Safe Harbor

© 2004 Kellie Matthews

"All right, so what's bothering you this time?" Napoleon asked irritably as his partner dropped a file on his desk and then turned to leave without saying a word.

Illya paused in the doorway and lifted one pale eyebrow, eyes as cold and blue as glacier ice. "What makes you believe anything is bothering me?"

"Oh, nothing really. Just the little fact that you haven't said two words to me since we got back. And it's been three days." He didn't mention the fact that Illya seemed to have been avoiding him as well. Normally they ate lunch together every day in the commissary, but not since they'd returned. Nor had they had dinner, which they usually did at least twice a week.

"Must I remind you that it was difficult for me to speak at all until just recently?"

Napoleon suppressed a guilty flinch, knowing he was indirectly responsible for the damage to Illya's throat. In fact, his voice was still much huskier than normal, giving his usually crisp speech a peculiarly intimate tone. "I. . . uh. . . no. I'm sorry about that."

Illya sighed. "Of course you are. You always are."

Napoleon frowned. "What's that supposed to mean?"

Illya's gaze pinned him. "It is supposed to mean that it would be a novel occurrence if occasionally you placed my safety above your libido."

This again. Illya never ceased to harp on his harmless little flirtations. The fact that in this particular instance he was right only added to Napoleon's irritation. If he hadn't stopped to flirt, that guard would never have run across Illya and nearly strangled him. He picked up the file Illya had brought him and flipped through it, looking at the analysis of the new explosive THRUSH had been working on. The very explosive which Illya had been injured in retrieving. Another stab of guilt made him snappish. "At least I'm not a damned eunuch like some people around here," he muttered.

The silence that followed his comment was so intense he could hear his own heartbeat in it. He waited for the explosion he knew would come. And waited. And waited. Finally, unable to stand it any longer, he turned to look at Illya, who . . . wasn't there. The doorway was empty, the door closing silently on its tracks.

Napoleon sighed. Oh, very well done. A hit so far below the belt he couldn't even pretend it had been anything else. And now Illya was offended. With very good reason. He pushed his chair away from his desk and stood up, heading into the corridors to track down his partner and apologize.

The only problem was, Illya was nowhere to be found. He wasn't in the lab, his office, in medical, the armory, not even in the commissary. Rare occurrence that it was, Napoleon knew when he was being avoided, and decided to try again later. After all, he knew all of Illya's haunts. He would find him, eventually. And in the meantime, maybe his partner would have calmed down, and he wouldn't be risking any loose teeth.

That night he stopped by Illya's apartment with a fifth of Stoli as a peace offering, but there were no lights on, and no one answered the door. He had a key, and could have let himself in to make sure that Illya wasn't just sulking, but had a feeling that if he did it would just make things worse, so he didn't. He tried the jazz club he knew Illya frequented, but there was no sign of him there either. Later that night he tried calling the apartment. The phone rang seventeen times before he gave up. He couldn't, at the moment, recall a time when Illya had let a snit go on this long, but there was a first time for everything.

He drank three scotches and ate no dinner. Probably not a good idea, he reflected later, as it did nothing but exacerbate the peculiar mixture of guilt, regret, and unease he felt. The remark had been utterly uncalled for. After all, it wasn't as though he didn't know why Illya was, as he had so charmingly put it, a eunuch. He tried not to think about it, but of course, the more he tried, the more insistent the memory became.

Left alone with his new partner for the first time, he'd eyed him sourly. For God's sake, he was the premier agent in UNCLE. What the hell was Mr. Waverly thinking, saddling him with a scrawny, wet-behind-the-ears Russian whiz-kid for a partner, even if he had passed every test with flying colors and was older than he looked? Noting the wary look in his erstwhile partner's eyes, he'd pasted on a smile he knew did nothing to disguise his annoyance. "So, Mr. Kuryakin. Any questions?"

Kuryakin eyed him back, his expression disconcertingly unreadable. After a long, slightly uncomfortable pause, he shook his head. "No, Mr. Solo. No questions. There is, however, something of which you should be aware before you agree to this assignment."

Napoleon almost laughed. As if he had a choice in the matter? No. Mr. Waverly had made that quite clear, at least to him. Still, he was curious now. "What would that be?"

Kuryakin hesitated for a moment, and then he squared his shoulders, feet apart, and hands locked behind his back in a strangely military stance, and lifted defiant blue eyes to meet Napoleon's gaze evenly. "Those who arranged for me to come here consider my posting here to be . . . how do you say. . . something of a joke."

Napoleon scowled. "UNCLE is no joke."

"Ah, no. You misunderstand. I am the joke, on you, or rather, on UNCLE." The direct gaze slid away from his to focus on something over his left shoulder, and faint color stained the skin over sharp cheekbones. "They believe I am defective."

Napoleon had seen the man's files. Even he had to admit they were impressive. A PhD in quantum mechanics. A stint in the Soviet Navy, little hints about possible other affiliations, though none overtly stated. He'd gone through UNCLE's rigorous survival training like a hot knife through butter. If this was what the Russians considered defective, he wasn't sure he wanted to meet the cream of the crop. "If that's so, they certainly took pains to conceal it," he said, waiting for further explanation.

Kuryakin nodded. "Indeed."

"Enlighten me then," Napoleon prompted, when it was clear no further explanation was forthcoming. "What is this defect they find so amusing?"

If he hadn't been watching closely, he wouldn't have seen the slow expansion of stomach muscles that betrayed the deep, slow breath Kuryakin took then. His eyes remained focused on whatever it was he saw over Napoleon's left shoulder.

"While I am functionally bisexual, I am primarily homosexual. I wish to assure you that it should not prove to be a problem. I realize it is potentially dangerous, but I will be celibate for the sake of safety. However, I felt it would be unfair of me not to allow you the option of refusing the partnership should you be uncomfortable with what I am."

Napoleon was still processing the first sentence, trying not to let his jaw drop. Unused to feeling out of his depth in any social situation, but needing to find something to say, he seized on the first part of the other man's statement. "What do you mean by 'functionally bisexual?'"

Blue eyes flickered to his face quickly, assessing, a hint of surprise in their clear depths. "I can perform with women, should it be required. It is not distasteful to me, it is simply not my preference."

The idea that someone would find having sex with a woman distasteful made Napoleon blink a little, but he supposed there must be someone, somewhere, who did. He groped for more words to fill the awkward silence. "Does Mr. Waverly know?"

The look Kuryakin gave him was scathing. "I would not keep potentially damaging information from my superior."

Napoleon thought about that potentially damaging information, prodded his own comfort level to see if it balked. To his surprise, it didn't. And the fact that the man he'd thought of as a 'scrawny, wet-behind-the-ears Russian whiz-kid' had just revealed shockingly personal information to both him and to Mr. Waverly, two people who could make his life a living hell if they wanted to, stunned him. For Kuryakin to do such a thing took a kind of courage that was beyond his comprehension. He cleared his throat, and tried a smile. A real one. "In that case," he extended his hand. "Welcome aboard, Mr. Kuryakin."

* * *

At work the next morning, Napoleon still couldn't locate his partner. Around eleven, he took a stack of files and staked out a table in the commissary, waited until one, and when Illya still hadn’t made an appearance he’d had enough. He retreated to his office, took out his communicator, and asked for Illya.

“Agent Kuryakin is unavailable,” came the unexpected response.

“What do you mean he’s unavailable? How can he be unavailable?”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Solo, but that’s all the information I have.” Sherry sounded genuinely apologetic.

“Who told you he was unavailable?”

“It came straight from Number One.”

It did, did it? He thanked her, and headed for Waverly’s office. After cooling his heels while his superior finished a briefing, he pushed his way past the exiting agents and stood in front of Mr. Waverly’s imposing desk, trying to look casual.

“Where’s Illya?”

The old man calmly closed the file he’d been perusing, and looked up at him. “I don’t believe that’s any of your concern, Mr. Solo.”

“My partner disappears and it’s not my concern? Since when?”

“Don’t be melodramatic. A vacation is hardly a disappearance.” He reopened the file and started to page through it.

Napoleon wondered for a moment if THRUSH had developed a new device that sucked all the air out of the room, but then he realized that his superior showed no sign of distress, so it must just be him. “Vacation?”

“Two weeks,” Mr. Waverly said, without looking up. “Though he has far more time off coming to him. While his medical leave balance is appallingly low, his vacation balance is somewhat excessive and I suggested he use some of it. It will make personnel happy, as they won’t have to cash out quite as much at the end of the year.”

“How could you do that without notifying me?” Napoleon demanded, shocked.

Mr. Waverly closed the file again, and looked up at him with a frown. “I was not aware that I was required to consult you on personnel decisions, Mr. Solo.”

The reprimand was gentle, but clear, and Napoleon flushed. “Of course not, sir. I was just. . . surprised that no one informed me.”

That got a lifted eyebrow. “Mr. Kuryakin did not discuss his plans with you?”

Waverly’s surprise only made the knot in his stomach worse. “No.”

“Hmmm,” Mr. Waverly said, annoyingly noncommittal.

While Napoleon waited impatiently for him to continue, Mr. Waverly filled his pipe, tamped it, lit it, and puffed for a moment. Finally he looked back at Napoleon.

 “Have you ever been to the zoo, Mr. Solo?”

“Of course.” He wasn't sure what the zoo had to do with anything but the old man wasn’t given to making meaningless obscure references. He had to be going somewhere with it.

“Have you noticed the behavior of the large predators. . . tigers, panthers, wolves, and the like.”

“Yes, sir.”

Waverly nodded. “A predator kept for long in captivity will often become. . . disturbed. They pace the confines of their cages, they are irritable, aggressive, and may become dangerous to their keepers. The look in their eyes is. . . not something I care to see in one of my agents. I felt that Mr. Kuryakin needed out of his cage for a while.”

Napoleon considered that unsettling image, and then shook it off, turning to his superior with his most persuasive smile. "Where'd he go?"

"I suspect if he'd wanted you to know that, he would have told you."

"I just want to make sure he's all right. You know what an irresistible target he would make if THRUSH found out where he was."

"Another excellent reason not to tell you, since having two irresistible targets in one location would be even less . . . resistible. He can take care of himself, Mr. Solo."

"But . . . "

Mr. Waverly's gaze lost some of its amused paternalism. "Leave it be."

Never let it be said that he didn't know how to make a graceful retreat. "Yes, sir. Two weeks, you said?"

"Two weeks," Mr. Waverly confirmed. "In point of fact, your own vacation balance is getting somewhat out of hand. May I suggest you take this opportunity to enjoy some time off yourself? I hear the Bahamas are nice. And there's been quite a dearth of avian activity there of late, so you can probably even leave your field-glasses at home."

In other words, THRUSH was at least temporarily out of commission in the area. The Bahamas. Hm. For some reason, it didn't really appeal. "Is that an order, sir?"

"Certainly not. You can go anywhere you like."

Napoleon ruthlessly controlled a triumphant smile. "I guess I'll just have to come up with a good spot on my own."

"I'm sure you'll find something. After all, there are lovely women all over the world."

"Indeed there are. Good afternoon, sir."

"Good afternoon, Mr. Solo."

* * *

Officially free to choose a destination, Napoleon set about researching vacation spots. Despite the fact that Illya hadn't been back to the Soviet Union in over a year, he was fairly certain his partner would not have gone there, since he might be at risk from those of his former compatriots who unofficially disapproved of his officially-approved UNCLE posting. Same went for any of the Eastern Bloc countries. He was equally sure that Illya wasn't in the Bahamas, or Mr. Waverly wouldn't have suggested them. He briefly considered the idea that it might have been a bit of reverse psychology, then dismissed it. It wasn't Mr. Waverly's style. Unfortunately that still left an awful lot of territory to consider.

Not to mention the fact that the idea of Illya going anywhere on vacation was ridiculous. His partner just didn't. . . recreate. His idea of a good time was cozying up to a physics journal, or working overtime in his lab. Napoleon wondered if there was such a thing as a 'great libraries of the world' tour. If so, Illya would be on it. As long as the only women on the tour were in their seventies and motherly. The man was a damned eu . . .

Damn it. He'd just done it again. The thing that had, he suspected, precipitated Illya's sudden uncharacteristic absence. Or at least the thing that had been the proverbial last straw. He thought once again of Mr. Waverly's too-evocative description, and shivered at the image of his partner pacing a too-small cage, back and forth, back and forth, as graceful and deadly as a wolf. A white-furred, blue eyed wolf, body lean and sleek . . . Okay, where the hell had that thought come from? He shook himself. Vacation. Where would Illya go on vacation? What would he be looking for, what didn't his UNCLE 'cage' allow him?

The answer was obvious, even to him. Maybe especially to him. He felt an unexpected blush fire through him at the image his mind supplied to go along with the thought. Lean and sleek indeed. That sort of thought had snuck up on him occasionally, usually in those circumstances where they were hanging, half-clothed, from manacles in some THRUSH dungeon. Though what that said about him he didn't really want to think about too closely. Now all he had to do was figure out where a guy would go on vacation if he wanted to get lucky. . . with another guy.

Damn. Usually if he wanted to know some obscure fact, he'd just go down to Research and ask, but this time. . . he stopped, and smiled. He could still do that. He just had to be discreet. Twenty minutes and a brief flirtation later, he had a list of potential locations supplied by a helpful file clerk who had been eager to assist him in locating places to look for a mysterious enemy agent of a certain persuasion.

Armed with the list, he set about doing some legwork, and hit the jackpot on the third airline he tried. The ticket agent had remembered selling a ticket to 'cute' blond man of Illya's general height and build who spoke with what she thought was a British accent. An invitation to coffee garnered him a look at the flight manifest, and a quick scan showed that one Elijah Curie had booked a flight to San Francisco. He knew Illya liked to keep his pseudonyms easy to remember, and that one had the advantage of having the same initial sounds as his real name. Not to mention including a tip of the hat to a pair of famous scientists.

He had destination and name, now all he had to do was find his partner in a city of seventy-five thousand people. Easy as pie.

* * *

It occurred to Napoleon that the phrase 'easy as pie' in this case might better be expressed as 'easy as pi,' because he felt like he'd been endlessly repeating the same action out to infinite decimal positions. 'Elijah Curie' had effectively disappeared once he reached San Francisco. He hadn't registered at any of the hotels and motels that Napoleon had checked. And he hadn't just stuck to the four-star places he would have chosen himself, since knowing Illya, he was in some fleabag dump because God forbid he do anything as bourgeois as staying somewhere nice.

After realizing he couldn't possibly check every place of lodging in the greater San Francisco metropolitan area, at least not without help from the local office, he'd changed his strategy. Assuming Illya was on the make, Napoleon needed to find places where men went to meet other men. Some subtle if embarrassing questions to the hotel's concierge had narrowed his search to clubs in the section of town rumored to be the most likely place for a man's man to hunt his prey.

One thing about having now checked out about a dozen such clubs, he was almost starting to feel comfortable in them. And he'd learned how to politely turn down a pass from another man without getting his hackles up. No sign of Illya so far, though. Still, he would wait in this place a while, just to be sure. It was his third club of the night, and he'd found a nice dark corner in which to sip a martini, making it last so he wouldn't get too buzzed. This place felt right. Righter than the other clubs, anyway. This one was smaller, darker, and the music playing was not the bright, danceable pop the other clubs had featured, but the sultrier strains of John Coltrane.

He scanned the room, and felt a little shiver of awareness go through him, but saw no bright platinum head anywhere. He drank again, feeling frustrated. It felt. . . he felt. . . close. His instincts were telling him that Illya was here. Somewhere. Suddenly remembering Illya's skill at disguises, he realized that perhaps he wasn't looking for the right thing.

He studied the club's patrons more carefully, looking for form and motion instead of color. And. . . there. At the bar. He couldn't see his face yet, and the coloring was off, but if it wasn't Illya, it was someone who was a perfect match in height and build. He moved like Illya too, lightly, and with barely-leashed tension. As he watched, a tall, dark-haired man approached the guy and he turned slightly toward Napoleon. Oh yeah. It was him. His silver-blond hair had been dulled to a warm honey shade, and a pair of wire-rimmed glasses with slightly tinted lenses camouflaged his distinctive eyes, but it was him.

As he watched, the taller man leaned in close. Too close. Napoleon pushed his chair away from the table, ready to go to his partner's aid, but Illya stepped back smoothly, reestablishing some distance, and shook his head with a small, clearly insincere smile. The dark man frowned, then shrugged and walked away. Napoleon realized his heart rate had spiked, and he was breathing too quickly. Deliberately he moderated his breathing, feeling his pulse slow as he did. He was too programmed. . . usually when someone got that close to Illya, it was to attack, and his own instinct was to defend. However, he was fairly sure that Illya didn't want defending against this sort of attack. Not to mention the fact that as Mr. Waverly had said, he could take care of himself. Obviously.

It rankled a bit. Suddenly Napoleon wasn't sure why he had come. Illya didn't want him there. Neither did Mr. Waverly. So why had he gone to such lengths to flout their wishes? A few moments of introspection brought him to the realization that somewhere inside he had expected Illya to need rescuing, but, as he watched his partner gracefully turn down a second attractive, dark-haired man, it was quite clear that he didn't. He tossed back the remainder of his martini, not tasting it, and signaled a waiter for another. As he waited for it, he continued to watch Illya. A lanky blond who didn't look more than twenty approached Illya, and his smile suddenly warmed. Napoleon watched, astonished, as they began to talk animatedly.

"Your martini," the waiter announced, distracting him.

Without looking up, Napoleon dug a bill out of his pocket and handed it over, vaguely aware that it was a five. "Keep the change."

"Thanks!" The waiter was clearly pleased with the exorbitant tip. There was a pause, then he leaned closer. "Let me return the favor. Don't bother with that one. You'll never get anywhere with him."

Napoleon looked up. "With who?" Idly he noted that the waiter was a handsome young man, about six-foot-two with blue eyes, dark, wavy hair and a muscular build.

"The lethal blond you're watching, the one with the accent."

Lethal. Napoleon thought it interesting that the young man had chosen that particular description for Illya. "Why won't I?" he asked, curious.

"Because you're dark haired. He never looks twice at brunets. Blonds, redheads, guys with light brown hair. Anything but guys like you. Or me," he added ruefully.

No dark haired guys? His competitive streak reared its head, and for an instant Napoleon was tempted to go over and say hello to Illya just to prove to the waiter that he could. His partner wouldn't brush him off like he had the other two men. Then sanity asserted itself and he realized that under the circumstances, Illya probably wouldn't talk to him. He'd be too pissed-off for conversation. No, best to just appear to take the waiter's recommendation. He raised his martini glass in a slight salute. "Thanks. A shame, though."

The waiter sighed. "You're not kidding. He's really got. . . something."

"Something?" Napoleon asked, amused. "What sort of something?"

The waiter gave him an incredulous look. "Don't tell me you don't feel it. You were staring at the guy too."

Napoleon looked again, trying to see Illya through the eyes of a man who liked men, and . . . yeah. He did have. . . something. Something pretty magnetic, actually.

"And that's not all," the waiter said, leaning closer, almost whispering. "It's not just show. He took Marek home with him the other night, and he hasn't been the same since."

"Marek?"

The waiter gestured. "The guy he's talking to now. He likes novelty. Never goes out with the same guy more than once. Until now. Ever since Monday night, Marek's been trying for an encore. And somehow I don't think it's just because they both speak about six languages."

A frisson of unease slid down Napoleon’s spine. It seemed awfully coincidental that a young man with a Slavic-sounding name and a facility for languages would just happen to show up here, looking for action with Illya. And Illya was relaxed, his guard down. Maybe he did need watching over, after all.

"You know, he might not go for dark and handsome, but. . . I do," the waiter said suggestively.

It took Napoleon a good thirty seconds to stop thinking about Illya possibly being in danger, and realize he'd just been propositioned. The waiter seemed to take his silence for interest, because he went on.

"My name's Brian," he said, scribbling something on a cocktail napkin. "I get off at two." He handed Napoleon the napkin, which had a phone number on it, and smiled.

Brian had a nice smile. A little crooked, kind of endearing. If Napoleon were going to let himself be picked up by a man, this one wouldn't be half bad. But he had other plans. He took the napkin and tucked it into his pocket. "I'll keep that in mind," he said noncommittally.

Brian studied him for a moment, and his smile turned wry. "No, you won't, but it's nice of you to say so."

Napoleon smiled back apologetically. "Sorry."

"It's okay." He looked back at the pair of blonds at the bar. "Maybe once this guy leaves, Marek will go back to normal."

Something in his tone made Napoleon look at him more closely. "I thought you said he doesn't do repeat business."

Brian's gaze didn't move from the taller of the two men. "He doesn't. I don't count, we're just buddies."

"Ah," Napoleon said. He knew what that meant. He had a few of those himself, though of a different gender. "Did you go for Mr. Accent to try to make your friend jealous?"

The blue gaze flicked down, met his in surprise. "I . . . uh. . . ." Even in the shadowy, smoke-filled atmosphere of the bar, the young man's blush was readily apparent, and his smile grew even more wry. "Maybe," he said, finally.

"Maybe you should let your friend know."

Brian looked over at the bar again. "I don't want to scare him off."

Napoleon shrugged. "It's up to you, but that would be my advice. Which, along with a quarter, will get you a cup of coffee."

That got a chuckle. "Yeah. Thanks. Guess I'd better get back to work before Vince notices me over here trying to pick you up instead of working and cans my ass."

Considering the ass in question, every bit as pretty as any girl's, that would be a shame. Napoleon went back to watching Illya. He looked. . . younger. No, not really younger, just different. It took him longer than it should have to realize why. Illya's habitual frown was missing. He looked better without it. Why hadn't he noticed before just how often that frown was present? What sort of person just ignored obvious signs that his friend was unhappy? He ignored the little voice inside that answered 'an asshole.'

Out of his usual setting, Illya seemed more approachable too. Obviously the lanky blond thought so, because he was arguing with Illya in a way no one in UNCLE would dare. He gestured toward the door, and Napoleon leaned back, deeper in the shadows. Illya shook his head, but the other man repeated his gesture, and after a moment, Illya nodded. The way the younger blond's face lit up, Napoleon could guess what Illya had just agreed to. Realizing they would shortly be leaving, Napoleon quickly slipped out of the bar and looked around. There were several businesses on either side of the bar whose shadowed doorways offered concealment, and he ducked into the closest to wait.

After a few moments, Illya emerged, the younger blond trailing him. They spoke for a moment, and Napoleon scowled. They weren't speaking English, damn it. Napoleon knew some Russian, but he wasn't good enough to translate the rapid-fire dialogue between these two, especially not when they were talking so softly he was missing every third word at least, and the conversation was sprinkled with laughter. He was concentrating so hard on trying to translate what few words he could catch that he almost missed it when the conversation shifted to English.

". . . where I am staying?" Illya said.

"Of course. I was just there on Monday."

"Good. Meet me there. That way you will have your car. I wouldn't want you to be late for classes again."

"Yeah, that'd be hard to explain twice in one week," the young man said, laughing.

Illya nodded and then, startlingly, reached out and let his fingers trail through the other man's floppy blond locks. "I am looking forward to it, moi krasivyj mal'chik."

Napoleon actually took a step forward, almost out of concealment, ready to grab Illya's hand and pull it away, before he realized that really wouldn't be the smartest thing he'd ever done. He wasn't even entirely sure why he wanted to do it.

"Not as much as I am," Marek responded, turning his head to press his lips against Illya's wrist. "Race you there?"

Illya shook his head. "Nyet, my friend. I do not wish to run afoul of local law enforcement. I shall be quite staid, and if you arrive before me, so be it."

Wise of him. To get a speeding ticket while on vacation would lead to no end of ridicule back at HQ.

Marek sighed. "All right, I guess. See you in a bit."

Illya nodded and walked toward a nondescript blue sedan with a rental-company sticker, while Marek headed in the opposite direction. Napoleon suddenly realized he was in trouble. Even if he had a tracking device on him, which he didn't, he couldn't have used it, because then everyone in the local office would know not only that he was there but also that he was tailing his own partner. Which would get back to Mr. Waverly. And he couldn't just follow Illya because he knew without a doubt that Illya would spot him. He was good, but Illya was every bit his equal. Frustrated, he eyed the young man loping across the street toward a rattletrap Beetle, and suddenly smiled.

Illya might spot a tail, but he was willing to bet that Marek wouldn't, and Marek was going the same place as Illya. Even if Marek was THRUSH, he was too young to be anything but a raw recruit, and probably didn't have much training on spotting a tail. Problem solved.

* * *

Their destination turned out to be a cluster of cheap ocean-view vacation bungalows called Casitas del Mar, just north of the city proper. No wonder Napoleon hadn't been able to figure out where Illya was staying. He'd never have found the place on his own. He shook his head in amusement at Illya’s choice of lodging. Leave it to his partner to end up on a rocky, forbidding Northern California coast instead of on some warm sandy Southern California beach. Stopping his car just short of the entrance to the property, he killed his lights and watched as the Volkswagen wound its way to the cabin farthest from the main road. Didn't that just figure? He couldn't cruise past it casually. Probably deliberate on Illya’s part, for security reasons. Noticing that the sign for the place said there were vacancies, he decided to rent one so he'd have a place to park his car and an excuse to be out wandering the property.

Ten minutes later and twenty dollars poorer, he had the key to the cabin closest to Illya's, and a map of the area which included a nature trail that conveniently ran right past that last cabin. He parked and got out of the car, then set out on foot. There wasn't much in the way of lighting, but there was a three-quarter moon and once his eyes adjusted, he could pick out the pale gravel of the trail and the surrounding landmarks. Though he could faintly hear waves, and even smell the iodine tang of the ocean, he couldn't see it. There was a slight rise and steep drop-off between him and it.

A glance down at himself made it obvious that his white shirt was far too noticeable, so he grabbed a handful of dirt and smudged it over what showed between the lapels of his dark jacket, and then set off toward Illya's. He stayed off the gravel to avoid its betraying crunch, keeping to the dry grass beside it, which muffled his footsteps. It took him only a few minutes to reach the other cabin, and he inspected it cautiously, checking for an alarm system. He was surprised not to find one. That didn't seem like Illya.

Of course, neither did running off to California without a word. Neither did picking up strangers in bars. He really didn't like the realization that he didn't know Illya as well as he'd thought. Nor did he like the idea of Illya with this guy. Didn't he realize how unsafe he was right now? A man was never more vulnerable than when he was intimately engaged with a lover. That was one of the first lessons an agent learned. Sure, a man needed release, but he ought to have checked this guy out first.

In fact, Napoleon didn't like anything about the last few days. He felt like he was missing an arm, and he wanted it back. He wanted his world back the way it was supposed to be, with Illya at his side, making snide comments and giving him dirty looks. Illya was his partner, damn it. He belonged back in New York, with Napoleon. That was all there was to it.

He slid a hand inside his jacket, feeling for the reassuring weight of his Special before picking his way carefully across the lawn to the window. A quick look through the slight gap in the curtains showed him an empty living room. The furnishings were generic-- a plain sofa, a television set, a coffee-table. That at least seemed familiar, since it was covered with books and journals. Even on vacation Illya couldn't do without his books.

He waited for a while, watching, but there was no sign of either man. Which, of course, meant they were already in the bedroom. He supposed that was one benefit to sex with other men. There was no need for the pretense that you weren't going to end up in bed naked. With a woman, you had to work her up to it, seduce her out of her inhibitions. The idea of seducing Illya made him smile. He could practically hear Illya's reaction: 'Do not be ridiculous, Napoleon. If you wish to have sex, simply say so. There's no need for romantic nonsense.'

Personally, he thought maybe Illya needed a little more romance in his life, but the idea of just being able to discard all that and get straight to the action did have its own appeal. His body certainly thought so, he realized, reaching down to rearrange himself in his clothing. He really had to stop thinking about sex and start thinking about surveillance. That was why he was here, after all. He was watching Illya's back, since the damned fool didn't appear to be doing it himself.

He cautiously circled around to the back of the cabin, with its wide redwood deck and big, west-facing sliding-glass door. This particular cabin actually had an ocean view, the drop-off to the ocean being less hilly here, and the deck and door took advantage of that. There were probably some spectacular sunsets here. At the moment, however, his interest lay in the view inside, not the one outside. To his surprise, they had opened the curtains and the door, leaving only the screen closed. The wide doorway framed the room, boxing it in, making it feel as if he were watching a movie, not reality. A lamp on the dresser lit the room with a warm amber light, the glow spilling out onto the deck as well. He avoided the lit area and found a shadowed corner behind a large charcoal grill that would mask his presence, and finally forced himself to actually look at the two figures entwined on the bed.

Illya's back was to him, and he noted the scattering of familiar scars on it, the taper from surprisingly wide shoulders to narrow hips. Noted too, the rhythmic flex and shift of muscle beneath skin. Curled like commas, head to groin, there was no doubt in his mind what these two were doing. Heat flashed across his face and, disconcertingly, spread downward. He shook his head. Just because someone was getting some didn't mean he needed to get interested. 'Monkey see, monkey do' did not apply here. Pay attention. Be alert.

The figures on the bed shifted, Illya pushing his 'friend' onto his back, one hand wrapped around the lanky blond's erection. The expression on Marek's face was slack and blissful. If he was planning on killing Illya, he was apparently going to wait until after he came. As Illya lowered his head, mouth closing around turgid flesh, a little shock of arousal went through Napoleon, instantly chased by a flare of irrational anger. He shook himself hard, and managed to tip over the bag of charcoal, knocking a couple of the briquettes onto the decking. They made very little sound, but he saw Illya pause and look up.

Even yards away and through the mesh of the screen door, he could see the icy blue of Illya's eyes. He stayed absolutely still, barely even breathing, until Illya was apparently satisfied that there was nothing wrong and went back to what he was doing. Drawing a long, shaky breath, Napoleon closed his eyes and shivered. That had been much too close. Maybe he shouldn't watch. Just listen, and wait. He focused determinedly the potted plant in one corner of the deck which moved in the faint breeze. Much less dangerous.

Or it would have been, if the damned door hadn't been open. If he hadn't discovered he could hear soft sighs, moans, and grunts, a smattering of words. At least when you both spoke several languages, it didn't get quite so repetitive when someone started chanting 'fuck' over and over. The raw, broken sound of the unfamiliar voice drew his gaze again, and he stared, transfixed.

Illya lay on his back at an angle across the bed, and Marek straddled his hips, impaled, riding him. Illya's hands on his hips guided him, slowing him when he tried to speed up, one of them sometimes moving to trail teasing fingers down Marek's erection, which jumped and leaked, looking painfully hard, attesting to the pleasure the young man felt. Somehow Napoleon had always assumed that it would hurt to be taken that way. Which now that he thought about it, was a stupid assumption. He'd done it with a few women and they hadn't complained. And considering the women he usually went out with, he was sure if it had been unpleasant they would have.

Marek lifted a hand and traced the outline of Illya's lips with one finger. Illya's lips parted, tongue flicking out to taste that tip before he sucked the entire finger into his mouth. A moment later, Marek pushed a second finger between Illya's lips. Napoleon watched shadows form in the hollows of Illya's cheeks as he sucked on the fingers, and remembered the way his lips had stretched around something larger. The image in his mind made him gasp aloud. Marek conveniently moaned, covering for him, and shuddered, and came, wet streaks painting Illya's belly.

Illya's fingers clenched on Marek's hips, tight enough that the skin beneath them blanched, and he thrust upward once, then again, and Napoleon's eyes flashed to his face as he came. Beautiful. Beautiful. Utterly beautif . . .

It took him by surprise. He'd known he was aroused. Couldn't help but know. But hadn't realized just how much. Had pretended not to notice. But the pulsing explosion of warmth across his groin was insistent, undeniable, and he clenched his fists, trying not to give voice to his pleasure. When it was over, he shuddered, aghast, unable to pretend any more. He knew why he'd just come. Knew it all too well. And suddenly his own behavior began to make sense in a way it hadn't before.

And he panicked.

And he ran.

* * *

In his own dark bungalow, he lay on the bed, staring at the ceiling he couldn't see, with three words echoing through his head over and over again. "Oh my God." He supposed he ought to try thinking of something else, but the only other thing he seemed to be able to think was "I am so screwed." Well, other than remembering in graphic detail what he'd seen through that window. And he really didn't want to be remembering that, so he went back to thinking "Oh God" with the occasional "I am so screwed" thrown in.

That was about the size of it, all right (he really shouldn't be thinking about size right now). And every last thread on the screw was his own damned fault. Events connecting like knee-bone to thigh-bone (and, God, don't think about thighs, either) from his actions to his words to his actions to . . . coming in his pants like a teenager at a peep-show. If he hadn't teased Illya, then Illya wouldn't have left, and he wouldn't have followed, and he wouldn't have watched, and he wouldn't have seen, and he wouldn't now know, without a doubt, all kinds of things about himself that he really would rather not know.

Like the little fact that he wanted his partner. Like the fact that he'd been acting like some kind of spurned lover. If he'd heard of anyone else pulling this kind of crap with a woman, he would have suggested they be arrested. Or at least see a shrink. He, the man who prided himself on not getting emotionally involved with his women, had just broken every one of his self-imposed rules. With a man. A man who, at least at the moment, didn't even particularly like him.

Christ. He was so screwed. He couldn't imagine how things could possibly get any worse. The one saving grace was that Illya didn't kn. . . .

A faint sound caught his ear and jerked him into full, adrenalin-flushed awareness. He wasn't alone. There was someone else in the bungalow. Had he even locked the damned door? He couldn't remember now. Couldn't remember anything but pushing through that door and stumbling to the bed, flinging himself down, his whole body still shaking.

Slowly he turned his head toward the sound, made out a shadowy form in the doorway. He eased his hand under his jacket, fingers stealthily brushing the butt of his gun.

"I wouldn't," his visitor said, in clipped, accented English. Somehow all three syllables dripped cold fury and menace.

Things were worse. They were definitely worse. Napoleon heard the faint click of a safety being released.

"Did you enjoy the show?" Illya asked in a deceptively conversational tone.

Wanting to sit up, but not daring to, he knew Illya's temper, Napoleon sighed, and shook his head. "Christ, Illya. I'm so sorry."

There were about four or five seconds of silence, and then Illya’s voice exploded out of the darkness.

"Gavno! Chort vozmi, shto ti zdes' delayesh?"

Shit indeed. “I. . . uh . . . .”

There was a fumbling sound and the overhead light snapped on. He stared at Illya. Illya stared back.

“I just. . . I was worried . . . “ Napoleon began.

“Tui. . . you. . . you followed me?” Illya somehow managed to sound both bewildered and incensed. “Why?”

“I told you, I was worried. You left!” He winced, wondering if he could sound any more petulant. “I mean, you left without a word, and I wanted. . . needed, to apologize. Mr. Waverly said I should leave you alone. . .”

“Which is much like waving a red cloak in front of a bull,” Illya snapped, recovering some of his usual aplomb.

Napoleon acknowledged the truth of that with a nod and a wry grimace.

“So you follow me here, and you spy on me? You Americans have very strange ways of apologizing.”

“No, that wasn’t why I . . . I thought he might be THRUSH, I wanted to make sure he didn’t hurt you.”

“His name is Marek, his parents came here from Poland after the war, and he is first in family to go to university, which he does, at Berkeley. Bozhe moi! You think I am so foolish?“ Illya ran a hand through his hair, and pinned Napoleon with an icy glare. “You think I am some girl that you must protect? Sleeping with men, moi droog, does not make me less of one myself.”

“No, it doesn’t,” Napoleon acknowledged with slightly more fervor than he’d meant to. Illya’s eyes narrowed, and Napoleon spoke quickly to distract him. “I wasn’t thinking. I was just reacting. You’ve never gone off like that before.”

“And your privileges do not extend to me, is that it?”

“Huh?” Napoleon said, trying to figure out what Illya meant by that.

“It is all right for you to go away for days with some woman, but not for me to . . . indulge?”

“What? No! I didn’t mean that!

Illya studied him for a long moment. "Did you not?" He sounded unconvinced as he pushed away from the door and turned, then paused and looked back over his shoulder. "Good bye, Napoleon. Go back to New York."

The light snapped off as Napoleon rolled to his feet, trying to ignore the discomfort of his clammy boxers. It took him less that ten seconds to reach the door, but Illya was already gone, the front door open to the night. Napoleon stared into the darkness for a long time, wanting to follow, knowing better. If they were going to salvage anything of their partnership, he had to back off, now. Suddenly he wanted a drink. Wanted one badly. He glanced at his watch. Barely midnight. He still had time to catch a couple before last call. With a sigh, he turned away from the door and went into the bathroom, where he took off his pants and boxers and cleaned up, then dressed again, sans the sticky cotton. The silky sweep of the lining of his pants against his cock was depressingly sensual.

Leaving the key on the television along with a few bills for housekeeping, he shut off the light and locked the door behind himself.

* * *

Not really knowing where else to go, Napoleon returned to the Golden Horn, the bar he'd just left a couple of hours earlier. At the moment, its all-male clientele was just what he needed. No women around to try and cajole him out of his mood, or to pry at the reasons for it. Men, surely even these men, knew when to leave a guy alone with his thoughts. He snorted. These men. Apparently he was one of those men. The shadowy back table was still empty, so he slid into it, and before he'd even had a chance to look around for a waiter, a martini appeared on the table in front of him. Startled, he looked up into Brian's sympathetic face.

"You look like you could use this," the young man said. "It's on the house."

"Thanks." Napoleon knocked it back as if it were water, and craved something less civilized. He debated the wisdom of that for a moment, and came to the conclusion that this was the last place on earth THRUSH was likely to be looking for him. He should be safe enough. And if he wasn't, well then, he wasn't. "Scotch. Something decent. Bring the bottle. And a large glass of water."

Brian's eyebrows lifted, but he nodded, and took himself off toward the bar like a good little waiter, returning a few moments later with a half-full fifth of Glenlivet, an old-fashioned glass, and a tumbler of water. "We didn't have a whole bottle of the good stuff. Tomorrow's stock day. It'll be ten-fifty, and Vince wants the money up front, sorry."

Napoleon nodded and handed him a twenty. "Keep the change."

Brian nodded, and looked at him worriedly. Napoleon sensed prying coming on, and shot him a forbidding look. Brian took the hint and left him alone with his bottle. Napoleon drank the water first, having long ago discovered that doing so helped stave off hangovers, and then poured most of the bottle of scotch into the empty tumbler, ignoring the old-fashioned glass. No point in doing things halfway. When he drank, the smooth burn of alcohol scorched his esophagus and settled in his belly like a pool of fire. That was better.

Eventually the fire faded to a dull flicker, and taut muscles began to loosen. First his shoulders, then his neck, then his jaw. He rolled his head to ease the ache in it, and the room spun a little, but not nearly enough. He regarded his glass critically. Only about a third of the original volume remained. Diligently he went back to work on emptying it.

"Hey."

The soft comment made him look up, and this time his head swam much more satisfyingly. He lifted his glass to his attractive young waiter in a mock toast, and downed the last of its contents, reaching for the bottle to empty it into the glass. He couldn't pick it up, though. It seemed to be stuck to the table. After a moment he realized that there was a hand on the bottle that didn't belong to him, holding it down. He scowled up at the waiter. "Let go," he said emphatically.

"Where are you staying?" Brian asked, ignoring his order.

"Right here." He tapped the table.

Brian sighed. "It's closing time. I'm taking you home."

Napoleon smiled at him provocatively. "Still want to make your friend jealous?" Thank God he could still flirt. It wasn't much different from this angle.

Brian chuckled. "You'd regret it in the morning. Besides, I think he's feeling bad enough as it is."

Napoleon looked a question at him, and Brian nodded toward the bar. Napoleon followed his gaze. The lanky blond he'd last seen coming all over Illya was now slouched disconsolately on a bar stool. He frowned. What was he doing here?

"I guess Mr. Accent told him to take a hike," Brian said. "He's pretty down."

"He's better off," Napoleon said. "Ill. . . " he caught the mistake just in time, and corrected himself. "Elijah's not very nice when he's pissed."

Brian abruptly sat down next to him in the booth, frowning into his face. "Elijah? How'd you know that was his name?"

Napoleon played with his glass, mesmerized by the way the thick greenish glass seemed to distort his fingers. "We're. . . friends. Were friends." Realizing Brian had taken his hand off the bottle, Napoleon picked it up and swigged straight from it, not wasting time with the glass. Illya would approve. Would have approved. He was going to have to get used to using the past tense.

Brian swore. Napoleon thought he looked much too young to be using that word with such facility. He clicked his tongue. "What would your mother say?"

"She taught it to me," Brian said with a snort. "What's your name?"

Napoleon had to think for a minute before he remembered which alias he was using. "Paul Singleton."

"Nice to meet you, Paul. Come on. Let's go to my place."

Napoleon frowned. "I hardly know you."

Brian sighed. "I don't want to have sex with you."

"Oh." Napoleon thought about that. "Why not?" Granted, he didn't want to have sex with the guy, but he wasn't used to rejection.

"Because you're drunk and brokenhearted, and I'm not stupid enough to inflict that on myself."

That made a certain amount of sense, though Napoleon wanted to argue the brokenhearted designation. It wasn't as if he and Illya had been more than friends. Or had they? Perhaps a question for sometime when he was more sober. Or perhaps not. "Then why do you want to take me home with you?" he asked reasonably.

"Because," Brian's expression grew wry. "You're drunk and brokenhearted but you're nice, and I don't want you to get rolled in an alley or jumped by the guys who come down here looking for fags to beat up on around closing time every night."

"I have a perfectly good hotel room," Napoleon said. "And I can take care of myself."

Brian shrugged. "Okay, have it your way. But you've still got to leave. It's closing."

Napoleon pushed himself carefully to his feet, waiting for the floor to steady under him before proceeding further. It wasn't too bad. He'd certainly been worse off, though the cause was usually forcibly administered pharmaceuticals, not recreational alcohol. Tonight the alcohol was more pharmaceutical anyway. He nodded politely to Brian and made his way out into the night.

It was cool and humid, he guessed there would be fog before dawn. He took a step toward the lot where he'd left his rental car, and then stopped. With as much as he'd had to drink, it might not be wise to drive. The last thing he needed was a drunk-driving charge for UNCLE to cover up, and his hotel was relatively close, only ten blocks or so. The walk would do him good. He set off.

* * *

He was only a few blocks from the bar when he realized he was being followed. Remembering Brian's warning, he moved a little faster, and once he'd rounded a corner, ducked into an alley. After a few moments, he chanced a glance back the way he'd come, and sighed. Not a thug, but a self-appointed guardian angel. Brian. He thought about confronting him, and decided not to. He just wasn't in the mood. If the kid wanted to make sure he got home in one piece, who was he to stop him? He stepped out of the alley, pretending to zip up, and carefully didn't notice Brian, who was trying to be inconspicuous in a doorway.

A bit more than halfway back to his hotel the sounds behind him got louder, and closer. He guessed Brian had given up trying to be sneaky. He was smiling to himself about that when Brian suddenly shouted "Paul! Watch out!" and not from close by.

He was still drunk enough that it took three seconds too long to process that he was Paul, and that if Brian wasn't close, who was? The blow to his kidneys sent him to his knees, gasping, but he recovered fast and lashed out with one foot, sweeping his attacker to the ground. The other man hit hard, head bouncing against the unyielding sidewalk, and lay still, but a second man lunged for him, a blade flashing in his hand, and a third, wielding what appeared to be a baseball bat, stalked forward, tapping the bat against his hand.

"Hand over your wallet," Bat-thug ordered. "And the ring, and the cufflinks," he snapped, eyes flickering over Napoleon's well-cut suit and accessories. "Now!"

Armed robbery. How. . . droll. Napoleon hid a smile as he slid his hand obediently into his suit, not toward his inside jacket pocket, but rather toward the grip of his Special. Just as he began to ease it out of its holster, the sound of running feet and a flicker of movement caught his eye. Shit! "Brian, no!" he yelled, but not fast enough.

Bat-thug pivoted and swung, and the bat caught Brian right across the midriff. Brian folded over the bat and went down, momentum propelling him forward as he did, so his elbows and knees caught the brunt of his fall. Despite the fact that he was clearly incapacitated, Bat-thug whacked him across the lower back, apparently just for fun. Brian curled into a ball, moaning.

"That," Napoleon said silkily, "was mean." He slid his Special out from under his coat. "And I don't like it when people are mean to my friends." Both of the ambulatory thugs had gone very still when he brought out the gun, watching him warily. "Now, let's try this again, in reverse. Both of you drop your weapons, and take out whatever cash you have at the moment."

The two men complied, faces reflecting an odd combination of anger, fright, and confusion.

"Very good. Shorty, get the money from your buddy."

It was amazing how compliant a gun made some people. Thug number two, the short, stocky one, snatched the wad of bills from his accomplice's hand, combining it with his own.

"Excellent. Give it to my friend there." He indicated Brian with a flick of his eyes. "A generous donation to cover any medical expenses he might have incurred here tonight."

Brian pushed himself up on one arm, panting a little in pain, looking confused. Napoleon gave him a reassuring nod. Shorty looked at the money, then at Napoleon, and with a growl, shoved the wad of money toward Brian. After a moment of hesitation, Brian took it. Napoleon nodded toward the prone third thug.

"Now, I suggest that you gentlemen pick up that garbage and get out of here."

He waited until they had disappeared around a corner two blocks down before he slid his Special back into its holster and went to crouch beside Brian. "Can you stand?"

Brian nodded. "Yeah, it hurts, but I don't think they broke anything."

Napoleon helped him to his feet. "Come on, we're pretty close to my hotel. Let's go check you out. Unless you think you need to go to the hospital?"

Brian shook his head sharply. "No, no hospital. Hate those places."

Napoleon nodded. "I share the sentiment."

They started walking, slowly. After half a block Brian cleared his throat. "Are you a cop or something?" He sounded wary.

Napoleon chuckled. "You could say that." UNCLE was, after all, a law enforcement agency of sorts.

After another block, Brian spoke again. "I didn't know they let guys like us be cops."

"Guys like. . . ah." Napoleon realized what he meant before he finished formulating his question, and thought about it for a moment before answering carefully. "Actually, the finest 'cop' I know is a . . . guy like us. Guys like us can be anything we like, so long as we're discreet."

Brian sighed. "Yeah, that's the problem, isn't it? It gets to be a drag."

Napoleon frowned. "What do you mean?"

"I mean you can't let on. Can't ever be yourself. You've always got to pretend you're like everyone else."

Napoleon frowned, considering that. Somehow it had never occurred to him that there was a reason why Illya never let his guard down. He'd thought it was congenital, or developed over a lifetime's exposure to Russian winters, but it wasn't that at all. He was guarded because he had to be. He had no choice. It was an unpleasant thought.

They rounded the corner onto Geary, and Napoleon started across the street toward his hotel. After a moment he realized Brian was no longer following. He was standing on the curb, staring at the hotel.

"Coming?" Napoleon prompted.

"You're staying there?" Brian said, sounding awestruck.

"Yeah," Napoleon eyed The Clift's façade with a jaundiced eye. He'd have preferred the Sir Frances Drake but it had been booked solid. "I'm being cheap," he joked.

"Cheap?" Brian boggled. "They'll never let me in," he said, gesturing at himself.

Granted, he was a mess, the knees of his jeans torn and bloodied, his white t-shirt streaked with dirt, his hair disheveled. But then, Napoleon was a bit of a mess himself. "Of course they will," Napoleon said. "Come on."

Looking dubious, Brian followed him up to the door, where the doorman paused a moment to survey them before recognizing Napoleon and opening it. Brian hesitated a moment, and then followed. They were halfway across the lobby when someone cleared his throat.

"Excuse me, sir, you can't. . . "

Napoleon turned and saw the concierge standing behind them, giving Brian the evil eye. Before he could continue his sentence, Napoleon interrupted.

"Ah, there you are. Kindly have a first-aid kit and some extra towels sent up to room 402. And if you can find something, a pair of pants and a shirt, size . . . " he eyed Brian "Twenty-eight long, and medium."

The concierge gaped like a fish. "Excuse me?"

"Frankly, I'm surprised you don't warn your guests about the surrounding neighborhood. As I was walking back to the hotel, three men attempted to relieve me of my wallet. This young man came to my assistance. Surely we can't let such heroism go unrewarded."

The suspicious look vanished instantly. "Of course not, sir. I'll have the items delivered to your room as soon as possible. Is there anything else you require? Should I call the house physician?"

Napoleon glanced questioningly at Brian, who shook his head vehemently. "No, I don't think that's necessary. Just the first-aid kit."

With that, Napoleon led Brian to the elevators. As the doors closed behind them, Brian relaxed with a sigh.

"Laying it on a little thick, there," he said with another of those surprisingly attractive lopsided smiles. "After all, I wasn't exactly helpful."

"You have to, with his type. And you provided distraction, actually, so don't sell your contribution short." Stopping in front of his room, Napoleon unlocked the door and opened it. "Now, let's see about those knees. Take off your pants and sit on the bed."

Brian snorted. "These aren't exactly the conditions I wanted to hear those words under," he said, hands already undoing buttons. He winced as he peeled the snug denim down and let his pants fall to his ankles, effectively hobbling himself since he still had his shoes on.

Napoleon studied Brian's injured knees, carefully not noticing the tanned thighs above them, or the white briefs, or the curve of what lay beneath. And definitely not comparing him unfavorably to Illya. Not at all. "I'll just go get a washcloth," he said, hoping his tone was smoother than he thought it was.

He shrugged out of his suit coat on the way to the bathroom, and tossed it on the dresser, rolling up his sleeves. In the bathroom he ran warm water over the washcloth and considered his reactions, both to Brian, and more importantly, to Illya. It didn't make sense. Why was he suddenly aware of other men in a physical sense? He'd been around Illya for over a year and had never thought about him, or any other man, that way. Well, except for that time when Illya had been covered in mud, wearing nothing but his boxers. . . or maybe when he wore his black suit with a black turtleneck. . . which come to think of it was kind of most of the time, and there was Thomas, from the London office, who had always struck him as particularly dashing. Back in Korea, he'd gone brothel-trolling with friends, and perhaps paid as much attention to his buddies as to the girls.

And then there had been Kate. Lovely Kate, the petite blonde NYU graduate student he'd dated for a while not long after he'd been partnered up with Illya. Almost two months, actually, a record for him. The one who liked some rather . . . unusual . . . things in bed. Things that had sometimes left him wondering if he could talk Illya into a menage a trois. And occasionally wondering if he could talk Illya into a . . . menage a deux.

Okay, so there had been signs. Signs he'd deliberately, even willfully ignored. But they had never been like this, so strong. So undeniable. It was disconcerting.

The water running over his hands was now almost uncomfortably hot, recalling him to his task. He filled the ice bucket with water, dropped the washcloth into it, shut off the faucet and grabbed the soap, then headed out to the main room and knelt in front of Brian. "This will hurt," he said apologetically. "But . . ."

Brian grimaced. "I know, I know. It's for my own good. Have you ever noticed how people always say that when they're about to hurt you?"

Napoleon chuckled, rubbing soap across the washcloth. "Actually, yes, I have. All too often." He set to work on Brian's left knee, cleaning gravel and dirt out of the abrasions as gently as he could. Only a slight tensing of muscles under his hand or the soft hiss of a sharp intake of breath betrayed that Brian was in pain. After rinsing out the cloth in the ice-bucket, he re-soaped it and set to work on the right knee, which was worse, a fairly deep cut bleeding in a slow trickle down Brian's shin.

A knock at the door made him look over his shoulder. "Who is it?"

"Concierge," came the reply, very quietly. Clearly the man didn't want to disturb the other guests.

"Come in," Napoleon said. "The door's unlocked." He turned his attention back to the job at hand, but a sudden gasp from Brian made him look up, and the look on Brian's face alerted him that something was wrong before he even heard the voice.

"Are you hurt, Polya? The concierge had a first-aid kit and . . ." Illya's voice trailed off.

Startled both by the familiarity of the voice and the unprecedented use of a nickname, Napoleon pivoted just in time to catch the way Illya's gaze moved between him and Brian, and the interplay of reactions on his normally stoic face. Shock. Anger. Disbelief. Pain. Then his gaze dropped, and his cheeks flushed. "Izvenitye, I didn't. . ." he let yet another sentence to uncompleted as he moved to set the items in his hand on the suitcase valet near the door. "I will go."

He was out the door before Napoleon could even begin to react.

"Shit," Brian said.

"You've got that right," Napoleon muttered. "Look, I'm sorry, but . . ."

Brian waved at the still-open door. "Go."

Napoleon pushed to his feet, already running, bypassing the elevators, knowing Illya would have taken the stairs. When he rounded the corner at the second floor he saw Illya a half-flight below him, which told him that his friend was seriously distracted. Normally he would have been on the street by now.

"Illya, wait!"

Illya stopped, and Napoleon could almost see his spine straighten, his shoulders go back before he turned.

"You did not need to leave your friend."

"He's not a friend."

Illya's eyebrows lifted. "You seemed quite. . . friendly."

The urge to blurt 'It wasn't what it looked like!' was nearly overwhelming, but Napoleon knew better. "I was mugged tonight, he came to my rescue," he explained tersely.

Illya's eyebrows lifted further. "Rescue? You?"

Napoleon chuckled. "I know. But he had no idea I didn't need any help. Unfortunately, he got in the way of a baseball bat. He didn't want to go to a hospital so I brought him back here to make sure he was okay." An angle occurred to him, and he played it. "I could use your help. You're better at checking for internal injuries than I am."

"Internal injuries?" Illya sounded doubtful.

Napoleon nodded. "He got clobbered pretty good a couple of times. Once in the stomach, once across the kidneys."

Illya gave an empathetic wince. "You suspect a rupture?"

"I don't know. I hadn't had time to do more than clean up the bloody knees yet."

Illya sighed in exasperation. "You don't start with the incidental injuries, Napoleon, you know that."

"You're right," Napoleon said with exaggerated humility, chancing a sidelong look at his partner. "I'm a little. . . drunk."

The blue eyes narrowed, searching his face. "How little?"

"Um. . . almost half a bottle of scotch."

"That wouldn't usually make you so careless," Illya said, still suspicious.

"There might be other contributing factors," Napoleon allowed cautiously. "I . . . didn't expect to see you again." The 'ever' was unspoken but hung between them anyway.

Illya looked away. "I . . . may have overreacted."

Napoleon stared at his feet. "I shouldn't have followed you."

"No." Illya fidgeted. Illya never fidgeted. After a moment he went on. "But after some thought, I believe that I understand why you did."

'I doubt it,' Napoleon thought.

"I have often been tempted to follow you," Illya continued, staring at the wall as if it held the answer to every scientific question ever asked, "when I had doubts as to the affiliation of your companion, and concerns for your well-being."

"You have?" Napoleon said, startled. It hadn't occurred to him that Illya ever worried about him. He liked the idea a little too much. A sharp nod answered his question. Illya still wasn't looking at him. He wasn't quite sure why. Nobody liked admitting they were wrong, but it wasn't like Napoleon hadn't done it too. Unless. . . his eyes narrowed. "You, um, didn't do it, did you?"

The blush that fired his partner's skin answered the question even before the almost-whispered reply did.

"Once."

The idea of Illya watching sent an unexpected shiver of arousal through him. He shifted uncomfortably and cleared his throat. "I guess we're even, then."

"So it would seem." Illya looked up finally, only not at Napoleon. His gaze was turned toward the stairs instead. "We probably ought to go check on the boy before he expires of neglected internal bleeding."

Napoleon wasn't too worried about the possibility, but he didn't need to let Illya know that. "God, you're right. Come on."

Leading the way up the stairs, it suddenly occurred to him to wonder how the hell Illya had found him, and he stopped and turned. "Ah, if you don't mind my asking. . ." he began.

"It was simple," Illya said, cutting off the question. "Since you would not wish to attract attention from our avian friends, you would not choose the most elite hotels in the city, which eliminated a certain percentage of lodgings. Neither would you lower your standards to the run of the mill or below, which eliminated far more. You would also wish to be in a central area so as to facilitate your search. That left me very few choices. This place was the third on my list. And, really, Napoleon. 'Paul Singleton?' Far too easy."

Napoleon grinned. "What can I say, 'Elijah Curie'?"

That earned him a chuckle. "Point taken. Now, to your friend?"

By the time they returned to the room, Brian was standing in the open doorway, looking ill at ease in a white button-down shirt and black pants that had probably been part of a bellhop's uniform.

"I didn't know if you had your key and I didn't want to run off and leave you locked out of your room," he explained. "But I'll go now."

Illya shook his head, and urged him back into the room with a gentle hand on his shoulder. "Not just yet, if you please. Kindly remove your shirt and unfasten your trousers."

Brian's eyes went wide and he shot a slightly panicked look at Napoleon.

Napoleon smiled at him reassuringly. "We just want to make sure you don't need to go to the hospital. Il. . . Elijah's a pretty good field medic."

"Oh." Brian hesitated for a moment, and then peeled off his shirt, unfastened his pants and pushed them down to his hips. "Okay?"

Illya nodded and moved closer to run his fingers down Brian's back, stopping here and there to press harder, and assess his pain level. Then he did the same thing in front, inspecting the darkening stripe across Brian's belly, sliding the waistband of his briefs lower so he could expose the point of his left hip, where bruising had already painted his skin with gaudy colors. Napoleon also noticed the way Brian's nipples tightened, and the flush that painted his face, the way he breathed, and the fact that the soft curve beneath his briefs became distinctly more noticeable as Illya examined him.

He could empathize. For a trained killer, Illya had remarkably gentle hands. Napoleon had lost count of the number of times he’d stood, or sat, or lain still beneath those hands as Illya poked and prodded, bandaged and soothed. He remembered sometimes being a little uncomfortable with his own responses to them, as well, putting it down to mission stress, or too-long a spell between stewardii. Now he could see that it hadn’t been that at all. He felt a little stupid.

Finally Illya stepped back. “I don’t believe there is any internal damage, however it would be best if you were observed for a few hours to make sure. Do you have someone with whom you could stay the night who could check you for signs of shock?”

Brian thought about it for a moment, then nodded. “Yeah, I've got a friend who lives a couple of blocks from me. He’s probably still up.”

Napoleon had a strong suspicion he knew who the friend was. “Why don’t you call him and make sure?” He gestured toward the room phone.

Brian’s eyes flashed from the phone to Illya and back as he hesitated, but finally he shrugged and nodded, and went to the phone. Napoleon watched Illya’s eyebrows lift as Brian greeted Marek by name, and carefully controlled his expression. They both listened to Brian’s half of the conversation. Brian tried to insist on walking, but his friend clearly was having none of it and after a few moments of argument Brian gave in and agreed to be picked up in front of the hotel. After he hung up, Napoleon thanked him again, which Brian and Illya both rolled their eyes at, and then Brian made his exit, leaving them behind watching until he disappeared into the elevator at the end of the hall.

“A beautiful boy,” Illya said, closing the door. “He'll be all right.”

Somehow it didn’t seem strange for Illya to call a man less than a handful of years their junior a ‘boy.’ Brian was a boy. Illya was not. Napoleon wondered if he ever had been. There was a great deal he didn’t know about his partner. The words seemed to call for comment, though. “Beautiful,” Napoleon agreed. “But not your type?”

Illya’s gaze snapped to his face, eyes sharp and hard as diamonds, face revealing nothing, only the pause before he answered letting Napoleon know that there was something to reveal. After a moment Illya shrugged with studied nonchalance. “No. Not my type.” He leaned against the doorjamb, and looked around. “Two hotels, Napoleon? A little extravagant.”

Napoleon shrugged. “I am a profligate American capitalist, after all.”

Illya turned and walked over to the window, parting the curtains to look outside. “My view is better,” he said.

“I’m sure it is,” Napoleon said, though he might have disagreed. The sparkling dark of the ocean was far less colorful than the lights of night-time San Francisco. It all depended on ones definition of ‘better.’

After a long pause, Illya spoke again. “My cabin has two bedrooms.”

A shiver worked its way through him as he realized what Illya was really offering. Not a room. Forgiveness. But . . . “My presence might put a bit of a damper on your vacation plans,” he pointed out. “Roommates tend to.”

Illya didn’t move from his position at the window. “That itch, as they say, has been sufficiently scratched for the moment, so you may rest easy on that score.”

Napoleon didn’t quite know what to make of that comment. To his way of thinking, there was no such thing as a sufficiently scratched itch. At least not that itch. “If you say so,” he said.

Illya turned. “I have already done so. However, are you certain I would not be putting, as you say, a damper on your plans?"

"I'm fairly certain I could wrangle an invitation to stay the night . . . elsewhere, if the situation arose." Not that he was thinking about feminine companionship at the moment, but since Illya hadn't yet caught on to that fact he figured a diversionary comment was in order.

"I'm sure you could," Illya said dryly. "So, would you wish to combine our resources? Or do I presume? Are you here on business after all?”

Napoleon shook his head. “No. Waverly all but ordered me to take two weeks off. He suggested the Bahamas.”

That drew a soft chuckle from his partner. “It appears we were both subject to his tender concern.”

Napoleon snorted. “Tender as an old buzzard. He just wanted two weeks break from our expense reports.”

“Our expense reports?” Illya asked pointedly.

“Ours. I ruin suits, you eat,” Napoleon shot back.

“We both eat,” Illya returned.

Napoleon was about to make comment that he didn’t eat to sublimate, but thought better of it. Saying things like that was what had gotten him into this mess to begin with. “You really don’t mind sharing your cabin?”

“Why should I mind? We routinely share quarters.”

It wasn’t quite the same, at least Napoleon didn’t see it so, but if Illya did, he couldn’t really argue that. “In that case, I accept. What is there to do around this town anyway?” Illya gave him a look, the corners of his mouth tipping faintly upward, and Napoleon felt an unexpected blush warm his face. “I mean, besides that,” he amended lamely. Christ. He hadn’t called sex ‘that’ since he was fourteen.

“To be honest, I'm not certain. I didn't originally plan this trip to see the sights,” Illya said, voice full of dry amusement. “We shall have to find out.”

* * *

As it turned out, there was quite a bit. Over the next few days they played tourist, eating at some of the four-star restaurants in the evenings, and a mixture of greasy spoons and holes in the walls in the mornings and afternoons. Napoleon thought he'd scored a coup when he discovered the Museum of Russian Culture, but his real success came with a facetiously mentioned trip to the zoo. Illya had lit up at the idea, and Napoleon found himself tagging along as Illya roamed from exhibit to exhibit with nearly as much enthusiasm as the groups of grade-schoolers that littered the grounds.

Surprisingly enough, Napoleon was enjoying himself. Part of that was just watching Illya react to everything as if he were no older than the children, uncharacteristically free with both smiles and laughter. It was infectious. Napoleon found it interesting, though, that Illya grew quiet and whenever they came to an exhibit of predators, and he would quickly move on to another area. He couldn't help but wonder if Illya felt the same kinship to them that Mr. Waverly had postulated. Stopping in front of the carousel, Illya became pensive as he watched the brightly painted animals carrying their small, giggling riders in endless rounds. Napoleon wondered suddenly if Illya had ever ridden a carousel. Somehow he suspected not. What would his childhood have been like? He never spoke of it.

"Have you ever been on one?" Napoleon found himself asking.

Illya turned and looked at him, clearly surprised. "A carousel?" When Napoleon nodded, he shook his head. "No. But I remember the zoo in Kiev. We went once, a special treat. There were ducks, and rabbits they let us hold."

Napoleon smiled, imagining Illya, all elbows and knees, holding a squirming rabbit. "How old were you?"

Illya frowned thoughtfully. "I can't have been more than five. Honestly, now that I think of it, I'm surprised there were any animals at all."

Napoleon did a little math, figured out that would have been the late Thirties, and understood. Not a good time in the Soviet Union. If any time was. Literally. He glanced at the carousel, and a thought struck him.

"Want to go for a ride?"

Illya gave him an exasperated look. "It's for children."

"There are a few grown-ups on it," Napoleon pointed out.

Illya watched for a moment, and then shook his head. "They're parents, see?"

"Those two aren't." He gestured toward a young couple riding side-by-side, the girl giggling as the boy leaned to try to kiss her, but the up and down motion of the carousel animals kept making him miss.

Illya shot him an odd look. "I suspect there might be objections to such behavior on my part."

Napoleon felt himself blush, imagining Illya and Marek in place of the couple. "I didn't mean that. I just . . . " He shrugged. "Just wondered." He frowned, suddenly worried that his presence was annoying. "Are you enjoying yourself?"

Illya looked at him, surprised. "Of course. Why would you ask?"

"Well, it's your vacation. I'm just kind of horning in on it," he said, bracing for a typical Illya sarcastic comment.

To his surprise, Illya's gaze warmed. "I would be having nowhere near so much fun without you."

Napoleon couldn't help but smile at that, so clearly sincere. "Glad to hear it."

"And you? Are you enjoying yourself?" Illya asked, eyes suddenly sharp.

"Yes," Napoleon said, with utter honesty. And if that enjoyment was tempered by increasing discomfort once he'd retired to his room at night, Illya didn't need to know that. He wasn't Illya's type and there was no use in wondering what it might be like if he was. Just because he was having more fun at the zoo with his partner than he'd had on any of his dates in the last year, that didn't mean anything. The important thing was that they were partners, and friends again.

"I noticed yesterday that you were eyeing the boats out in the bay," Illya said, shoving his hands into his jacket pockets, his gaze fixed on a sign describing the history of the carousel. "I asked at the motel office, and was told there is a place just up the coast from the Casitas which rents boats to recreational sailors."

Napoleon was instantly taken by the idea. It had been ages since he'd gone sailing, and he'd rarely gotten to ply the Pacific's waters. With some charts they could go . . . his enthusiastic planning came crashing to a halt as he suddenly realized that since Illya was prone to seasickness, he clearly intended for Napoleon to go sailing on his own. He was probably regretting his offer of shared quarters, and wanted time alone. More likely he wanted to call that skinny blond boy again. He felt a scowl shape his face at that thought.

"Napoleon?" Illya sounded concerned, no doubt triggered by Napoleon's expression and lack of response.

“Sorry. Momentarily distracted,” he lied, nodding toward a conveniently passing young woman.

Illya’s gaze followed his, and a slight frown creased his forehead. “You don’t usually go for the married ones,” he said, touching his own ring finger lightly, drawing Napoleon's attention to the gold band circling it. Napoleon had always wondered why he wore what looked like a wedding band. It seemed an odd affectation, though he sometimes suspected it was there simply to ward off unwanted attention.

Napoleon shrugged. “A pretty girl is a pretty girl. No harm in looking.”

“No, no harm,” Illya agreed. He looked again at the carousel, and rubbed the back of his neck. “I seem to be acquiring a headache. Would you mind if we returned to our lodgings?”

“Not at all,” he lied. Again. He was doing a lot of lying lately. Something he didn’t usually do with Illya. He didn’t like it. But he liked less the idea of hanging around when he wasn’t wanted, so as they started toward the exit, he suddenly stopped, snapping his fingers. “I’ve just remembered something I need to do. Why don’t you go on back by yourself? I’ll get a taxi later.”

Illya’s all-too-expressive face told Napoleon the ‘something I need to do’ ploy was less than convincing, but he didn’t argue. “Will you be . . .” he stopped. “As you like. Enjoy the day.”

He stalked rather stiffly off toward the parking lot, leaving Napoleon behind feeling guilty. Heading for the pay phones to call a cab, he shook off the feeling. There was no reason for him to feel guilty. After all, it had been Illya's idea to get rid of him. Just because he'd decided to do it his way instead of Illya's didn't mean he needed to feel guilty.

* * *

Napoleon spent the day trying to stay away long enough that Illya could do . . . whatever it was he wanted to do. He went to a movie, then out to dinner, flirted outrageously with Judy, his pretty blonde waitress, and arranged to meet her when she got off work at ten. They'd gone to a bar, had a drink, and she'd made it abundantly clear she was willing to share more than alcohol with him. He'd gotten as far as her apartment and that first kiss outside the door, when he realized he felt absolutely nothing for her. Not even a tingle.

Complete and utter disinterest.

That scared him more than any THRUSH torturer ever had.

He begged off with an excuse of an early flight and left her at her door with another kiss he didn’t feel. Outside her building he stood for a moment, at loose ends. It wasn’t late enough to go ‘home’ yet, he didn’t feel like seeing another film, and in any case he needed another drink. Or two. Maybe even several.

The Golden Horn was beginning to feel like his own neighborhood bar. As he paused in the doorway to scan the room, an old habit that often stood him in good stead, he didn't spot Brian, but a familiar lanky blond was sitting at the bar. His eyes narrowed in recognition, and he guessed that meant he could go home now. Unless Illya had found someone else, which was all too possible. Brian had implied a certain lack of prejudice in Illya’s choices, and they had been plural. He remembered that. No prejudice, that is, other than dark-haired men.

Frowning, he made his way over to the bar, sat down on an empty stool, and ordered a martini. He tried not to remember that he’d seen the kid naked. That he’d seen him come. It wasn’t easy. The scene kept replaying on his mind's eye. Illya, his fair skin lightly flushed from exertion, with this kid riding him like a prize palomino. What would it be like to have Illya like that? He imagined his partner above him, head thrown back . . .

Napoleon shivered, and drained his just-delivered martini in one painful swallow, pressing a clenched fist against his suddenly tumescent groin almost hard enough to hurt. Where the hell had that been earlier with Judy?

"Hi." The voice came from his right. A little tentative, but friendly. "My name's Marek."

 Napoleon turned and looked. The kid had moved over and was now sitting next to him, hazel eyes bright and flirtatious under surprisingly long eyelashes. Napoleon signaled for another drink, and pointed at Marek's nearly-empty glass. The bartender gave Napoleon another martini, and pulled a beer for Marek, who lifted it in salute. They both drank, and when Napoleon put down his glass, he put out a hand.

"Paul."

"Nice to meet you," Marek said, shaking his hand firmly. Not a bad grip for a skinny kid. Kind of like another blond he knew. Though Illya's size was deceptive. Only two inches shorter and only ten months Napoleon's junior, Illya somehow managed to look both years younger, and also smaller than he actually was. Two inches didn't make that much difference. Not in height anyway, Napoleon thought with amusement.

"You've got a nice smile."

As pickup lines went, it was fairly lame, but the kid couldn't be more than twenty-two. Only a year younger than Illya had been when he finished Survival School, Napoleon mused, but immeasurably younger in every way that counted. Feeling charitable, Napoleon cut him some slack with an equally lame but pleasant reply. "Thanks. So do you."

The answering smile brightened substantially. "I don't think I've seen you here before."

"I've been here once before. You were otherwise engaged."

That obviously piqued Marek's curiosity. "When was that?"

"Wednesday. He was. . . blond."

"Oh." The look on Marek's face was a near-indescribable mixture of irritation and longing. Napoleon was becoming all too familiar with the state. "Well, he's out of the picture. I guess he and his boyfriend made up."

Napoleon somehow managed not to choke on his martini. He had realized, of course, that Brian thought he and Illya were involved, but hadn't thought Brian would mention it to Marek. Boyfriend. Lord, this was getting to be rather operatic. Soap operatic. But he was curious, too. "That's probably just as well. He didn't look like much." He chose his words carefully to provoke the maximum response.

"You'd be wrong about that," Marek said, falling for it. "He's incredible. If it wasn't for the boyfriend, I'd've chained myself to his bed until he had to go back to England."

England, eh? So Illya hadn't bothered to tell his flavor-of-the-moment where he really lived. That was nice to hear. Right after he thought that, the rest of what Marek had said finally percolated through his consciousness. 'Incredible.' 'Chained to the bed. . .' once again that little blue movie flashed on the screen in his brain, and he had to shake his head to rid himself of the image, almost pressed his fist against his groin again. Would've, but with Marek so close it would draw his attention, something Napoleon didn't really need right now. He shrugged, lading the gesture with natural arrogance. "No offense, but I doubt you have the experience to be a good judge."

Marek snorted, and leaned back, one elbow propped against the bar, the other hand resting at his waist, thumb hooked in a belt loop, fingers pointing toward his crotch in a blatant bid for attention. "You'd be wrong about that, too. When you buy a car do you look at the model year, or the mileage?"

It was rare that Napoleon found himself without a witty comeback, but this was one of those times. He was too surprised by the sudden transformation of the slightly geeky kid into a smoldering sexpot who bore more than a passing resemblance to James Dean.

Marek studied him for a moment, and then chuckled. "I'm betting you're pretty low mileage for an older model year, and you're in great condition. How about a lube job?"

It was all he could do to keep his jaw from dropping, and from the heat in his face he knew he was blushing.

Marek leaned into his space, ran a fingertip across his lower lip, and whispered. "I'm really good with a grease gun."

For a moment Napoleon was balanced between a guffaw and a shiver. The shiver won. A seductive little voice in his head said 'why not?' He was curious. In fact, he'd been curious about this for a long time. Since his army days actually, and that was long before he'd been partnered with Illya. And while he knew it was Illya he wanted, he also knew Illya was out of the question. Not only were they partners, he wasn't Illya's type. Though if he was honest with himself he had to admit the latter was more an impediment than the former. If he couldn't have Illya, maybe having someone who had was the next best thing. He swallowed to moisten his dry throat, and smiled. "I bet you are."

Marek's grin widened. "My place or yours?"

The thought of seeing the expression on Illya's face if he showed up at their cabin with Marek in tow was kind of appealing, but discretion was always the better part of valor where Illya was concerned. "I'm afraid it'll have to be yours."

"No problem. Come on."

Napoleon threw a bill on the bar to cover their tab, and followed Marek, feeling the bartender's knowing gaze on him the whole time. Outside, Marek stopped suddenly, and pulled Napoleon into the same darkened doorway where he'd hidden on Wednesday night.

"What's wrong?" Napoleon hissed, scanning the street, one hand sliding into his jacket, reaching for his gun.

"Nothing," Marek said. "Just wanted to give you the coming attractions." He gripped Napoleon's chin in his hand and leaned in, bringing their lips together.

Odd sensations registered: tall, stubbled, hard, strong; but after a moment all the strangeness melted away, and he was left with lips against his own. Warm, soft lips, slightly parted, beckoning. He tasted, briefly. Tasted again. Beer. Not unpleasant. And the slick warmth was good, the flicker of tongue against his own even better. The tingle, missing when he'd kissed Judy, was back now.

He leaned in, bringing one hand up, fingers sliding through . . . the wrong hair. It was short. Too short. And it had the heavy, almost greasy feel of hairdressing cream. Not only was it wrong that he could actually slide his fingers through said hair without having them caught fast in a mesh of rats and lacquer, but it was also wrong that it wasn't fine, sleek and overlong.

He was rocked by the realization that he knew how Illya's hair felt under his hand. He knew, because he touched it. Frequently. Had been doing it for months. Affectionate little ruffles that he knew annoyed his phlegmatic partner no end. Gentle strokes when he was lying hurt on a cold concrete floor, or the somewhat less uncomfortable confines of a hospital bed. He knew what Illya's skin felt like, warm and silky, where it wasn't marred by scars. He knew where those scars were, and where most of them came from. He knew the subtle difference in inflection between amused and annoyed.

Christ.

He wasn't just curious.

A hand on his shoulder shook him a little, bringing him out of his daze.

"I have to say this is a first. People don't usually fall asleep on me while making out." Marek's voice was wry.

Napoleon shook himself. "Sorry, I'm not. . . well, as you said, I'm kind of low mileage."

Marek's gaze brightened. "I knew it! That's okay, though, I know my way around." He trailed his fingers down Napoleon's cheek, then across his lips.

It was disconcerting to feel calluses on those fingertips, but oddly erotic too. Marek leaned in again, closer this time, his body pressing Napoleon's back against the cool, smooth glass of the door they stood in front of. Napoleon let him, deliberately reining in the well-honed instincts that told him any man who got that close was probably going to knife him. Marek kissed him again, lips as skillful and sweet as any woman's, despite the rasp of stubble that abraded his jaw and lips. Even that was faintly titillating. But after a moment, instead of concentrating on the man kissing him, he found himself wondering what Illya's mouth would taste like, and what Illya's shorter, stronger body would feel like against his.

Abruptly the pressure against his lips vanished. He opened his eyes and looked at Marek, who gazed back at him with a slight frown. Napoleon offered him an apologetic smile. "Sorry. I did it again, didn't I?"

Marek nodded. "Yeah. Is it me?"

"No." Napoleon shook his head. "No, not you. But . . ."

"I understand," Marek cut him off with a fatalistic shrug. "It would've been fun to change your oil, but it looks like you need a different mechanic."

Napoleon laughed softly. "Yeah, I'm afraid so."

"That's okay. I've got a friend who'll be relieved if I don't bring anyone home tonight."

Belatedly Napoleon remembered Brian, felt vaguely guilty, and silently wished him luck. "Good night then."

Marek nodded. "Good night."

A moment later Marek had disappeared around the corner. Napoleon went back inside to call a cab. As he waited outside the bar for his transportation to arrive, he tried to analyze his actions. He wanted to tell himself he'd been acting out of a combination of curiosity and concern for his partner, but he knew better, really. Now that he'd seen it, he couldn't believe he hadn't seen it before. He didn't treat Illya like he treated most other men. He treated him. . . like a potential conquest playing hard to get. He flirted, he petted, he teased.

God. For someone as private and reserved as Illya, it must have been unbearable. He probably thought Napoleon had been mocking him all these months. Or worse, playing some sort of weird power game. He was surprised he still had all his teeth. His prickly partner wouldn't have let anyone else get away with crap like that. And when Napoleon had finally exceeded even Illya's patience, he hadn't lashed out. He'd just. . . left.

And Napoleon, deprived of his toy, had followed, trying to get it back. He'd pried, spied, finagled his way into his vacation, and finally, tried to find out what he was like in bed. When he added up all the facts, Napoleon had to admit it sounded . . . bad. Circumstantial evidence, but he'd seen juries convict on less. He sighed, and palmed his face, raking his hair back off his forehead. Not that it mattered. Brian had made it quite clear that he wasn't Illya's type. Illya avoided men who looked like him, apparently with good reason.

Down the block, a car turned the corner, headlights momentarily blinding him and he automatically tensed, always alert for trouble, but as the car neared the familiar school-bus yellow color and triangular advertising sign on the roof put him at ease. The taxi slowed, and stopped, and the driver leaned across, rolling down the window.

"You call a cab?"

"I did," Napoleon said, opening the door and sliding into the back. It reeked of stale cigarette smoke and too-strong cologne, and he rolled down the window as he gave the address.

Unlike most cabbies in Napoleon's experience, the driver wasn't chatty. The silence gave him no quarter, and his thoughts, as before, strayed to Illya. And Illya's preferences. And he found himself once more a little piqued that Illya didn't like men who looked like him. It didn't seem quite fair that he had no preference other than that. Almost a personal affront. As if Illya didn't like him, not just men who fit his general description. No, that didn't hold water. Illya never acted as if he didn't like Napoleon. They were friends, good friends, despite Napoleon's recent behavior. It was real. Napoleon knew Illya well enough to know that he allowed few people as close as he did Napoleon. Not just few people, no one. So why did he avoid . . .

It hit him like a ton of bricks.

When he was a kid he'd gotten hooked on saltwater taffy one summer. He'd eaten the stuff by the bag until he got sick of it, and ever since then, he'd avoided it, knowing that if he ate one, he'd soon be eating a dozen, and the results would be less than pleasant. The same basic premise might apply here. There were two reasons why a man might avoid something. One was because he didn't like it, the other was because he liked it too much.

Napoleon considered that for a moment, tried to imagine Illya liking him too much. It was surprisingly easy to do. Seductively so. But he knew wishful thinking when he saw it.

Didn't he?

* * *

Despite the fact that it was closing in on three a.m. when Napoleon got out of the cab, there was a light in the cabin. Which meant that either Illya was still awake, or that he'd left the light on for Napoleon. He hoped it was the latter. He wasn't sure he wanted to see Illya tonight. He was too unsettled, had too many thoughts running around in his brain. Too many feelings. Since he was hoping Illya was sound asleep in his own room, he unlocked the door and stepped inside quietly, only to see Illya sitting on the couch with a book in his lap, damn his luck.

Steeling himself, he moved into Illya’s line of sight, and only then realized that Illya’s eyes were closed behind his glasses. He was sound asleep, sitting up. If Napoleon hadn't known better, he would have thought he was just reading, but he had to be asleep or he'd have said something. He wondered just how tense you had to be to fall asleep like that and not end up sprawled on the couch instead of bolt upright. It didn't seem like Illya's vacation had relaxed him much.

Toeing off his shoes, he left them by the door and walked quietly to his own room. He briefly thought about brushing his teeth, and decided against it, worried that the sounds would wake Illya. He undressed down to his t-shirt, pulled on the boxers he’d been using for pajamas and got into bed, turning out the light and manhandling the rather flat pillow into some semblance of cushion.

Ten minutes later he was still lying there in the dark, staring at the thin line of light that shone under the door and thinking about Illya on the couch. Had he been waiting up, and eventually been unable to stave off sleep any longer, or had it been more prosaic? God knew most of what Illya read was boring enough to put an insomniac to sleep. A few more minutes of thinking about Illya brought him to the realization that it was odd that Illya had not woken when Napoleon entered the cabin. They were both light sleepers, ready to wake at the slightest sound. They had to be, or they’d be dead, considering the number of times they had been woken from a sound sleep by attackers. So why hadn’t Illya woken to confront him with drawn weapon as he normally would? It couldn't be just because they were on vacation. Although, come to think of it, his own guard had been woefully lax. Still, even on missions, Illya was by far the more cautious of them. It wasn't like him.

What if . . .

What if he wasn't asleep?

Napoleon told himself he was being ridiculous, Illya was fine, he was just asleep. He wasn't drugged. He wasn't . . . dead. He was asleep. He kept telling himself that for a good five minutes. Finally he sighed, got out of bed, and padded out to the living room. Moving close, he watched carefully, finally managing to detect the steady rise and fall of Illya's abdomen as he breathed. Okay, not dead. That was good. Just asleep.

Or unconscious.

Damn it, he didn't usually suffer from an overactive imagination. Why now? There was nothing wrong. Nothing at all. Illya was asleep. That was all. He turned and padded back to his room, sat down on the bed, and couldn't bring himself to lie down. After sitting there for about five minutes he realized he was going to have to get up and make sure Illya was just sleeping. Though why anyone would drug Illya and then leave him on the couch was beyond him. Usually if one of them was drugged, he ended up chained to the nearest available flat surface with various implements of torture close at hand.

He pushed himself up and made yet another trip to the living room. Stood for a long moment watching Illya sleep. Really, he didn't look very comfortable. His neck was at a slightly odd angle, he'd probably wake up with a crick in it. Not to mention he'd have dents in his nose from his glasses, and he'd once complained that if he wore them too long they made his ears sore. So Napoleon would be doing him a favor by waking him up and telling him to go to bed. But the first thing that needed to go were the glasses. He moved closer, crouched down, and carefully began to ease them off Illya's face.

The next thing he knew he was on his back over the coffee table with Illya's arm across his throat. Mental note: Don't wake your deadly secret-agent partner from a sound sleep from less that two yards away. He should've thrown a pillow at him or something. He kept very still, tried to be as unthreatening as possible, not difficult actually, considering the uncomfortable arch Illya had him pinned in, and waited for Illya's brain to catch up with his reflexes.

It took longer than he'd expected. Twenty seconds at least, though it felt longer. The pressure against his windpipe eased a little, and Illya's gaze sharpened.

"Napoleon?" He sounded incredulous.

Since his throat was still under pressure Napoleon couldn't speak yet, so he smiled winningly instead, and waved the glasses he still held in explanation for what he'd been doing. The pressure against his throat eased completely, but Illya didn't seem inclined to get off of him. Instead he was staring at Napoleon's chin. Or maybe his mouth. It was hard to tell, as close as they were.

And then, to his consternation, Illya . . . sniffed. Once briefly, and then he leaned even closer and did it again, a longer, more drawn-out affair that time. That was followed by a shocked widening of eyes, and then suddenly Illya was scrambling back off of him as if he were a pinless grenade, staring at Napoleon as he lifted a hand to his own mouth and chin, touching them briefly, gaze fastened to the corresponding spot on Napoleon. The expression on his face was nothing he'd ever seen there before. Illya's usual cool cynicism was gone, and in its place was . . . hurt? No, worse than that. Betrayal.

"Illya?" His voice came out a little scratchy.

He saw the mask reform itself, Illya's features smoothing into their usual expressionless state. "Was there something you wanted, Napoleon?"

It took him a minute to figure out a reply. "I. . . no. I just thought you looked uncomfortable."

"I’m fine. You may give me my glasses and go to bed. I’m sure you must be quite exhausted." The last word was said with enough edge to draw blood.

Something was wrong, badly wrong, and he had no idea what it was, and if he knew Illya he never would. Not unless he got it out of him right now. "Illya, stop. Don't. Talk to me."

"Don't talk to you?" Illya asked, deliberately misinterpreting his words. "That’s fine with me. I shall go to bed. Tomorrow I’ll return to New York. I believe I have had quite enough vacation."

He stood up and began to stalk toward his bedroom. Napoleon managed to roll to his feet and stumble gracelessly after him, catching his arm just before he went through the door. "Illya, don't. Don't run. Talk to me."

Illya looked at the hand on his arm. "If you value the use of your hand I suggest you let go of me. Now."

Napoleon knew a serious threat when he heard one. He let go. "Please. Talk to me."

Illya seemed to hesitate for a moment, but then he shook his head once, sharply.

"There's something wrong, don't try to tell me there's not. Why won't you tell me what it is?"

"If I have to tell you, then clearly there is nothing to talk about." Illya moved into his room, stood in the doorway for a moment, his hand on the door, ready to pull it closed, and a flash of expression broke through the façade, just for a moment. Pain. "Even if I wished to, I cannot talk to you while you smell of him, and bear his mark." Illya's eyes lifted briefly to his, and they were dark with hurt. Could you not at least have chosen someone . . . else? Cannot I have even one thing that is mine alone?"

Before Napoleon could figure out what Illya meant, the door closed between them. The click of the lock sounded strangely final. He stood outside the closed door, trying to make sense of Illya's words. What mark? What smell? Puzzled, he stepped into the bathroom and flicked on the light, looked at himself in the mirror, and discovered there was a definite drawback to kissing someone with a five o'clock shadow. It had never occurred to him that he might get beard-burn. He'd vaguely noticed the slight tenderness and dismissed it as sunburn from running around the zoo. It wasn't. And it was obvious. And that too-strong cologne smell he'd noticed in the taxi hadn't been left from a previous occupant. It was Marek's, rubbed off on him. And since Illya had bedded Marek at least twice, it was hardly surprising that he would recognize the scent.

When he decided to screw up, he did it in a big old way.

After peeling off his shirt and tossing it into his room, he grabbed soap and a washcloth and scrubbed himself until he was fairly sure the scent of cologne had been replaced with that of Dial. He pulled on a clean undershirt and then went to Illya's door and knocked.

"Illya?"

There was no response. Napoleon frowned. Usually he at least rated a snappish 'What?' He tried again, and again nothing. He stood for a moment, trying to decide if he was going to let Illya not talk to him, and decided that if he wanted to salvage anything of their partnership, he couldn't. He went back in his room and dug through his suitcase until he located his lock picks. Granted, Illya was better with locks, but it wasn't like Napoleon didn't know how. He went down on one knee in front of the door, and slid the first pick into the lock.

"It's just me, don't shoot," he called out, hoping Illya wasn't as pissed off as he'd seemed.

He paused a moment, waited, and when gunfire was not forthcoming he put in the second pick. The lock was laughably simple. He probably could've popped it using a pen. Standing back up, he turned the knob, and opened the door.

"Illya?"

There was no reply, and unless Illya was hiding under the bed, the room was empty. Frowning, Napoleon looked around, and noticed that the curtains shielding the patio doors were moving slightly in the breeze, billowing out into the night, then swaying back into the room. The door was open, which explained why the room was empty: Illya had gone out the back.

For one panicked moment he thought that Illya had already left for New York, but a moment later he realized his clothing still hung in the closet and there were books and sundry other personal items scattered around the room. He moved to the door, pulled aside the drapes, and stepped outside. Enough light came through the closed curtains that he could make out Illya's white shirt, pale hair, hands, and feet, where he leaned against the deck railing, staring out at the shifting glimmer of the bay. The light flashed off the curve of a glass as Illya lifted it to his mouth and drank. Hesitantly, Napoleon joined him there, staying quiet, waiting for Illya to break the silence. Finally, he did.

"Why did you follow me here, Napoleon?"

It was all he could do not to blurt out the first answer that came to his lips. 'Because you're mine.' Illya wasn't his. He knew that. He struggled to find another answer. An honest one. It took him some time, but Illya seemed content to wait. Or if not content, at least patient. Finally Napoleon managed to put his thoughts together.

"I followed because I belong where you are."

Illya gave a dry laugh. "'Whither thou goest,' Napoleon? Hardly your style."

But it was, Napoleon wanted to say. Or it once had been. But Illya hadn't known him then, he had no referent for that Napoleon. Napoleon barely did, himself, these days. He hadn’t been that man in years.

"There is another 'why,'" Illya said softly, before Napoleon could gather his wits to speak. "Why did you do. . . what you did?"

An even harder question. He raked a hand through his hair, and then put it on the railing, holding it as if he expected to be blown off by a gale. "I did what I did because I needed to know," he said finally.

"Needed to know what?" Illya prompted.

He should have guessed Illya would never let that rest. "Needed to know what he has that I don't." It wasn't quite the truth, but it wasn't quite a lie either.

Illya sighed. "Must everything be about you, Napoleon? You lack nothing. Be assured your charms are undiminished. There is no need for this competition, I cede the trophy to you. Even if I wished to, I could never equal your record. You've too much of a head start on me."

"I hadn't realized you thought me quite so vain," Napoleon said, knowing that his hurt showed in his voice, and not really caring at the moment. As he waited for Illya's response, he could feel the weight of Illya's gaze on him like a physical thing.

"I would not have said it was so before," Illya said finally. "I always thought your vanity part of your camouflage, a way to keep others at arm's length. I wouldn't even think it now, but what else am I to think? In all the time I've known you, I have never seen you look at a man with so much as a hint of speculation. I can hardly be expected to believe that after being exclusively heterosexual since you first discovered sex, you’ve suddenly become aware that you are attracted to men."

Napoleon was momentarily taken aback by the revelation of just how well Illya knew him. Very few people ever realized that his vanity and casual sexuality were part of the role he played, and played very well. He was so shaken by the thought that it took him an unusually long time to figure out that Illya had just contradicted himself. And in that moment of unprecedented imprecision, he knew how he had to deal with this."Why not?" he asked, his voice surprisingly sure.

Illya turned toward him. In the faint light his face was unreadable, but the intensity of his gaze was undiminished by the darkness. "It’s obvious why not," he said flatly, but there was a hint of uncertainty in his voice.

"Is it? I'll admit, it wasn't something I'd ever thought much about, not until I met you. Because all I knew of homosexuals before you was that they were . . . pansies. Weak, lisping cowards in outrageous clothing, who didn't like women, and had wild drunken orgies whenever possible. I was none of those things. If I happened to find an occasional man attractive, it was just a matter of aesthetics, right? Artistic appreciation. But then you came along and destroyed every one of those stereotypes. And I've watched you over the past year, and I've learned you, and there's nothing about you I don't admire, from your intelligence to your courage to your wit, to your defiance, to your strength, to your beauty. And since I couldn't have you, then having someone who had would be the closest I could come." He heard Illya's breath catch at that revelation, but he went on. "It didn't take me long to realize it wasn't nearly close enough. Just long enough to pick up beard burn, and the smell of Aqua Velva."

The silence lasted a long time. He started to count the seconds using his heartbeats as a guide, but they seemed uneven and unreliable.

"You did not . . . ?" The sentence trailed off on a slight uplift, asking the question Illya could not fully voice.

"No. He wasn't who I really wanted."

"I’ve rarely found that a barrier. Nor, I thought, have you."

"Usually not. This time was different."

"I see."

"Do you?"

Another long silence, and then Illya turned toward him slightly. The movement was barely noticeable, but spoke volumes. "I believe so." He lifted a hand toward Napoleon's face, and then let if fall again without touching him. "This is a very bad idea, Napoleon."

"Why?"

"We’re partners. We should not be this close."

"We're already this close," Napoleon pointed out.

"What if we have a quarrel?"

"We have quarrels now. We work them out."

"It is very annoying when you have a good answer to every question," Illya snapped testily. He lifted his glass again, and this time Napoleon could see the muscles in his throat move as he swallowed.

Napoleon chuckled. "Tell me about it, tovarisch."

He wanted to make a move. Needed to. A flutter of nervousness tightened his stomach and dried his throat. There was so much riding on this. Was it wise to play with fire? He put a hand on Illya's shoulder, and knew the answer was a resounding 'yes.' He let his thumb stroke the long tendon in Illya's throat, felt that tendon stretch as Illya leaned into the touch with a little hum of pleasure. Because of that momentary yielding, it was a surprise when Illya's hand suddenly wrapped tightly around his wrist, the strength of those fingers reminding him how dangerous this game that was not a game could be.

"Be very sure, Polya," Illya said, the warning in his voice as clear as if he were speaking to an enemy agent.

Napoleon swallowed hard. "I am."

The sound of glass impacting wood was all the warning he got as Illya's other hand closed over his shoulder, and using wrist and shoulder he pivoted Napoleon until his back was against the deck railing, the wood catching him just above waist level. Then the hand on his shoulder was sliding up to his jaw, cupping it, tilting his head. He had just a moment to register the size of Illya's hand– so much larger than a woman's– and then warm lips closed on his own, not at all gently.

He let Illya lick his lips apart, opened to his tongue, almost forgot that his own tongue could play as well, he was so caught up in his own surrender. The harsh bite of vodka stung along the edges of the kiss, the taste pure as snow in his mouth. For the first time he understood Illya's appreciation for the stuff. Though from now on he would always want it flavored with Illya.

The deck railing dug into his back, so he put his hands on Illya's shoulders, pulling himself into the strength of Illya's hard-muscled body to ease the strain. In return, he felt Illya wedge a thigh between his legs and shift it higher, the arch of muscle supplying a maddening pressure against his erection. He'd been half-hard since they'd started the conversation, and the touch of Illya's hand on his face had been all he'd needed to achieve the other half.

Illya made a sound as he rubbed his thigh against Napoleon's cock, a sound Napoleon would be hard put to describe as anything but self-satisfied, and just as he was about to let his hands move from Illya's shoulders, the man in his arms went absolutely still. No more than two heartbeats passed, then their lips parted, and Illya's hands left him as he stepped back, allowing the cool, damp Pacific air to come between them, the contrast as shockingly frigid as an arctic cold front.

"I. . . can’t," Illya said, his voice flat, his eyes fixed on some distant point beyond Napoleon's right shoulder.

"What do you mean, you can't?" Napoleon demanded, shocked. "I felt you. . . you want this. . . want me."

Illya sighed. "There are people I can use, Polya, and people I cannot."

Napoleon instantly knew which group he fell into, and a joyful ache spread through his chest and throat as he realized what Illya was really saying. Or what he thought he was saying. Best to make sure.

"How many people are on this list of yours?" he asked, raising a hand to cup Illya's face.

In the dim light he couldn't see the color that stained Illya's face, but he felt the heat of the blush under his palm.

"One," Illya whispered roughly, the word dragged out of him.

Ah God. He was right. The ache made it nearly impossible to speak. "Since when?"

Illya turned away, his gaze ranging out toward the glint of moon and starlight on moving waves. "Since the first time you laughed and I understood you were laughing with me, not at me."

That the moment of realization had not been one of physical desire came as a shock. That was what Napoleon was used to, it was all he expected from anyone, everything strictly on the physical plane. For Illya to choose a moment without a shred of sexual or even physical context was painfully revealing. Especially coming as it did from this too-private man. A word lay unspoken between them now, one Napoleon had acknowledged in himself earlier in the evening, without ever allowing it iteration. Too dangerous. But he couldn't leave things like this. Not now that he knew. How. . . how. . .

"Laugh with me now, then," he said softly. "And at me. God knows I deserve it after the crap I've pulled the last few days."

"No," Illya protested, though he was usually the first to laugh at Napoleon. It was never unkindly though, it was part of who they were, he played the straight man to Napoleon's clown, and vice versa when needed. Give and take so smooth it was as if they could read each other's thoughts.

Napoleon smiled. "Yes. And you wouldn't be using me, Illya. You know that. If you could have, you already would have. You're a ruthless son of a bitch."

Illya laughed bitterly. "Not where you are concerned."

"No. Which should tell you something."

"It tells me things I’m not certain I wish to know," he gritted through clenched teeth.

"Tell me about it," Napoleon said with a sigh. "The problem is, my friend, we can't go back, and we can't stay where we are. So we may as well go forward, eh?" He put his hand on Illya's arm, tugging him around so they were face to face, and then leaned in and brushed his lips against Illya's.

For a moment Illya didn't respond, and then his hands were coming up to hold Napoleon in place for a kiss as harsh, hard, and demanding as the man who gave it. He responded in kind, almost instantly hard again. This time when Illya drew back, it was only enough to speak, his breath coming hard and fast.

"I truly thought this was some peculiar ruse on your part, but I don’t think even you could feign this." He slid a hand down Napoleon's torso to his thigh, where it slipped up under the edge of his boxers and cupped his erection.

The touch of Illya's warm, callused fingers was shockingly perfect, and Napoleon pushed into his hand, wanting more, wanting it now. He grabbed Illya's shirt, pulled it free of his pants, and yanked at it until the buttons popped free.

"I don’t have so many shirts that you can destroy one with impunity," Illya complained.

"I'll buy you a new one," Napoleon growled, leaning in to kiss him again. Tongues battled, Illya's won the day, and then flicked away with a victor's arrogance.

"No, you will sew my buttons back on."

"Sure. So long as you don't mind a few decorative bloodstains," Napoleon said with wry grin. "Sewing is not exactly my forté."

Illya considered that. "I suppose allowances can be made, since you have other talents." His fingers shifted from cupping to stroking.

Napoleon shuddered, hips bucking involuntarily. Illya's eyes lifted to his, and there was a faint gleam of almost-superior amusement in them, along with heat like an acetylene torch. Napoleon suddenly wanted to erase that edge of smugness. Between the darkness and the black trousers and the distraction of that warm, knowing hand on his cock, it was hard to tell if Illya was as affected by any of this as he was. Time to find out.

He slid his hands into the gap where Illya's shirt hung open, finding the warm resilience of skin as he rested both hands on Illya's waist. The soft catch of breath told him he was on the right track. He let one hand range upward, fingers curving around Illya's ribs, thumb coming to rest just below his nipple. He wasn't entirely sure if that was a legitimate target, but it seemed as though what was sauce for the goose should be sauce for the gander, and besides, he knew his own were sensitive. The other hand moved along the edge of Illya's waistband, located the button, and flicked it open.

Illya's hand tightened on his cock. Not painfully, just . . . enough to make him forget what he was doing for