a chore this time of night.  I have a hired car and would be happy to drop you anywhere you need.”

Napoleon sensed that Gene was trying to extend the evening for a bit, or perhaps wanted a word with them outside the ears of the club.  He turned to Illya who just shrugged and nodded.

“Thank you, that would be welcome.”

It was a nice car, roomy with facing bench seats behind a privacy screen separating the driver from them.  Napoleon and Illya slid in after the other two, watching for any suspect behaviour but finding only the empty street.  Napoleon checked to make sure his communicator was in his pocket, in case Gene and Louis were something unexpected.  Illya crossed his right leg over his left so that his concealed firearm was in easy reach of his good hand.  Napoleon tried not to smile at their habitual safety precautions.

Across from them, Gene and Louis were more relaxed than they had been in the club.  They sat close, as close as Illya and Napoleon, but their body language was subtly different.  They leaned into each other, not in the way that Illya and Napoleon leaned as a protective readiness for action, their proximity allowing for unspoken clues as to defensive plans, but more as a companionable closeness they were used to sharing.  They were in private and with company they appeared to trust and so the small touches of a couple became obvious. 

“Napoleon,” Gene said, “I have a small confession.”

Napoleon and Illya shared a look and Illya put his hand on his leg, ready to draw the gun.

“I have been waiting for you to show up at the club, the doormen were kind enough to agree to call me, should you ever decide to use your membership.”  He took a deep breath and glanced at Louis, then looked back at Napoleon again. 

“An awful lot of trouble for a chess game.”

“Oh, Napoleon, the chess was just a bonus, I assure you.  You are a worthy opponent, one I hope to encounter again.”  Gene chuckled.  “No, I have been waiting all these years to apologize.”

Napoleon let his puzzlement show in his expression.  “Why, did you throw the game last time?”

“Hell no,” he laughed again.  “I never pull punches in chess, Napoleon.  No, I wanted to tell you that I was sorry that our game became such a topic for conversation, and not in the most pleasant way for you, I understand.”  Gene looked again to his lover, and back.  “I overheard a conversation a few weeks after you had shipped out, about you overhearing some unsavory speculation after that game.  It was unconscionable of those men, and then to continue to spread such rumours, I was very displeased.  I didn’t care for myself so much, as I have put up with these whispers most of my adult life, but to spread these things about you, with no evidence of any sort, or even if there had been evidence, it’s no business of theirs what adults do in the privacy of their own lives.  I went to your grandfather and apologized and offered to give up membership.  He was unhappy with the whole thing as well, but not for the reason I expected.  He didn’t care what I did with my life and told me that you could take care of yourself and make your own choices.  And further, he told me if I quit over this, I’d be letting the bastards win and he wouldn’t stand for that.”

Illya relaxed next to Napoleon and flashed him a grin.

Napoleon returned the grin, then looked back to Gene and his partner, “That is interesting.  But you don’t owe me an apology.  I will make a confession as well, to even the field here.  I invited Illya to the club with me tonight just because of those rumours.  We got it into our heads that the petty gossips needed some shaking up.  So we decided to give them a show, in the name of right and good and free choice, or some high minded reason like that.  Or perhaps just to mess with the old guard.  Whichever works.”  Napoleon shrugged and grinned. 

“So, wait,” Louis finally spoke up, “you two aren’t,” he waved a hand at them, “together?”

Napoleon chuckled with a sidelong glance at Illya, “No.  Contrary to much popular opinion.”

“But you seem, so, well, comfortable,” Gene added.

“We have worked together for many years, in close quarters, you learn a person after that long,” Illya said.

“Too bad,” Louis commented. “You seem so well suited.”

Illya gave Napoleon a look, “That is the last time I let you dress me, Napoleon.”

Napoleon looked down his partner and back up again, “You say that now, tovarisch, but tomorrow when you want to wear something with buttons, you’ll change your tune.”

Illya harrumphed and the other men grinned while Napoleon looked smug.

“See what I mean.”  Louis grinned at his lover.

“I do, indeed, but I think we will have to take their word for it.”

“Not to mention the legion of secretaries at work, believe me,” Illya said, then gave his partner a sidelong smirk.

“I take you to work dressed the way you are tonight, you’ll be stealing them all from me.”

“Why, thank you, Napoleon, I do think that was a backhanded compliment.”

“Well, I did in fact dress you, so I suppose I have the right to point out that you look good.”

“And a fine valet you are, Napoleon.”

“Remember that later and don’t kick me in the teeth when I untie your shoes.”

Louis and Gene laughed, then Gene asked, “Could we interest you in dinner some evening, away from the gossips at the club?”

“Or even in front of the gossips at the club, just to keep the burr under the saddle you see,” Napoleon said.  “You up for that, tovarisch?”

“Between trips out of town, I am sure I can carve some time out of my busy schedule.”

“And when I can drag you away from the jazz clubs.”

“That, too. And when you aren’t out with whichever flavor of the week.”

Napoleon elbowed his partner, but gently so as to not jar his injured hand, then looked back at their companions, “I think that’s a yes, Gene, thank you.”

The car slowed, then parked, Napoleon looked out.  “I think this is our stop, partner.”  Napoleon smiled at the men across the car, “Thank you for an enjoyable evening.”  He reached into a pocket, coming out with a card, his name on one side and a phone number written on the back.  “Leave a message with my answering service, we will be in town for several weeks yet, and I am sure we can find some time for a night out.” 

Goodnights were exchanged and Napoleon and Illya disappeared into their building.

In the elevator, Napoleon turned to Illya, who was relaxed with his eyes half closed and a faraway look on his face like he was hearing far off music.  Napoleon reached out to settle a lock of his partner’s hair back into place, the wind outside had picked up and left it in some disarray.  Illya looked over at him, eyes sleepy, and Napoleon wondered how anyone still with a pulse resisted his partner.

“You do look good tonight, you know.”

“You are in rather fine form yourself, Napoleon.”

“Earlier I thought I might offer to take you out someplace after the club, you know, to find some companionship.”  Napoleon smiled.  “Sorry I got distracted from the plan.”

“Why be sorry, it was an enjoyable evening.  And I found the companionship perfectly stimulating.”  Illya gave Napoleon a slow smile, one that Illya rarely showed others.  Napoleon made a habit of cataloguing those rare true smiles.  “And your Gene and his Louis were good company as well.”

“Not my Gene.  But yes, they were good company.”

The doors opened on the penthouse level and Napoleon realized what Illya had said.  He wondered if his partner was aware of what he had just said, stimulating companionship, indeed. 

Inside the door, locked and alarmed for the night, Napoleon took off his coat and scarf, hanging them and then turned to Illya who was pulling his own scarf off and tucking it in a pocket. 

Illya looked up when Napoleon stepped close to unbutton his coat. 

Napoleon felt a wash of disorientation as he slipped the coat buttons open and slid the coat from his partner’s shoulders.  Maybe I’m the one who needed to go out looking for a girl, he thought, but the idea was strangely distasteful to him.  He was exactly where he wanted to be, he realized, spending time with Illya. 

In the dim entryway, Illya’s eyes appeared huge and dark and Napoleon couldn’t help thinking that on another evening with another companion, he would be leaning in to place an experimental kiss on the lips of his date.  But this hadn’t been a date.  Well, not true, he realized.  For all outward purposes, this had very much been a date.  And it had been one of the most enjoyable evenings out he had spent in months. 

It hit him in a flash that all the most enjoyable evenings he had had in several months had involved his partner.  He realized that he hadn’t dated any woman more than twice in over a year, that his preferred company had been Illya for longer than that. 

What the hell had seeing Illya dead triggered in him?  But it wasn’t the latest brush with death, and a rather slight one at that, that had led to this moment, not entirely.  Napoleon tried hard to think of something flip to say to erase the tension he felt building in him, the desire to taste the wine they had been drinking all night on his partner’s lips. 

He imagined the strength of the left hook his partner would dish out if he followed his impulse and turned away to hang Illya’s coat next to his in the hall closet.

Illya felt Napoleon step closer and looked up to see his partner studying him, a vulnerable look on his face that he couldn’t be aware of, this unguarded Napoleon was someone no one ever saw and Illya knew the trust his best friend gave him, letting him see it, even accidentally. 

Illya knew he hadn’t lied when he said the company had been stimulating and he was afraid that Napoleon might have heard more than he had meant to say.  What has gotten into you tonight, he wondered, knowing he couldn’t blame it on the drink, they hadn’t really had that much wine, even after dinner.  He had no excuse, and he knew it. 

Even fearing his partner’s death from a five storey plunge couldn’t explain the last several months.  Gradually they had fallen into a routine as work permitted, dinner after work twice or three times a week, at least one Saturday night out each month at Mama’s for ravioli and tiramisu and house red until they had to pour themselves laughing into a cab home and usually one Friday night a month at a concert or the symphony or even occasionally a jazz club that Napoleon enjoyed more than he would admit. 

Napoleon never talked about his female companionship anymore, though he still dated, still flirted with every secretary at headquarters and still had a collection of phone numbers to rival Ma Bell.  But he didn’t seem to call them as often these days, only if Illya had other plans, which wasn’t that often, his dating of his own following of secretaries had tapered off as of late. 

Illya watched the tenderness in Napoleon’s face, a flash so fast that if he hadn’t been standing so close and the light left on in the living room shining softly on his partner’s features, he’d never have seen it.  Just as fast as it was there, it was gone and Napoleon’s eyes went wide for a split second, then another flash just as fast of what might have been apprehension and Napoleon was turning to put Illya’s coat in the closet with his own. 

Illya’s head dropped and he turned toward the kitchen.  He was going to need a nightcap.  If nothing else, it would keep his own nightmares from penetrating the haze the vodka could give him.  Again and again, he saw the rooftop and Napoleon, too far to stop, to catch, to bring back over the brink from disaster, and in Illya’s dream he reached and felt Napoleon slip from his hands, burning him like the rope burned as he slid away and away and away. 

The vodka bottle he pulled from the freezer felt good, the cold burning his left hand in counterpoint to the dull ache of his injured right hand.  He stood there for a moment, eyes closed and just holding the cold in his hand.  He heard a cupboard open and the clink of glass against the counter.  He opened his eyes to see Napoleon holding out a hand for the bottle.  He gave it over in silence.

Napoleon poured the cold alcohol into a glass, then into a second and recapped the bottle, giving it back to Illya to replace in the freezer.  Napoleon held up his glass in the dim kitchen, neither of them having flipped the switch to the overhead light.

“L’Chaim, partner mine.”

Illya raised his glass then stopped.  “We are neither of us Hebrew, my friend, have you decided to study a new language?”

“Not at the moment, but our lives are well worth a toast, I think.”

“Da.  Yours and mine, Napoleon.”  Illya touched the rim of his glass to Napoleon’s, then drank half his glass in one swallow.

Napoleon took a long drink of the vodka.  He felt it burn a freezing path down his throat and wished he could so easily burn away the image of Illya’s bloody staring death out of his mind.  He drank the rest of the vodka in his glass, sitting the glass on the counter and watching as Illya tipped his head back, swallowing his own vodka, the muscles in his throat working. 

Illya carefully placed his own empty glass on the counter.

Napoleon turned, knowing Illya would follow, and walked out of the dim kitchen and down the dark hall to the master bedroom.  He turned on the bedside lamp which put a dim golden light over the bed.  He dug through the freshly washed laundry for a pair of Illya’s pyjamas, laying them on the bed, then turned to see that Illya had joined him, but stopped in the doorway. 

Napoleon toed off his shoes and slid them under the bed, he shrugged out of his suit coat and hung it in the closet.  He walked to the dresser and removed his tie tack, stroking a thumb over the blue stone, thinking how he never saw it without remembering how it matched his partner’s eyes.  He put it in its box and then removed his tie, the soft shush of silk against silk seeming unnaturally loud to his ears.  He laid the tie on the dresser top and heard Illya enter the room, finally. 

Illya stopped by the bed, reaching out and then pulling back, realizing that he was reaching for the pyjamas with the wrong hand.  A sigh escaped, impatient with his own weakness.  He turned to find Napoleon close.  Again he looked into his partner’s eyes, wondering what it was that Napoleon was seeing, what he was letting slip past, unchecked.

Napoleon reached out and very carefully unknotted the black silk tie, taking it to the dresser and folding it into its box before returning to Illya at the side of the bed. 

Illya hadn’t moved, hardly seemed to breathe.  Napoleon reached in and slid his hands under the lapels of the suit coat Illya wore, trying to ignore the way the silk under his palms was warm with Illya’s heat, the shoulders strong under his hands.  He turned and hung the jacket in the closet, again returning, and again, Illya had not moved.

Napoleon started to unbutton the dark silk shirt, Illya’s head tilting back to give him access to the top button and then tipping back down again.  Napoleon wasn’t sure if Illya was watching his hands as his fingers slowly slid each button out of its home or if he was watching his face or if he even had his eyes closed, because Napoleon couldn’t stop watching his own hands unbutton, slowly unveiling inch by inch the skin under the silk. 

Napoleon couldn’t understand his own fascination, this was his partner, whose every scar he knew as well as his own, years of familiarity were suddenly gone and he couldn’t seem to pull his gaze from the strip of pale flesh framed by the ever opening silk.  He realized that his hands were starting to tremble, just so faintly.  He hoped that Illya had closed his eyes, sleepy perhaps from the wine and the late evening and the effort the night had been despite its relaxed atmosphere. 

When he reached the bottom of the shirt and pulled the silk up to loosen it enough to reach the last button, he realized he couldn’t hide the tremor any longer.  His hands shook when the dark silk slid from the waistband of the lighter trousers and fell open when he released the last of the buttons. 

The dark blue gave Illya’s fair skin an unearthly glow, like the band of the Milky Way sparkling across the midnight sky that you could only see from far out in the countryside where there were no city lights to mar the sky overhead.  Napoleon was transfixed by the thought of Illya as a celestial body, mythic and preserved forever in a constellation. 

He wondered for the barest moment if he had taken all leave of his senses.  He expected any moment now for his partner to make a sarcastic comment, to complain about the time it was taking to get this simple job done, he prayed that Illya would crack a joke and break him out of this mesmerized trance, and yet Illya remained silent, barely breathing. 

Napoleon couldn’t force himself to move, to look up into Illya’s face, to break the strange silence on his own.  His hands trembled, poised above the button and zip of Illya’s slacks, and he couldn’t force himself to either continue or to step away.

The brush of Napoleon’s fingers on his skin, just the barest hint of touch that it took to unbutton the silk shirt was enough to focus all of Illya’s attention.  Illya imagined that this must be what it would be like to be touched by a ghost, hints of brushing fingertips and suggestions of caresses and frustratingly incomplete stroking on his skin, burning briefly and then gone to tease along another inch of flesh and moving on too fast to savor but so slowly that it was torturous. 

Illya watched those hands moving down, button by button, the slowness excruciating and yet also not slow enough, because as soon as the shirt was open Illya knew that Napoleon would walk away again and Illya wanted to know he was there, real, alive and solid and breathing and never going to be taken by an enemy to some afterlife Illya could not follow. 

Illya saw that Napoleon’s hands shook as he pulled the silk from the pants Illya wore and that slide of silk on his skin was fire and frustratingly not the fire he wanted, needed.

“I need…” Illya spoke in a whisper that was hardly sound.

“Illya?”  Napoleon whispered just as softly.

Illya hadn’t realized he had put voice to his agony.  He looked up from Napoleon’s still trembling hands, seeing in his eyes fear and hope and confusion and knew he mirrored the same back to his friend.

“I did say that I would tell you when I was in need.”  Illya spoke quietly, so much so that Napoleon wondered if he was imagining the soft barely there sound.

Illya reached out and realized he still had bandages on one hand, he let out a frustrated growl and took one of Napoleon’s hands in his good one, then splayed it flat on his own chest over his heart, placing his own good hand over Napoleon’s heart, separated from his skin by the sheerest silk, smooth under his palm.  He put his bandaged hand on Napoleon’s over his heart, keeping it there.  He looked into Napoleon’s eyes again, seeing surprise but also, something else that looked a lot like relief to him, and he wondered if it was just his hopeful imagination.

“I need, Napoleon, to know you are here and alive and never leaving and I need to stop seeing you falling over the roof edge every night in my nightmares where I am not fast enough or strong enough or…”

Napoleon put his hand up over Illya’s, pressing Illya’s hand to his heart and then interrupting him, “Tovarisch, I am right here, I am never leaving, you are enough of everything, Illya, always enough.”

Napoleon stepped closer and rested his forehead against Illya’s, his voice low and soothing and then more.  “Illya, my friend, you will always be enough.”

Illya nodded, and it seemed the most natural thing in the world to let his lips drift against Napoleon’s.  The steady thud of Napoleon’s heart under his hand picked up and he could feel his own matching the rhythm, falling into synch just as they were always in synch.

Napoleon’s lips parted and Illya tilted his head to touch closer and then Napoleon was meeting him halfway, pressing closer still, tongue tip sliding against Illya’s lower lip and he was opening to taste in return, lips exploring and hands feeling the beat of their hearts increase and push the blood against their ears like the rush of the ocean and time might have stopped there for all they cared to notice.

In that timeless place they kissed, lips pressed together and then slowly opening, slowly tasting the night’s wine and later vodka, tasting the flavor of each other under the spirits, testing textures of tongues and teeth, inner cheeks and gums, warm mouths locked and breathing in the familiar scent of each other, the scent that said deep in the back of their brains that here was safe and here was comfort and here was home.

“I’m sorry Napoleon,” Illya tried to pull back but his partner’s hands held him fast, one hand still warm on his chest over his heart beating like a wild bird that finds itself caged, his other hand sliding up to Illya’s neck, warm fingers kneading muscles that hadn’t been tense a moment before. 

Napoleon took a deep breath and leaned again as he had been, forehead resting on Illya’s, his eyes closed.  He didn’t want to see whatever regret or blame, or worst of all pity, that might be in his partner’s eyes.  “For what are you sorry, Illya?”  He tried to brace himself, for what he wasn’t sure.  “Sorry for needing, sorry for saving me, sorry for responding?” Napoleon’s spoke quietly, still the softest whisper, as if by not quite voicing his fears they could not take shape and cut him open.

“I don’t know, Napoleon.  I’ve never, that is, not…”  Illya couldn’t find the words he needed, in any of his many languages, he couldn’t even describe the emotions he felt.  He slid his hand up to mirror Napoleon’s, sliding his fingers into that dark hair, hoping that his partner could somehow read his mind the way they did for each other in the middle of a gunfight or a chase or a brawl and understand the overwhelming confusion of feelings. 

Napoleon sighed as Illya’s hand slid up his neck and into his hair, cupping the back of his head and fingertips barely stroking, kneading like a cat, gently.  Was his partner as confused as he felt?  Was he bowled over by this sudden flood of feeling?  What the hell were they going to do with it?  He leaned a little, to put his lips by Illya’s ear and still using that fragile voice, soft so as to not call the fear to him, he whispered, “This is a first for me tovarisch, I can’t tell you what is happening.  I have no idea what to do.  All I do know is that seeing you… thinking you were… I felt like I had lost part of me, lost the most important part, lost the only part that kept me…”  Napoleon took a stuttering breath, “I’ve lost partners before.  It hurts.  But you go on.  And I couldn’t, I didn’t even want to imagine a world without you in it, I only wanted to destroy whatever had taken you away, eradicate that evil off the planet and find whatever oblivion would erase the empty place where you used to be.”  Napoleon was silent for several long moments, time had once again slowed and he didn’t know how long he stood just holding Illya, breathing in the soothing comfort of his scent and feeling the heartbeat steady again under his hand, skin warm under his palm.  “Illya, I’m sorry if I misinterpreted, ah,” and he was stopped by Illya fisting his hand in his hair.

Illya pulled Napoleon back to face him, locking his mouth over his partner’s and this was no tender kiss from earlier, but searing and blazing and hard, Illya plundering and taking and Napoleon was surprised just long enough for Illya to have complete control and Napoleon moaned as he didn’t even try to resist, just responded and gave back everything he was given. 

The back and forth possession of the kiss went on and on and Illya stopped trying to form words in his mind to describe the emotions whirling around in his head and instead gave over to the sensations.  Napoleon’s hand sliding out of his hair and down his back, scorching warmth through the silk and then gathering the silk out of the way to slide back up and under, Napoleon’s palm pressing against the small of his back and he willingly let his partner mold him to that strength, solid chest and belly and hard thighs against his own and still one hand on his heart, as if in reassurance that this was real and happening and current.  He let his own hand release Napoleon’s hair and slide back to his throat, strong pulse under his fingers throbbing in time with his own now, and again he could feel the push of blood in his ears, dizzying, intoxicating as the vodka they drank earlier, becoming more drunken by the moment on the taste of Napoleon’s mouth on his.

He slid his hand down again, frustrated by the still buttoned shirt Napoleon wore and growled his displeasure, making Napoleon respond with a moan deep in his own throat. 

Napoleon pulled away, fingers swiftly working the buttons of his own shirt and then the cuffs of Illya’s, pulling both shirts off and dropping them even as Illya was running his unbandaged hand over revealed skin and torturing Napoleon with the barest of brushing fingertips then pushing him back toward the bed and Napoleon pulled Illya after him to tumble them horizontal, they rolled, ending up facing one another in the middle of the bed.  Illya leaned up on his right elbow to look down at Napoleon, again feathering strokes on skin.

“Your hand.”

“Is fine, Napoleon.”  Illya leaned down to kiss away any doubts his partner might have, and again the blaze was bright between them, the kiss as incendiary as any of Illya’s creations. 

Napoleon stroked a hand down Illya’s back, pulling him close again and there was no misinterpreting the hard flesh that Illya felt, thin layers of cloth did nothing to hide their arousal and Illya pressed closer, let Napoleon pull him over and on top, knees bracing and kiss never breaking, Napoleon taking his full weight and again the hoarse moan deep in his throat as Illya ground his hard confined cock against the mirrored hardness of Napoleon’s.

Napoleon pushed his hands between them and opened Illya’s slacks, pushing them out of the way, then his own, Illya helped enough to get the cloth out of the way and when they were bare skin to skin they both moaned, Illya resting his head against Napoleon’s neck.  Their cocks continued to throb in time with their thundering pulses and Illya pressed his mouth to Napoleon’s ear, “What exactly did you mean earlier, that this is a first, Napoleon?”

“So many firsts tonight, tovarisch, where do I start?”

Illya pulled back to look in his partner’s eyes.  The soft lamp at the side of the bed gave his skin a soft glow and showed his eyes dilated darker and Illya thought there might be a hint of trepidation there.

Gazing up at Illya, Napoleon was reminded again of the sapphires he had worn tonight, his partner’s eyes were so bright in the soft lamplight. 

“Illya, partner mine, you are the only man I would ever ask out on a date and you are the only man I have ever had the desire to kiss and you are the only man I will ever,” Napoleon rolled his hips and saw as well as felt Illya’s reaction, “want in my bed.  So unless you have some qualms about virgins, you had better be prepared to follow through.”

Illya raised a brow, pressing Napoleon back against the bed, hips sliding, “What makes you think I know what the hell I’m doing here?”

“You don’t?”  Napoleon asked after he caught his breath.

“I guess this means we make it up as we go along, my friend.”

“We’ve always been pretty good at that.”  Napoleon ran his hands up Illya’s back and into his hair to pull his partner down to kiss again, and it felt so good he did it again, running his hands up and down, stopping to caress the golden hair that felt as smooth as the silk had earlier under his hands.  Each stroke brought his hands lower until he was gripping Illya’s ass and pressing him harder against his own desperate cock, thrusting against Illya as Illya kissed and nibbled his way from Napoleon’s mouth to his ear and then throat and back to his mouth and again the nipping journey of tongue and lips and teeth along Napoleon’s jaw and up to the sensitive soft skin behind Napoleon’s ear and Illya’s harsh breath in his ear made him grip harder and thrust faster and then Illya was bracing himself with one arm to counterthrust, the friction building and their hard cocks sliding and Illya arched against him, eyes closed and panting nonsense words as he came and the sight and feel of it brought Napoleon over, arching into Illya as he joined his lover in collapsing on the bed in exhausted pleasure.

Napoleon had no idea how much time passed, enough that his heart stopped thundering in his chest and the breathless gasps of his lover became the normal soft pattern he was used to hearing.  They had rolled again to their sides, still holding, still tangled, calming slowly.

It felt good, this aftermath, there was no urge to leave immediately as he often felt with others, there was no nagging sense of needing to be somewhere else.  He also realized that he had no idea what to say.  With his usual lovers, his female lovers, he had smooth words at the ready, always there to extricate him from the afterglow and whatever expectations that staying might imply.  It startled him to discover that he wanted Illya to stay next to him, he wanted to stay in this tangle of limbs and bedspread and soft lamplight. 

Illya stirred, the lethargy of the aftereffects of his orgasm wearing off and he realized this too felt natural, just as brushing his lips over Napoleon’s had felt natural, and he thought that it should disturb him.  But it didn’t.  He wondered at that.  Were they just so used to one another, so comfortable together that this was the natural progression of that closeness, of their constant proximity?  But that couldn’t be right, there were plenty of partnerships at work that had lasted at least as long as theirs and none of them had ended up in bed.  Or maybe they did, it wasn’t like there was a form to fill out to report a deepening of partnership connections.  And if there were, who would be the brave one to fill it out? 

Napoleon felt Illya stir and smoothed a hand across his lover’s shoulders and then smoothed his shining hair, adjusting so he could look in Illya’s eyes, still bright and full of questions.

“I can hear the cogs turning in that brain, what are you thinking now?”  he smiled at the look Illya gave him.

“Did we really just have sex, or is this a very elaborate hallucination brought on by interrupted sleep and too much vodka?”

“I suppose we could debate the point.”  Napoleon settled in, keeping his eyes locked on his partner’s.  “Intercourse is defined, I believe, by the act of penetration, but sex is usually accepted as being any gratifying activity.  So if you think sex is defined by the act of intercourse, then no, not yet.  And if you define it as acts that lead to a satisfactory conclusion, then yes.  But I don’t keep a dictionary on my bedside table, so I may have to check a source or two.”  Napoleon paused, then continued, “It was, ah, satisfactory, wasn’t it?”

Illya could see the smile in Napoleon’s eyes, but also heard the tiniest thread of concern in his smooth voice, a small break in the low sleepy tone.  “Quite mutually gratifying, I believe.”  Illya let his own voice reassure Napoleon, even as he tried to reassure himself.  This didn’t have to change things, it didn’t have to become a wedge dividing them, it was because they were so close that this was even possible, wasn’t it? 

“I can see it, Illya, you worry and you get a look.  Tell me.  Please?”

“It is precisely because I feared losing you that this happened, and now I wonder if we will survive each other after surviving THRUSH plots and assassins and various world dictators.  I would hate to find that the very thing that…”

“Are you planning on getting out of my bed and never returning?”

“You want me to return?”

“I still can’t stand the thought of a world without you in it, and my world without you in it is worse.  We felt something, we acted on it.  It’s what we do.  But if it never happens again I want to know that you will still be here, in my world.  My bed is, well, that’s unknown, isn’t it?”

“I am a scientist, Napoleon, I like to know things.”  Illya had a new look in his eyes now, not the wariness Napoleon had seen before, but something else, something much more like the Illya he knew so well.

“Then you think the situation bears some, ah, investigation?”

“I think that two such experienced men as ourselves are surprisingly lacking in certain areas of information, we should always take the opportunity to learn when it is presented to us.”  Illya had relaxed again, warm in Napoleon’s arms.

“Well, some of the brightest people I know are self taught.  Perhaps we could make some discoveries if we, ah, experiment enough.”  Napoleon slid his hand over Illya’s hair and down his back again, smoothing across scars he knew well and yet feeling like it was the first touch all over again.

“Now you are in the spirit of things.”  Illya smiled, and it was a sly smile that reflected in his eyes gone dark and dilated again.  “More research is certainly called for, don’t you agree?”  He pressed himself against Napoleon who could feel returning interest himself.

“Is this the part where we communicate our results?”

“Almost, first some of that experimentation, I think,” Illya said as he leaned in to kiss Napoleon’s smiling lips again.

“L’Chaim” means not “to life” as it is commonly translated, but “to lives” in the plural. No one could live life by themselves. We all need someone else. So there’s no point in toasting life, because life that is not shared is unlivable. — Rabbi Shmuley Boteach