A few minutes later they found themselves in Waverly's office. Illya had refused to say any more about his plan, just glaring at Napoleon when his partner had tried to press the matter and that had been it. "Your report, Mr. Kuryakin?" Waverly's voice rang out, shattering the uneasy silence that had fallen when the two agents had entered his office. "Yes, sir." Illya glanced around to where Napoleon was seated, but the American seemed content to let his partner take the lead - he seemed engrossed in a minute examination of the back of his hands, not even glancing up as Mr. Waverly spoke. Returning his eyes to the front, Illya noticed the tiny frown that passed momentarily across Waverly's forehead, before he began to speak. "It is my contention, sir," Illya began, "that the leak does indeed originate here in the New York office. All the information that has been leaked so far, that we are aware of, has passed through here at some time - there don't appear to be any other factors in common." "You have a plan?" Waverly prompted, when Illya paused. He leaned back slightly in his chair, eyeing the Russian with half-closed eyes. "We need to set a trap, sir," Illya replied. "We spread some misinformation of our own. False data, carefully tailored for each department, each set of information exclusive and unique, so that we can track down the department where the leak has originated. The only people who will be privy to the entire plan will be myself and Mr. Solo, sir, excluding yourself, of course." "Very good, Mr. Kuryakin." Waverly paused, as if noticing for the first time that someone else was in the room. "Do you have anything to add, Mr. Solo?" Napoleon's head jerked up suddenly, as he was shaken from his contemplation. "No, sir." Waverly's frown returned, deepening, and he held the American's gaze for a long moment, assessing him, it seemed, before turning back to Illya. "Set your plan in action, Mr. Kuryakin." "Sir." The two agents left Waverly's office together, walking in companionable silence until they reached the elevator. Once safely inside, Illya chose his moment and turned to his partner. "Are you feeling unwell, Napoleon? You hardly said a word back there." Illya's cool gaze raked over Napoleon - the American looked nervous. He fidgeted slightly, his eyes locked onto the numbers over the elevator doors, watching the lights flick on and off. "I.. I'm fine, Illya," he replied, finally, without looking in his partner's direction. Are you, indeed, my friend? Illya thought, smiling to himself. Taking a sudden step across the elevator car, Illya slapped his hand onto the row of controls, hitting the emergency stop. In seconds, the car lurched to a halt, its inhabitants stumbling slightly as it settled to a halt. Alarms blared. "What... what do you think you're doing, Illya?" Napoleon asked. His voice was raised over the noise of the alarms as they echoed within the elevator car, but at least he was finally looking at Illya's face. "What do you think?" Illya echoed, stepping closer. He was so close now, almost touching his partner, even as Napoleon was imperceptibly backing away from his advance. Minute tremors shook Napoleon's body. He also had a hunted look on his face, the look of a man who wanted nothing more than to escape. Nowhere to run, my friend, Illya thought. Napoleon was backing away in reality now, inching backwards until he was about to meet the wall of the elevator, his eyes closing. He was swallowing nervously, his tongue flicking out to pass across his lips, his posture rigid, arms wrapped round himself protectively. Just as it seemed that Napoleon would explode into action, lashing out in an attempt to escape, Illya reached behind himself and started the elevator again. The alarms stopped, too, silence falling. Moving from his position almost hovering over Napoleon, Illya waited by the elevator door, leaving as soon as it opened, without a backward glance. A small smile played across Illya's lips as he left the elevator - his plan was working perfectly. Napoleon was so off-balance that Illya no longer had to do anything and he was sweating, nervous, torn between what seemed like desire and fear. Pushing this matter to the back of his mind as he headed towards his office, Illya contemplated the other matter in hand - they needed to find the source of the leaked information, and quickly. It was surely only a matter of time before Thrush obtained vital information through their source, information which they must not have. It would only be the matter of a few hours work before Illya had created enough bogus information to pin-point the source of their leak - each piece would need to be an extrapolation of existing material, none of it obvious enough to alert someone of a suspicious nature, as a double agent was sure to be, but a logical addition. The material would then be distributed, each piece going to a particular section, so now all Illya had to do was wait. After his plan had been put into action, Illya and Napoleon reported to Mr. Waverly once more. "Is the game afoot, Mr. Kuryakin?" Waverly asked, looking up at the Russian with his customary shrewd expression. "It is, sir," Illya replied, "and I have made sure that the only people who are cognizant of all the misinformation being circulated are the three people in this office." "Very good, Mr. Kuryakin," Waverly grunted, before turning to his colleague. "You don't seem yourself, Mr. Solo, it's not like you to be so quiet. Are you feeling ill?" As his partner was put under the spotlight, Illya sat back in his chair and watched with a certain degree of enjoyment - seeing Napoleon squirm like this was an entertaining sight, one he hoped to see many more times before his plan came to fruition. "I'm fine, sir," Napoleon replied, somewhat tersely. Waverly's eyebrows shot up at the American's tone. "Are you indeed?" Waverly said, glaring at the senior agent. "You haven't commented on Mr. Kuryakin's plan, Mr. Solo." "Well, as usual, Illya's plan is meticulous, and I'm sure it will succeed admirably, sir," Solo replied, shooting a devastating smile at Illya. Inside, Illya shook slightly, as if a puff of wind had hit him - this was an unexpected development. When he had been 'in charge', with Napoleon so clearly off-balance, he had known where he was, but now... "Mr. Kuryakin?" Waverly's voice broke through, and Illya jerked slightly as he recalled where he was. "Sir?" Even from where he was seated, with Napoleon in his peripheral vision, Illya could not have missed the grin on the American's face at Illya being caught out this way, day-dreaming. "Have you anything else to add?" "No, sir." "Very well. I expect a further report in 12 hours. Good afternoon, gentlemen." Damn him, Illya thought furiously, as he stalked from Waverly's office, conscious that Napoleon was hot on his heels. "Illya?" Napoleon's voice, coming from right behind him, brought Illya to a reluctant halt. Stifling a sigh, Illya turned, looking at his partner as he approached him. They both hesitated a moment, as a member of U.N.C.L.E. staff passed in the corridor where they were standing, then Napoleon spoke. "We need to talk, Illya, but not here." Illya nodded, tersely - the conversation he knew was coming was not one that he relished, and was certainly not one that should be conducted under the scrutiny of U.N.C.L.E.'s surveillance equipment. "Your office?" he suggested, knowing that, as Chief Enforcement Agent, Napoleon's office was not bugged. "My apartment," Napoleon replied. Illya felt his face heat at the unspoken implications of his partner's words. "Very well," Illya replied, schooling his face to passivity. "Shall we say in an hour?" "One hour," Napoleon echoed, turning on his heel and heading away down the corridor, in the direction of his office. As he was disappearing round the corner, Napoleon's voice came floating back, the grin that was probably on his face also clear in his voice. "Don't be late..."
As Napoleon had probably expected, Illya was early, making it to Napoleon's apartment before his partner did. As a result, he was waiting on the doorstep when Napoleon arrived, and Illya was greeted by his partner with a slow, knowing smile. Unlocking the door, Napoleon entered the apartment, Illya following close behind. Once they had ascertained that they were indeed alone, an uneasy silence fell between the two of them, as the two agents watched one another for a few moments. "Coffee?" Napoleon asked, suddenly, the word shattering the unnatural stillness. Illya nodded, finding himself suddenly uncertain of his voice, and watched his partner head towards the kitchen. It had been a while since he had been in Napoleon's apartment, but nothing seemed to have changed. Contrary to the popular opinion in U.N.C.L.E. headquarters, the two agents were not joined at the hip, and spent enough time together to value the time they spent apart. Illya in particular had always been something of a loner, someone who needed, and also enjoyed, his own company. As he half-listened to the coffee-making noises coming from the kitchen, Illya contemplated his next move. So far, he had been successful in making Napoleon uneasy, but it was clear that uneasy was not enough - the American had bounced back, and in some ways Illya's advances seemed only to have fuelled how he was feeling. Time to take things to the next level, my friend, Illya thought, as Napoleon appeared with the coffee. As they settled, Illya taking the arm chair and Napoleon sprawling slightly on the sofa, the silence fell between them again. "You said we needed to talk, Napoleon," Illya prompted. The American started as if he had been struck, some of the contents of his coffee cup spilling over the side as he reacted. "Yes," Napoleon began, "but I don't know where to start." "Napoleon Solo, lost for words?" Illya teased. "It's a shame there are no witnesses, as no one will ever believe it happened." Napoleon smiled, a small tight smile, completely humorless, and Illya fell silent again. If you want to lead this dance, my friend, he thought, go ahead... "You... well, it's like this Illya," Napoleon began again, with a little more certainty in his voice. "You've been acting oddly the past few days, and people are starting to talk." Illya said nothing, but sat, drinking his coffee. "Illya?" "Oddly?" "You've not been yourself, not since the last mission," Napoleon said, though his eyes were everywhere, anywhere, except looking in Illya's direction. "Waverly hasn't said anything yet, but I think he's worried about you too. Have you remembered any more about what happened?" Napoleon leaned forward in his seat, his coffee temporarily forgotten, as if his only interest was in waiting for Illya's answer. Light glinting from a knife. Gunfire. Blood. Images from reality and dreams mingled together, until Illya was not completely certain which was which. "No," Illya lied, "I don't remember anything except what you already know." Did I imagine a sigh of relief? Illya thought, as he watched Napoleon settle back into his seat. "But you are feeling okay?" Napoleon asked, but with only a shadow of the eagerness for answers that he had shown a moment beforehand. "I am fine, Napoleon." Silence again. Finishing his coffee, Illya placed the empty cup on the small table beside where he was sitting. Clasping his hands together in his lap, Illya wished that it was that easy to still the racing of his mind or the pounding of his heart. "Was there anything else, Napoleon?" Illya asked, gazing steadily at his partner, watching him intensely. "I am very busy, after all, so if there isn't, I should be going..." As Illya moved to leave his chair, his eyes still locked on the chocolate-brown eyes of his partner, he saw Napoleon's eyes widen slightly as he spoke, then, after a moment's pause, his partner began to speak. "Illya. I could never lie to you, could I?" Napoleon smiled as he spoke, but the smile did not reach his eyes, leaving them strangely desolate. "I... this isn't easy for me. We've been partners, friends, but when it comes to talking about..." Napoleon's voice ground to a halt, and he was suddenly fascinated by the contents of his coffee cup. "How many times have we saved each others lives anyway?" Napoleon asked suddenly, after a moment's uncomfortable silence, his voice artificially cheerful. "You know we stopped keeping count six years ago," Illya replied quietly, his eyes still intent on the American, who was still focussed on the cup he cradled in his hands. "I should go..." "Please..." The word hung between them, in the silent apartment, as Illya and Napoleon looked at each other. Illya's certainty, his conviction that he knew what was going on, the thing he had been basing all his planning upon, was rocked by the raw emotion contained in that solitary word. Round him the world spun, the only constant point within its wild gyrations the pair of brown eyes that were fixed intently on him. "Are you sure you're okay?" a concerned voice asked, and it took a moment's thought for Illya to identify its source. "I am a little tired, Napoleon," Illya admitted at last. His voice was so quiet he almost didn't recognize it. Illya watched his own hand come up to rub at his eyes, cataloguing the minute tremors that it experienced, detached from himself in some bizarre way. "You should go home, get some rest." "That's not what you were going to say," Illya persisted, his eyes intent on the American. "You were going to ask me something else, I think?" "It can wait, Illya." As he listened to the American's soothing voice, Illya felt his grip on consciousness start to weaken, as he struggled to keep his eyelids open. "Maybe you'd better sleep on the couch," Napoleon said, as Illya tipped headfirst into sleep, his partner's arms wrapped around him.
He knew what Illya's response would be, knew it as if he heard his acerbic partner commenting on it right now. He would question Napoleon's own sanity, then his parentage, before going on to speculate on why Napoleon thought he had the right to interfere in his partner's life this way. His voice would be full of scorn and derision, sharp with the sarcasm that Illya directed towards friend and foe alike with equal enthusiasm. He hadn't intended for this to happen, but it had and now Napoleon had to deal with it. He wouldn't see Dr. Lowe in HQ - Napoleon had been forced to pull rank considerably to get the good doctor to agree to a house call, much preferring to conduct any business in relation to his partner in a more secure and less monitored environment. But he'd been struck by Dr. Lowe's apparent good sense, even if the psychiatrist was snappy enough at times to give a certain partner of Napoleon's a run for his money. That partner of his was currently sprawled on Napoleon's couch, dead to the world, his relaxed face making him look ten years younger. Illya looked even more innocent and angelic, Napoleon decided, looking down at him as he slept - at least to anyone who didn't know him. "I'm worried about him, doctor," Napoleon said, turning back to where the U.N.C.L.E. psychiatrist sat, his sharp gray eyes following Napoleon intently. "He's been behaving oddly, like he doesn't trust me." "And this is a recent change?" Dr. Lowe's voice was calming, a slight accent at its edges. "Yes." Napoleon thought back. "It's definitely changed since the last time Illya was kidnapped. It's like he's up to something. He's suspicious all of a sudden, at least where I'm concerned." "And nothing has changed with you?" Dr. Lowe asked. "Something that your partner could be picking up on?" Napoleon considered this for a moment. But there wasn't anything - he still wanted Illya, that hadn't changed. Neither had the fact that he knew there was no chance of anything ever coming of it, that their relationship seemed destined to remain platonic no matter how much Napoleon might wish for more. U.N.C.L.E. was a relatively liberal agency, and there was such a thing as doctor-patient confidentiality, but regardless of both those facts Napoleon had no intention of airing his feelings for his partner. If he couldn't tell Illya how he felt about him, he had no intention of sharing those emotions with a third party. "No. Nothing's changed." He'd hoped asking Dr. Lowe about Illya would help but it didn't seem to have had any effect. Except maybe to make Napoleon more certain that something was wrong, even though he couldn't seem to describe that something to the psychiatrist in a way that he'd understand. But that didn't mean he was wrong about Illya, just that the something Napoleon was picking up on was something between them, possibly something that just wasn't meant to be shared. Of course, his partner wasn't going to be very happy with him anyway, not once he realized that he'd been drugged. But Dr. Cooper herself had supplied him with the sedative, had categorically told him that Illya must take them and get a good night's sleep for once, no matter what it took, and who was he to argue with U.N.C.L.E. Medical? They, after all, had the power to ground his partner indefinitely.
Illya swam towards consciousness, flailing for the surface like a diver who'd swum too deep. He stretched out towards the light that was above him and sounds came into focus first, though his eyelids stayed resolutely closed. "He's asleep?" A voice he didn't recognize, deep and sonorous, a slight accent at its edges. "Even Illya isn't strong enough to be able to fight that particular sedative," a voice replied. Napoleon's voice. There were two possibilities, of course. Either Napoleon Solo had become a double agent, willingly or otherwise, or he had somehow been replaced. Illya refused to believe the former - his partner's loyalty to U.N.C.L.E. had always been unshakable, and the Russian could not believe there was any way to force his compliance with such a plan. That left the other possibility. It would be an audacious plan, if they could pull it off - replacing Napoleon Solo with a doppelganger would give Thrush access to every part of U.N.C.L.E. operations. They could pick and choose the information they wanted, then strike at will, crippling U.N.C.L.E. for months, maybe years, if they chose the right target. Was that why he had seen such a difference in his partner? It was possible, of course, that the expression Illya had seen, that he had considered to be desire, was in fact something baser. That the doppelganger merely lusted after him and that Illya's own unrequited desire for his partner had led him to place a different interpretation on what he had seen. "Does he remember any more of what happened?" came the voice again. "He says he doesn't," Napoleon replied, "but I think he's lying." "Why would he lie to you, of all people? You're his partner after all..." Napoleon was silent for a moment, as if mulling over the possible reasons. When he finally spoke, his voice was tinged with what sounded like sadness. "He doesn't trust me. Ever since we got back, I've seen him watching me. I think he suspects..." A knock at the door interrupted Napoleon, and Illya listened as the door was opened. "Your car is here, sir," a female voice spoke. "I'm coming now. Thank you. You should keep an eye on him - I know you have been, but it's clear that things are worse than we feared. If he suspects..." The man's voice trailed off, a menacing silence following the words. "I know what to do," Napoleon said quietly. "You can rely on me." The door closed quietly and the room fell silent. Illya wanted to wake up, to confront the man who was pretending to be his partner, but he could feel the tiredness creeping up on him again. He could resist it no longer, and fell into the darkness again. When he woke, Illya was alone. He was still on the couch, where Napoleon had placed him, covered with a blanket. His shoes had been removed, and stood neatly by the side of where he had been sleeping, a note propped up on them. He had gone to sleep thinking he knew what was going on, and woken to find that he had been wrong. Was his partner still alive, held captive somewhere? After all, Napoleon was still a source of potentially valuable information for Thrush, and, having been replaced, there would be no rescue mission. Who looks to rescue someone who isn't even missing? A cold shiver travelled up Illya's back as he reached for the note propped up on his shoes, noting automatically the handwriting, the familiarity of the letters forming his name. Was his friend out there somewhere, being tortured, maybe even knowing there was no chance he would be rescued? Illya assumed that Thrush would use every advantage they had, so Napoleon would likely know he had been replaced, that nobody was looking for him. Or was he already dead? Illya shook his head minutely, unwilling to believe that Napoleon could be killed so easily - it would be worth Thrush's while, even if their other plan succeeded, to see what information they could extract. He had to believe that his friend was still alive. He had to. The alternative was unthinkable. Illya had been drawn to Napoleon Solo like a moth to a flame, even when he knew there was a real danger of being burnt alive. The American was his partner, his friend, an endless source of fascination to the Russian. The idea that this vibrancy could just be snuffed out... Opening the folded piece of paper, Illya scanned the contents, a few simple words from the impostor. An apology for not waking him, the statement that they would meet at work, the suggestion that he visit the infirmary again. All written in a hand that Illya knew as well as his own, an almost illegible scrawl that he had become familiar with over the past few years. Unusually well-prepared for a Thrush stratagem, Illya thought coldly, as he put his shoes on. Before he left the apartment, Illya searched it thoroughly, looking for any evidence to back up what he had heard. In an ashtray Illya found cigar ash, and knew he had not been dreaming. There had been someone else here in the apartment earlier. Closing the door of Napoleon's apartment behind him when he left, Illya headed back to U.N.C.L.E. headquarters, a feeling of helplessness warring with the coldness that gripped his heart. His partner was out there somewhere, and he had no idea where to start looking for him. However, he knew someone who might. Illya stalked down the corridor, cold fury sweeping off him in waves. As he moved further into the heart of U.N.C.L.E.'s New York headquarters, the Russian was struggling, for the first time he could remember in a very long time, to control his temper. That certainly went against Illya's reputation. He'd heard the whispers, the comments, but he'd always chosen to ignore them - what was it to him if people whose names he didn't know thought him cold? Today, however, it was fire that raged in his eyes, the fire of strong emotions. As much as he wanted just to go into Napoleon's office, grab the impostor by the throat and slam him against the wall, the rational side of Illya's nature screamed at him that this was not the way to go about getting the information he wanted. What was the saying? Oh yes, he remembered it now: 'there is more than one way to skin a cat'. He still didn't completely understand the source of the proverb, but the meaning behind it was abundantly clear to him. So, if violence would not serve, then he must use whatever other weapons he had at his disposal, and Illya knew with cold certainty of one that would be foolproof, one in particular that this impostor could not resist. When he entered Napoleon's office, the American was seated behind the desk, looking up at him with dark, unreadable eyes. He'd been studying a folder, his long fingers flicking through the papers that it contained, but he closed the folder when Illya entered the room, laying it carefully on the desk. "How're you feeling?" Illya was impressed by the normality of it all - despite the strangeness of the situation, the feeling that he had been having for the past days of not quite knowing what was going on, the Russian was impressed. Whoever had trained this man had done their job well. But not quite well enough. They had slipped up on one detail, the almost-symbiotic relationship that existed between the two agents, the one thing all the reports in the world could not provide information about. "I am fine," Illya said, now impressed by his own composure, as he stood just inside the doorway of the office. He felt the air move behind him as the door closed, but somehow he could not bring himself to approach where the impostor was seated. He was tired, and what he had to do would be draining enough. "Illya?" The voice was perfect - the right accent, the right degree of concern. All perfect, all right. All utterly wrong. A worried expression on his face now, Napoleon got up from where he had been seated and crossed over to where Illya was standing, swaying slightly. Even as he reached the Russian, Illya's hands came up to cup his shoulders, pushing him back gently, and the American did not resist. He allowed himself to be held, even though he must surely feel the minute tremors rippling through Illya's hands. "I said I am fine," Illya whispered, his face close enough to Napoleon's for the breath to hit him. "You want this."
"I... uh..." Those were the only words Napoleon managed to get out before Illya's mouth had fastened onto his neck, sucking as if his life depended on it and all Napoleon could feel was the heat rippling through him from that place. All that was going on within his brain seemed focussed on that spot, as if nothing else existed, all the other senses were bypassed. The American heard himself moan, felt the tiny breath as Illya chuckled, the laugh echoing through him. One of Illya's hand's moved from their place on his shoulders, fingertips brushing down his chest, trailing heat through the thin cotton shirt he was wearing. Their fleeting touch felt like a brand as they headed downwards, to a greater source of heat. "No," he managed to groan out. "I..." "Shhh..." Long fingers gripped the zipper of Napoleon's trousers, while at the same time he could feel the Russian's tongue moving gently against the skin of his neck. Illya was tasting him, kissing and licking his way up his neck inch by inch, now settling into the sensitive hollow behind his ear. As he felt the warmth there, Napoleon was distracted, writhing slightly, even as he felt a hand slip into his fly. He was getting hard, there was no doubt about that, even as Napoleon felt those same exploring fingers travel into his boxer shorts, wrapping themselves knowingly about his length. He heard himself groan again, as if he were listening to someone else. Napoleon could almost feel the blood that was gathering, his heart pumping to drive the blood downwards, the stiffness that was growing there. When the fingers left him, he felt a pang of sadness, until he realized what was going on. One hand, the one that had still been cupped around his shoulder, shoved him backwards, and Napoleon's back hit the surface of the desk with a thump. The small part of his brain that was still rational registered the way that the files that had occupied the surface were swept away by his arrival and slithered gently to the floor. One hand pinned him to the desk, planted firmly in the middle of his chest, while the fingers that had been wrapped around him freed the button of his trousers, then grasped the waistband and began to pull gently. Illya's mouth, that talented mouth that had been sucking at his neck, leaving trails of hot breath against his skin, moved now, his lips gently brushing across Napoleon's ear. "Samozvanetz," a voice whispered, and it took a moment for Napoleon to realize that the almost hostile voice was Illya's. His brain struggled to translate, but his grasp of Russian was too shaky, even if his mind had been working perfectly. Napoleon filed the word away for later, reciting it to himself to catch it. Illya's hand had dispensed with his trousers and boxers, shoving them down across Napoleon's thighs as he lay awkwardly across the desk, his legs dangling. He felt the colder air of the room brush him and shrank slightly, recovering when the long fingers of his partner wrapped themselves around his length once more. "Illya," he gasped, strangely proud of the ability to form coherent sound as the Russian's fingers stroked at him, brushing the sensitive under side. He felt himself harden again, then writhed as Illya's mouth moved down from his neck, kissing its way down his body. When the lips fastened onto a nipple Napoleon bucked, his legs banging painfully again the side of the desk, and it was only his partner's strong hand, still planted on his chest that kept any part of him in contact with the desk's surface. "Illya," he gasped again, as he felt the Russian's mouth move ever downwards. Napoleon's eyes widened as he realized what his partner was planning and he began to struggle slightly, pushing up from his awkward position splayed out across the surface of the desk. His hands were slick with sweat, though he hadn't realized this before, and they slipped helplessly across the polished surface. By the time Napoleon was able to react, to try to protest at what Illya was doing it was too late. The Russian's mouth had descended upon Napoleon's length, taking him whole, and Napoleon was lost. It was over in a matter of moments - Napoleon had been so close to the edge that he had climaxed swiftly, the heat of Illya's mouth wresting from him any self-control he had thought to have. He'd thrust again and again, feeling the way that Illya's fingers gripped his hips now, knowing there would be bruises there but no longer caring as he hurtled towards his orgasm. When he lay, spent and gasping, Napoleon was only slightly aware of Illya standing over him, and he had to concentrate to hear what the Russian was saying. He could see Illya's lips moving, but he had to concentrate before he could even figure out which language his partner was speaking, let alone discern the words. "Samozvanetz." Illya spat out the word again. "I know you for what you are. Where is my partner?" "What?" Napoleon had heard the words, his brain had processed them, but they made no sense to him. Bending over him now, Illya grasped the front of Napoleon's shirt, pulling his partner towards him. Illya's fingers were wrapped in the cotton, their heat flowing through the thin material again - the strangeness of the situation began to filter through to Napoleon as his rational mind began to function once more. The Russian's eyes were cold, like chips of ice - it was as if the act which had just taken place had been done by another person altogether. There was no emotion in Illya's face, none at all. "Where is my partner?" Illya repeated, the words full of menace. "Illya, what are you talking about?" Napoleon replied. "I'm right here." "Pah," Illya spat, letting go suddenly, and Napoleon's back slapped against the desk. Without another word the Russian turned away, leaving the office without a second glance even as, behind him, a very confused C.E.A. tried to restore his clothing to some semblance of normality. Even as Napoleon gathered himself together, straightening his clothes, he was struck by the incongruity of what had just happened. There, in his own office, he had been swept away on a tide of desire, a tide against which he had struggled, but only half-heartedly. He had never pretended to himself about the reality of his feelings for his stoic partner, but Napoleon had prided himself on his ability to dissemble. As Chief Enforcement Agent, that ability had often saved both his and his partner's lives. Now Napoleon didn't know what to think. He'd stared into the face of the man he had come to call friend and seen a coldness there that frightened him, had heard the open hostility in Illya's voice. That hostility had been so much at odds with the intimacy of Illya's actions, the passion with which he had laid waste to all of Napoleon's self-control. Illya had spoken accusingly, puzzling words that Napoleon turned over in his mind even as he tried to remember what the word was that the Russian had hissed into his ear. Napoleon struggled to concentrate, to try and push from his mind the thoughts of the warmth of Illya's mouth, the surge of desire that swept through him again as he thought of Illya going down on him. The more he tried to forget, to set those thoughts aside, the more Napoleon knew that he wanted nothing more than the chance to relive those feelings. He longed to experience them again without the coldness - he wanted an equal passion, a depth of desire equal to his own. Samozvanetz, he thought.
As Illya left Napoleon's office, without looking back at the devastation he had caused to the life of his self-controlled partner, he felt satisfied with what he had achieved. He had meant to make the impostor squirm with desire for him - he had done so. He had meant to place the impostor in a position where he could not dissemble - he had done so. What he had not expected was the reaction from this false Napoleon - as Illya headed for his own office, he could not drive from his mind the look that he had seen in Napoleon's eyes. Illya had expected to see lust, but he had not expected the desire he had witnessed laid bare. There had been a vulnerability there, an unexpected openness - it was not the look of a man who feared discovery. He had hoped for a chink, some sign that he was on the right trail - an indication that this man knew the whereabouts of his partner. So far he had none, but Illya knew that the next move was not his. Now, his part in this plan was to wait.
Napoleon reclined in his office chair, feet up on the desk, as he flicked through a Russian dictionary - mentally, he blessed the phonetic nature of the language, running the word that Illya had spoken over and over in his mind as his fingers worked through the Cyrillic alphabet. When he found the word he had been searching for, Napoleon's eyes widened, his feet slipping from the desk with a thump. He threw the dictionary onto the desk without a care for where it might land, and left his office, knowing that he needed to find his partner. Things were far worse than Napoleon had feared, and he tried to put the experiences from earlier out of his mind. He could not begin to think what Illya had been intending to do when he had come to his office, what he had intended to achieve by his actions. The coldness Napoleon had seen in his partner's eyes was enough to send a shiver down his spine. There was no way that he could interpret those actions, those words, and feel comfortable with his conclusions. As he hurried down the corridor, Napoleon thought back on what had happened in his office between the two of them - there had been a coldness to the other man, a calculating aspect to the act itself. What would he say when he cornered Illya? How could he set this straight between them now, after what had happened in his office only minutes before? Could their partnership continue, or would it be shattered by that one act of intimacy, viewed so differently by the two men involved? What had Illya been trying to achieve? Napoleon could only hope that there was a future for the two of them, together. But what shape would that future take - friends, partners, lovers? Somehow, Napoleon could not find certainty within himself - he dared not hope to gain them all. His greatest fear was that he would now lose everything.
The door opening silently was expected - when Illya had run through this scenario in his mind, playing out the options, he had never expected the impostor to knock. "Illya?" a familiar voice asked, more tentative than he had thought. There was still nothing out of the ordinary here, it was all still going to plan. Illya looked up at the man standing in the doorway, the man whose dark, unreadable eyes were fixed on him intently. "Have a seat," Illya said quietly, his hand outstretched to indicate a nearby chair. "I don't want to sit down," Napoleon replied. "What do you want?" "Answers, my friend." "Are you sure that's all you want?" Illya's voice was cold, mocking. "When I was in your office it was a different matter." "I..." Napoleon choked out, stumbling over the words. His voice ground to a halt, and it was a few moments before he could speak again. "I know what you said to me." "And?" "It's not true," Napoleon said quietly, coming over to the desk, moving closer to where Illya was still sitting. "You say this like I should believe you," Illya replied. "I don't even know who you are!" "I'm not what you say I am." "What I say?" "You called me an impostor," Napoleon said, his voice full of pain. "I don't know what made you think that of me." "Don't you?" Illya blurted out, getting to his feet and approaching the American. "I saw the look in your eyes, I heard you plotting against me, I know you have been passing information to Thrush. Now I want to know the truth!" "The truth?" Napoleon said. Illya was very close now, his hand coming out from under his jacket, fingers wrapped round his U.N.C.L.E. Special. Napoleon's eyes were locked with Illya's, as if he was entranced by the fire that doubtless blazed within them now, hypnotized by them as they came nearer and nearer. "The truth," Illya echoed, raising his gun in an unflinching hand. "You know the truth already, Illya," Napoleon said quietly. "You've always known it, even when I've fooled myself that you knew nothing, that I had fooled you." The two men were face to face, within arms length of each other, eyes locked. "I don't know what you're talking about," Illya began. "Everything changed for you, didn't it?" Napoleon asked quietly. "In the warehouse... everything changed..." It was involuntary - there was nothing that Illya could have done to prevent it, even if he had seen it coming. The words themselves were enough to send him back to that place, back to the sensations he had experienced there, the terror that had swept him away. In less time than it takes to blink it all happened again for him - light on metal, the smell of blood, pain, a gunshot, a cloud of dust. "NO!" From his peripheral vision, Illya saw Napoleon's hand move, infinitely slowly. His eyes were still locked with those of the American, and he was startled again by the warmth he saw there, the denial clearly written there of all that he had believed to be true. "NO!" He was frozen, locked in the space between past and present, only able to watch, not act. The gentlest of touches, fingertips brushing against his cheek and Illya felt himself dissolve, crumpling to the floor bonelessly. It was as though he were watching someone else, stepping away from himself to observe what happened next. It was someone else's head that was cradled gently on the American's lap, someone else who was on the receiving end of the caresses, the stroking hand that soothed away the tears that fell unbidden. Illya himself was not a part of this, he could only watch as someone else was comforted. Watch, and envy.
As Napoleon knelt on the floor of Illya's office, cradling his partner's body gently, he thought back to the latest mission, the latest rescue. The latest in a long line, each more traumatic than the last. As ever, when he lost track of his partner, Napoleon was afraid - every time they were separated, a cold feeling would come to him, a feeling that maybe this time he wouldn't make it, that this time he would be too late. After all, how many times could the famous Solo luck be on his side? Whenever he searched for Illya, knowing all along that he had doubtless been kidnapped as bait rather than for his own worth as an agent, Napoleon felt a pang of guilt. At times it seemed as though every low-life Thrush agent knew that the best way to make sure Napoleon Solo came running was to grab his partner and it was a game he was tiring of. Each time, so far, he would rescue the Russian safely, and then it would happen all over again. Napoleon shook his head slightly, as if to shake away the absurdity of it all - there were times, so many times that they had given up counting them, that Illya had been the rescuer, but the relationship was different. As far as Napoleon could tell, he was never the bait in a plot to trap Illya. And this time had been no different. Illya had been taken, tortured, and he felt oddly responsible for it all. Not that Illya had ever blamed him for it - no, the stoic Russian would just smile that small smile of his and press on to the next mission, seeming impervious to whatever had happened to him last time round. Not this time though. This time something had been different. Not the kidnapping, sadly not the torture either, as both he and Illya bore the scars of other such incidents. This time it had been Illya's response to the whole thing that had changed. Not only his response - he had seemed different. As Napoleon looked down at his partner, a man he had come to call his friend over the years they had worked together, he watched his hand stroke Illya's hair as if observing from afar. Illya was curled onto one side, his head still on his partner's lap, one hand clutching Napoleon's sleeve as though it were a life-line. Over the years, Napoleon had come to know this taciturn man well, to see behind the façade that he erected for everyone else. Though Illya had a reputation for coldness, Napoleon had seen the vein of fire that ran through the Russian, that bubbled like lava just under the surface, as if waiting for an excuse to erupt. His reputation was carefully fortified by Illya's own desire to remain inconspicuous, a desire that had been a survival mechanism in the labor camps of his childhood. It had taken some time, but Napoleon had worked at their relationship, refusing to let himself be put off by the Russian's initially icy demeanor, and the effort he had put in had been handsomely rewarded. There was no one else that Illya would have allowed himself to be so vulnerable with. But Napoleon had paid the price for the effort he had put into building a friendship between the two of them - he had fallen for Illya, so that he now desired his partner with a fervor that at times he thought would send him screaming over the edge. Knowing Illya's troubled past and the horrors he'd endured in his childhood, Napoleon had held back - he'd feared that if his partner knew how he felt, then this would destroy what they had between them. So Napoleon had denied it all, even to himself, telling himself that it was not really that kind of love, just gratitude for timely rescues, the natural comradeship of two men facing death together on a regular basis. And all the time he knew himself to be a liar.
Illya felt safe, more safe than he'd felt in a long time - he tried to think how long it had been but the effort involved exhausted him, making his brain whirl. As Illya came back to himself, feeling as though his mind was finally re-connecting with his body, he was conscious that he was lying on the floor of his office, his head still cradled in his partner's lap. He could feel Napoleon's hands gently stroking his hair, the material of his partner's suit where he clutched it fitfully. "You're awake." The voice making the statement was pitched low, reassuring him, and he relaxed again. "Illya?" That voice again, breaking into his feeling of security. With that one word all the fear and confusion he had been experiencing came rushing back, causing Illya to stiffen where he lay, his free hand coming out to try and push himself out of Napoleon's grip from his prone position. As he began to struggle to rise, Illya felt the grip on him tighten, Napoleon's arm holding him in place as he could find no leverage to escape. Feeling trapped, Illya began to struggle harder, his limbs thrashing wildly as he tried to escape - what little was left of his rational mind that was not gripped by a nameless terror recognized his partner's voice trying to soothe him. "It's okay. You're safe," the voice repeated, over and over again. "No!" Illya screamed. "Liar!" Illya could feel himself beginning to tire, though the arm holding him in place was relentless - he began to shake as his struggles to free himself lessened, then the Russian began to sob. "Illya..." the voice whispered. "What did they do to you, lyubov?
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Continued in Part 3... | |