The sounds that Illya was making were so pitiful that they cut straight to Napoleon's heart - he was filled with a desire for revenge against all the people who'd hurt his friend in the past. Though he'd killed the latest of them, giving her a quick death compared to the pain she'd inflicted, he wished her alive again so he could kill her once more. And this time it would not be so swift. If he had the power, he would track down and kill every last one of them - even as he considered the reality of this feeling, Napoleon was a little frightened by its intensity. He'd never been one to commit easily. He'd always found organizations easier than individuals, making the transition from his time in the Army to U.N.C.L.E. a smooth one - in contrast, the American had many acquaintances, numerous colleagues, but very few friends. And if someone had told him, when he and Illya first met, that this quiet Russian, so different from him in so many ways, would come to be the top of that list, he would have called them crazy. And if falling in love had been mentioned, then Napoleon would probably have exploded. But it was all true. He loved this man with a passion he'd never experienced before, something he'd always sought in his dealings with women but had never found, no matter how hard he looked. Some part of himself had always been held back, but with Illya there were no secrets, nothing he could not share - nothing except his feelings. But was it always going to be that way between them? Napoleon's mind went back to what had happened in his office and, despite his best endeavors, he felt the warmth beginning to pool in his groin, a guilty stirring. He knew now that what had gone on between them had been a desperate act designed to elicit information somehow, but that knowledge did not remove the experience itself. How had Illya known that particular scenario, or something very much like it, had been one of Napoleon's fantasies for the longest time now? "We need to get you to the infirmary," he whispered. In response, Illya muttered something Napoleon didn't quite catch - the tone itself was enough, it had a defeated sound to it. "If I help you, can you walk?" Napoleon continued, torn. He wanted nothing better than to hold his friend like this forever, feeling the warmth of Illya's body against his, the way his hand gripped Napoleon's sleeve for security, but this warred with concern for his friend's well-being. "Illya?" Napoleon said again, when there was no response. "I... I can walk," Illya muttered. "You need to let go." "If you promise not to run," Napoleon said, grinning slightly to himself on hearing something of Illya's familiar tones in the few words he had spoken. "I promise," Illya replied tersely. Hesitantly, Napoleon released his grip on his friend, unwrapping his arms, he allowed Illya to slip from them, then stood. Illya was still slumped on the floor, having moved so he was seated with his back against the side of the desk. When Napoleon extended a hand to help him up, Illya took it without looking up, and used both that and the desk to lever himself into an upright stance. "Are you sure you can walk?" Napoleon asked, eyeing the way Illya was standing. His only answer was a somewhat scornful glance in his direction, a glance that fell the moment it met Napoleon's eyes. Was it his imagination, or was Illya blushing? "Illya?" "Let's go," Illya said, heading somewhat unsteadily for the door without looking at him. Damn stubborn Russian, Napoleon thought, as he followed him out of the office.
As he walked through the corridors of U.N.C.L.E., Illya was all the while aware of the steady paces of his partner, trailing a few steps behind. He could hear Napoleon's footsteps echoing slightly in the hallways, now relatively deserted as the daytime staff had left. His mind whirled, trying desperately to put the pieces together - until a few minutes ago, everything had seemed so clear to him, each piece of information fitting into the pattern his mind had created. But now, it was as though someone had taken those self-same pieces and thrown them into the air, careless of where they might land. He'd been so certain. Illya thought back to his time in the warehouse, held captive to the whims of a madwoman, someone who seemed to torture him only for the pleasure it brought her. He could still hear his screams echoing round the deserted building, see the shadows draw across the dusty floor as the hours passed and he was still a captive. He'd given up all hope of rescue, thinking himself deserted, and that thought had cut him deeper than any blade. As he hung captive, Illya had contemplated his life, knowing himself with an awful certainty to be approaching a slow and painful death. He'd not liked what he'd seen. Illya had seen a man who had always cultivated solitude, a man who loved his own company, even when the hand of friendship had been offered to him. He regretted all he hadn't done. Illya knew it was foolish - his upbringing, in all its harshness, had prepared him to be alone, to fear being vulnerable, but in his heart Illya knew that this was not the only reason he was alone. At the end of the day, he liked it. He liked that he didn't have to rely on anyone else, to expose himself in all his frailty to another person's inspection. He also didn't have to face the disappointment in a loved one's eyes, the expression he dreaded more than any other. And then there was his partner. He'd been fascinated by Napoleon Solo, had let the American closer to who he really was than anyone had been permitted to come before. He had embraced the flame, only to find that it warmed and did not burn, as he had feared. Illya knew he had come to rely on that warmth, perhaps a little too much. All that he knew was that when it seemed gone, he could feel the ice creep upon his heart once more. And now he'd really done it - taken a deep breath and blown it all away, with no hope of recovery. He'd been wrong about so many things, and he would have to pay the price for all of them. He had slotted together his facts, forcing them into a picture that was a twisted reflection of the truth, driving him to take action in a way that had blown his treasured friendship apart. Thinking back to what he had done in Napoleon's office, Illya managed to suppress a shudder, suddenly conscious of his partner's intelligent eyes as they rested on his back. He had done some despicable things in the service of Mother Russia, some things he preferred not to think about in the service of U.N.C.L.E., but none seemed to Illya to have the repercussions that intimate act held. He had forced himself on his partner, taking his kindness and surprise for assent, breaching the barriers between them with a finality that terrified the Russian to the core of his being. As a technique for extracting information, for putting an enemy in a place of vulnerability, sex had no peer, but what he had done had gone beyond that. It was a betrayal of their friendship, the death blow to their partnership, and it was only a matter of time before Napoleon would realize that. Of course, he would be polite about it, express his regret that they could no longer work together, but the thought of the pain he would see in Napoleon's eyes, the accusation he feared to see there, that thought tormented Illya. He stifled a sob as he thought of it, even as his hand reached automatically to open the infirmary door.
Even in all the time that they'd known one another, despite all the many trips they'd taken to the infirmary, together and separately, Napoleon had never seen Illya so dejected. As he walked behind his partner through the corridors, Napoleon watched every step, wondering at the fact that his stubborn partner was on his feet at all. Each movement seemed an agony, Illya seemed to struggle along, all his usual energy lost. Not for the first time, Napoleon wondered what had been going through his partner's head. He knew that the Russian, a scientist by training after all, was a logical thinker and he'd reached some kind of conclusion. A conclusion he had then chosen to test in the most dramatic manner. That the conclusion was so far off-base appeared to have thrown Illya for a loop, in a way Napoleon had never seen before. He wanted to reach out and help Illya along, offer him support, but the stiffness of Illya's back told him more eloquently than any words that such an offer would be rejected. Napoleon felt frustrated, fearing that his friend was taking this opportunity to re-build the walls that had crumbled during their encounter in Illya's office - this was the Russian's chance to re-trench. What would his response be? Would he push Napoleon away now, embarrassed at the intimacy that had passed between them? Only time could provide the answer to those questions. "Where do you think you're going?" "I'm going home, Napoleon," Illya said, trying ineffectually to push his way past his partner. Napoleon stood in the doorway of the infirmary, his brown eyes unreadable as he gazed at the Russian. Though Illya had spoken to him, he had not looked up, seemingly fascinated by the pattern of the infirmary floor, and his voice had been toneless. "Home?" Napoleon echoed. "What did the doctor..." "He said I'm fine," Illya interrupted, "but that I need to go home and get some rest." Napoleon said nothing, continuing to lean against the doorframe, seemingly casual but all the while eyeing his partner with concern. He knew that, if Illya really wanted to get past him, then there would probably be little he could do to stop him without either of them getting hurt, and he was desperately hoping it wouldn't come to that. He couldn't imagine hurting Illya and, at least until he had heard the coldness in Illya's voice earlier, he would have relied on the same being true for his partner. "And how," Napoleon asked, "are you going to get home? You're in no fit state to drive." Look at you, Illya, he thought, you're shaking like a leaf. "I can get a cab," Illya said, looking up for the first time, his jaw jutting stubbornly. "No." "Napoleon..." Illya began, his tone foreboding. "I said 'no.' This is not a matter for debate, Illya," Napoleon continued. "Either you stay in the infirmary, or you let me drive you home. No other options." For a moment Illya was silent, his eyes studying Napoleon's face. Try as he might, Napoleon could not decipher any emotion in those eyes, but he was absurdly heartened by the fact that his stubborn partner hadn't tried to argue with him. Well, not yet anyway. "Very well," Illya said, finally. "Shall we go?" Napoleon stepped back to allow his partner to pass, feeling the warmth from the Russian's body as Illya brushed past him. Despite all his good intentions, he couldn't help but grin, relishing the tiny victory he'd just won - he'd feared, after all, that Illya would retreat behind a wall of ice and never come out.
He had to get out of the infirmary, one way or another. If not under his own steam, which Napoleon seemed determined to thwart, then with his partner's assistance. It was ironic, really - Napoleon's mother hen instincts always seemed to kick in at the most inappropriate moment, usually when Illya was least in the mood to tolerate them. Like now, for instance. Now, when the thing Illya wanted most was to go home and pretend the rest of the world didn't exist for a while. To try and put behind him the enormity of the mistake he'd made, the way he'd single-handedly taken a sledgehammer to his partnership with Napoleon and destroyed it forever. Napoleon was probably just waiting for the right time, the socially acceptable time, to tell him that their partnership was history. After all, considering the way Illya had forced himself on his unwilling partner, how likely was it that Napoleon could do anything else? If you ignored the damage Illya might have caused to his self-esteem, Napoleon had his reputation to think of. Not that Illya would ever forget what had happened between them in Napoleon's office, the way his partner had writhed beneath him, the tiny gasping sound he'd made just prior to his orgasm. If, as seemed likely, Illya would soon find himself cleaning toilets in U.N.C.L.E. Alaska, then at least he'd have some memories to take with him. He was trying to be positive, really he was, trying to be encouraged by the fact that Napoleon was still talking to him, but it wasn't easy. For all Illya knew, that was only happening because people would ask what was going on if Napoleon wasn't talking to his partner. He couldn't believe that it was for his benefit, couldn't hope that Napoleon could possibly be that forgiving. This time Illya knew, though he was finding it almost impossible to feel guilty about his actions if not his motivations, he had crossed the line.
The drive back was a quiet one for most of the way. Illya sat staring straight ahead, as if transfixed, and Napoleon took the opportunity to study his partner. Normally, Illya's slimness was deceptive - he was far stronger than he looked, both mentally and physically. He was normally pale, that was true, but there was a translucent quality to him currently that had Napoleon worried. He seemed like the wraiths of legend, seeming more substantial than they truly were, dissolving in the sunlight. The silence in the car became oppressive, bearing down on the two men, each lost in their own thoughts. Napoleon was secretly glad that he was driving, as at least that gave him something to concentrate on, something that would allow him to tear his mind away from the seductive memories of what had happened between them in his office. Even the thought of it sent warmth shooting into Napoleon's groin. Though his rational mind tried to suppress the memories, pushing them away with great industry, his treacherous body began to react. When he spoke, Napoleon knew that his voice was a little strained and this was confirmed by the glance that Illya shot him. "We need to talk," Napoleon began, as he pulled the car over to the curb in front of Illya's building. "Do we?" Illya replied quietly. "We do," Napoleon replied, with more conviction than he was feeling. "And I think this is a conversation we should have indoors."
"We need to talk." Those simple words sent a frisson of fear through Illya. It had been bad enough that Napoleon had practically ordered him to accompany him home, using the hierarchy of U.N.C.L.E. for once. And now his partner wanted to talk to him. Illya's mind, which had seemed to be running on rails for a while now, had returned to its usual active state, and was feverishly coming up with possible scenarios, none of which gave Illya any comfort. With a cold certainty, the Russian knew that Napoleon was looking for a relatively neutral environment in which to end their partnership. He'd been waiting for this moment ever since they had first met, Illya realized. It was inevitable that it should come to this - they were too different for their working together to ever be a long-term thing. There was no way that Illya could envisage working as an agent without Napoleon by his side but he had forfeited all right to that partnership by one ill-judged act. Maybe it was time for him to return to the lab? After all, there Illya could be in complete control of the situation, protected by the regularity of the work and able to rebuild the defences he had unwisely lowered. That it had taken so long for Napoleon to come to this realization too had been a blessing to Illya, but in his heart the Russian knew that he had been the one to deliver the death blow. Sighing, Illya led the way into his apartment building.
Napoleon watched his partner with a sinking heart. Illya was moving as he imagined someone might if they were walking to face a firing squad, head bowed, feet barely clearing the floor. What did he think was about to happen? Napoleon had long ago given up trying to psychoanalyze his partner - he had discovered over the years they had worked together that there were too many layers between the world and Illya for such an analysis to be successful. Some had been created by the Russian's tragic childhood, some by the terrible things his partner had endured in the service of U.N.C.L.E. Creating a friendship with the taciturn Russian had been a labor of love for Napoleon. He had once heard it said that a sculptor could 'see' the statue within a piece of stone, only needing to remove the excess material to release the shape itself. In the same way, Napoleon had seen through the barriers that Illya put up to protect himself, straight through to the man who hid behind them. Though he was not a patient man by nature, Napoleon had devoted himself to chipping away infinitely slowly at the ice that bound his partner's heart. All along, he knew that one false move might destroy everything, sending his partner scurrying for cover, yet it was worth the risk. No one else knew Illya like he did - no one else had been allowed in. All his effort over the years they had been partnered had paid off richly. The two of them had survived the worst that Thrush could throw at them, foiling that organization's attempts time and time again, and had come out of it relatively unscathed. At least till now. Napoleon knew that it had been bound to happen one day. No one could go on experiencing the horrors that had become everyday life for the two of them without feeling the strain. For himself, the American had sought solace in the company of beautiful women, telling himself that this would give him what he wanted, though all along he knew it to be a lie. There was only one person on this planet that he felt comfortable with, that he could be himself with, who he could trust completely to never hurt him. He had fallen in love, hopelessly and desperately, with Illya Kuryakin.
Illya led the way into his apartment, letting the door swing open behind him as he trudged in. When Illya had hung up his jacket, he returned back to the living room to find that Napoleon had settled himself into the chair that faced the door. He looked relaxed as he sat there, but the Russian knew better - despite the American's calm demeanor, Illya knew that Napoleon was like a coiled spring, ready for action. "You wanted to talk," Illya began, feeling as though he were forcing the words out. Please, my friend, he thought, surprising himself with the calmness he felt, let us end this now. Napoleon said nothing for a minute or two, his eyes surveying Illya as he sat in the chair opposite. The way that his partner's eyes raked over him made Illya uncomfortable, but he reasoned that it was no more than he deserved. "Illya..." Napoleon began. "I'm sorry, Napoleon," Illya blurted out, the words surprising him when they came out. He had been feeling ashamed of his actions in Napoleon's office for hours now, the words rattling round inside his mind, but he had not intended to say them. After all, if he apologized, then Napoleon would feel obliged to try and forgive him and Illya could not forgive himself. "Sorry?" Napoleon echoed, one eyebrow raised in enquiry. This was all wrong. Nothing was going as he intended. Illya brought his hands up to cover his face, leaning forward, his elbows resting on his knees. Napoleon was supposed to say what he came here to say and then go. "Illya?" Napoleon asked, when Illya stayed silent. "What are you apologizing for?" Illya raised his hands from his face, dropping them to his lap as he sat back once more. He was aware that his hands were twisting together, and he tried to still them. Taking a deep breath, the Russian finally spoke again. "I... I am apologizing for everything, Napoleon," he said, his voice surprising him with its steadiness. "You trusted me, yet I violated that trust in the worst way possible. I understand." "Understand?" Napoleon sounded puzzled as he echoed the word. "It's over, Napoleon," Illya said quietly, his eyes fixed on his hands where they were twined together in his lap. "What are you talking about?" Napoleon asked, his voice sharp now. Illya could not bring himself to look up, fearing what he might see reflected in the dark eyes that faced him. There was silence between them for a moment - all that could be heard was the sound of traffic from the street below. "I don't believe this," Napoleon said finally. "You think... you really think that I came here to tell you our partnership is over, don't you?" Illya nodded, a small movement, still without looking up. "Why?" The single word hung between them in the silence. "How can you ask that?" Illya said, his voice cracking with emotion. "After I..." The words ground to a halt. "You've not been yourself, Illya," Napoleon said quietly. "I've been worried about you ever since I got you out of the warehouse. You keep saying that you can't remember what happened, but I don't believe you. What happened to you, Illya?" As he spoke, Napoleon moved out of the chair, coming to crouch before the Russian, his voice still low and calming. His eyes were intent on the huddled form of his partner, his hands coming out tentatively to cover Illya's where they twisted together on his partner's lap. "I lost it all."
Was it the words themselves, or the toneless way in which they were whispered, that sent the greatest chill through Napoleon's soul? In all the time they had known each other, since he had been able to see past the façade that the Russian erected against the world, he had always felt himself privileged to be allowed to see inside, to the man who was the real Illya. Despite the great hardships that Illya had lived through, the things he had experienced since they had become partners, Napoleon had never heard such hopelessness in his friend's voice. He could feel the warmth of Illya's hands as they lay trapped beneath his own, his fingers preventing their frenetic twisting, an outward sign of the Russian's inner turmoil. "Tell me, Illya," he said, leaning closer. Trust me. The words remained unspoken but what need did he have to say them anyway? Napoleon knew that he trusted Illya, as surely as he knew that the sun rose in the east - saying the words would not make that fact more true. But did Illya trust him enough? "I was dying," Illya began, hesitantly, his words quiet enough that Napoleon was glad he was crouched so near. "And I was afraid." "Afraid?" Napoleon echoed, trying to stop the surprise he felt from escaping into his voice. Illya afraid? Those were two words he had never considered together. The Russian was a stalwart companion, following Napoleon into the most bizarre and dangerous situations without a second thought, rescuing his partner from certain death over and over again. And this time he had been afraid? "What were you afraid of, Illya?" Napoleon prompted, feeling a guilty fascination with what could wreak such damage on his courageous partner. After all, none of what Illya had experienced was new to him, Napoleon realized. Not the torture, the pain, none of it. Yet something had happened to the Russian which had shaken him to the core. It had changed him, causing him to leap to a conclusion which had almost torn their partnership to shreds. He waited, his eyes intent on Illya's bowed head, hands still clasped over Illya's - he would wait as long as it took for his friend to speak.
It had taken all the strength he had just to admit his fear. Even as Illya sat there, head bowed, he could feel the strength in Napoleon's hands where they encompassed his own, their warmth trickling through him, melting the ice that had formed around his heart over the past days. He had come up to his apartment expecting to be told that Napoleon no longer wanted to be his partner, that his own ill-judged action had driven a wedge between them that could not be remedied. And Napoleon had stunned him with his kindness, his acceptance, both gifts unlooked for. How had he ever come to be so lucky? It was more than he deserved, more even than he dared to hope for. Even the patience that Napoleon was showing now, his willingness to wait on Illya's ability to speak, told volumes about the man he was proud to call his friend. He did not deserve such loyalty - he had never deserved it. "I was alone," Illya said finally, his words falling into the stillness that reigned in his tiny apartment like the specks of dust that floated in the autumn sunlight streaming through the nearby window. He marvelled at the ordinariness of the words. Afraid. Alone. Words so simple, yet they held such a universe of experience, standing as they did mere symbols for the potent emotions locked behind them. Just sounds in a particular order, that was all they were. How could he make Napoleon understand? "You've been alone before," Napoleon prompted quietly. "Not like this," Illya blurted out. "Never like this!" As he jerked slightly with the vehemence of his words, the last of which erupted out of him so loudly that he startled even himself, Illya felt one of Napoleon's hands move, travelling upwards to rest on his shoulder. The sheer warmth of the American's hand seemed to burn through the fabric of his turtleneck, sending filaments of heat through Illya's body. The sudden warmth made Illya shudder slightly, embarrassed that Napoleon's touch alone was enough to make him re-experience every emotion he had ever felt in the compass of a heartbeat. It was comforting and alarming, all at once - it sent a strength through Illya, a silent encouragement to continue speaking. "All I could think of," Illya said, "was that I was going to die there. Alone."
"Oh Illya," Napoleon said, the words nothing more than an exhalation of breath as he tried to get his mind round the Russian's admission. It shocked him, more than he liked to consider - Illya had always seemed so self-contained, resilient, and all along he had been carrying this fear inside him like a cancer. How could he not have seen it before? His partner had lived through some of the worst things that one human being could do to another and though he'd always been a survivor, it was only to be expected that one day he would reach his breaking point. Even the most resilient spirit could only take so much. Napoleon cursed himself for his thoughtlessness. He had always relied so much on Illya, trusted him so implicitly to handle whatever situation Thrush threw at them - had he ever considered that his partner was a human being, with all the inherent frailty that implied? He'd treated Illya more like some kind of robot, the ever-faithful sidekick, always ready to leap into the fray. He'd never thought that anything life threw at the stoic Russian could actually harm him! How wrong he'd been. This time, the resilient Russian had not rolled with the punches - this time they had nearly destroyed him. "I'm so sorry," Napoleon said, feeling the beginning of tears pricking at his eyes as he contemplated his part in this whole nasty affair. The futility of the words tore at him, even as they passed his lips. "I don't want your pity," Illya snapped, looking up, his eyes glacial. "What?" "I said..." "I know what you said," Napoleon replied, as he felt Illya's body stiffen under the hand still resting on the Russian's shoulder. "It's not pity, Illya. Don't you know me better than that?" "I'm not really sure I know anything any more," Illya said, his tone as cold as the frosty blue of his eyes. "I am," Napoleon said, still gazing intently at the Russian. "And I'm sorry. I should have known, should have done something." "Ah, the great Napoleon Solo," Illya said scornfully. "A solution for everything." Illya struggled up from where he'd been sitting as he spoke, brushing off Napoleon's hands. He sent Napoleon scrambling backwards as he rose from the chair, his only intention to escape what he feared the most. He'd made himself vulnerable and his partner's reaction had been to pity him, to diminish the reality of his fears. The look on Napoleon's face stopped him in mid-sentence - the look of guilty desire there was unmistakable. Illya had seen that look before, he'd faced it so many times in the bathroom mirror when he had barely damped down his feelings for his partner that it was familiar to him now. As if he realized that his face gave him away, Napoleon turned, crossing to the window. He stood there silently, his back ramrod straight, seemingly contemplating the traffic passing below. "Napoleon?" Illya said, concern chasing away the cold fury he had felt before. He'd been angry, despising the pity that the American had offered, the tears he had seen threatening at the edge of the chocolate brown eyes that had gazed so intently at him. But this was something different, something new that he could not categorize. Try as he might, Illya could not bear to use the American's pain to drive him away, to destroy their partnership. He couldn't bear to be alone. He knew that now, with the greatest certainty he had ever felt. If he were alone again, the ice would come and he would be swept away. Even death would be better than that living hell - seeing life, but not participating, too frozen by his own fears to even try. He knew now that Napoleon blamed himself somehow for what happened, though he couldn't have been responsible. How could he? Illya was an adult, he had chosen this way of life, knowing its dangers, he forged his own path through life. And now, like an adult, he had to choose his next step on that path, knowing that on either side lay the coldness he had lived with up till now. "It's not your fault, Napoleon," Illya said tentatively, his eyes locked on his partner's back. Napoleon was silhouetted against the window, the bright autumn sunlight creating a nimbus round him as he stood there, silent. Even when Illya spoke, he did not move. Illya sighed to himself, sending up a silent prayer to the god he'd believed in as a child before he crossed the room, coming to stand just behind Napoleon's left shoulder. An almost imperceptible stiffening of his partner's stance was the only indication that his partner knew he was there. Taking a deep breath, Illya reached a hand out, placing it gently on Napoleon's shoulder, an echo of the touch his partner had bestowed on him what seemed like a lifetime ago. "I... I should have known," Napoleon said once more, his voice cracking slightly as he spoke. "Known what?" "I'm so sorry," Napoleon said again, without looking round. "I guess I always thought nothing could harm you, Illya. You always seemed so..." His voice faltered as he searched for the word. "Invulnerable," he said finally. Illya shook his head, smiling despite himself at the image that word created in his mind. He was as far from being invulnerable as anyone he could think of - some days, he felt so fragile that he feared he would shatter at a word, let alone a touch. But this was his own creation. The myth that was Illya Kuryakin. Self-sufficient, resilient, invulnerable. And always alone.
How could he have been so wrong? Napoleon had prided himself that he knew Illya like no-one else alive, that the Russian had opened a gate in the high wall that he had erected around himself, granting him entrance to a land few knew existed. And he'd been a fool. He'd been closer to Illya than anyone else, but even then he'd not seen the reality of the man he called his partner. Like everyone else in U.N.C.L.E., Napoleon Solo had bought into the image that Illya projected for the world - he'd believed the protective lies that Illya spun around himself, ignoring or overlooking the things he could not bear to see within him. He'd always wanted Illya to be perfect, he knew that now. Even flawed as the Russian was, the coldness that was there at his heart kept him perfectly preserved, undamaged by the realities of life. Just knowing that Illya felt the same emotions he did made Napoleon feel as though his world had been shaken. It was as though someone had come along and told him that the world was really flat, that all the evidence to the contrary was just supposition, and now he could know the truth. It frightened him.
"Napoleon, it's not your fault," Illya began again, his voice quiet yet carrying in the silence of his apartment. So little space separated the two men that it seemed to him that the merest whisper could carry his words to his partner. But could Napoleon hear them? As he spoke, Napoleon glanced round at him, his eyes falling first on Illya's hand which still rested on his shoulder, then travelled up to look into Illya's eyes. The emotions so openly displayed in those chocolate depths surprised the Russian, stunning him for a moment, and Napoleon seemed to take his sudden intake of breath as some kind of dismissal, as he turned to look out of the window again. "How can it not be my fault, Illya?" Napoleon asked. "You're my partner, that makes your welfare my responsibility." "I'm old enough to look after myself," Illya replied, feeling annoyance at the proprietary tone that often seemed to appear in Napoleon's voice when he spoke of partnership. "I've done that for a while now, remember." "What is so wrong with the idea that I might want to protect you?" Napoleon snapped, turning suddenly away from the window. "Why do you always bristle like this at the idea that you can trust me?" "I..." "I trust you, Illya," Napoleon continued, seemingly heedless of the stunned expression on his partner's face, or his abortive attempts to speak. "I've trusted you implicitly for so long now that it seems like second nature to me, relying on you to rescue me time and time again, but it's different for you, isn't it?" As he spoke, Napoleon advanced across the carpet, driving the helpless Russian before him across the small room. Illya was barely aware of where his feet were treading, all his attention being focussed on the light that was there in his partner's eyes, the slightly desperate expression that shone there for anyone to see. They had reached the door in a few short strides, and Illya found his back against the wood, his eyes darting round the room, his mind racing in its desperate search for a way to escape this moment. "Do you trust me, Illya?" Napoleon purred, his hands coming to rest on the wood to either side of Illya's head. His face was close now, his breath warm on Illya's cheek as he leaned forward, pausing again when their faces were a matter of inches apart. Their eyes locked, and it was as if the last puzzle piece had fallen into place. They stood like that for what felt like the longest moment that Illya had ever experienced, and it was a long time before the Russian realized that he was holding his breath. He had stopped looking for an escape route, but felt as though he were poised on the edge of a precipice - the slightest breath of wind would send him spiralling down to destruction. "Always." With that single word, Illya moved at last, his hand coming up from his side to wrap itself in the hair at the back of Napoleon's head, pulling the American forward into a scorching kiss. Illya knew he had always been drawn to his partner, like a moth to a flame, from the very beginning - the thought of his impending incineration only filled him with a sense of elation.
The look in Illya's eyes had been enough to send Napoleon over the edge, his heart pounding as if he'd run a marathon - the kiss itself was more than he'd ever hoped for, even in his most elaborate fantasies. If he'd not been so angry, Napoleon knew he'd never have allowed himself to be so close to Illya. Even as he'd harried the Russian across his tiny apartment, a part of him knew that cornering Illya was not a good idea, that his partner's sense of self-protection, that very sense which had kept him alive for so long, could kick in at any time. The result could be disastrous for their friendship, the final thing that tore them apart. And then, before either of them realized it, they were at the apartment door. He could see the slight movements of Illya's eyes, as, even trapped against the wood, his partner's body impossibly close, Illya still sought some escape route. This was the moment that Napoleon had dreamed about for so long and he knew that it would never come again. Should he choose to step away now, to allow Illya to escape from him, Illya might never stop running - he'd retreat behind the strongest wall he could build and never emerge. "Do you trust me, Illya?" Napoleon heard himself say, his body stiffening as he waited for the answer that could destroy him. Long seconds passed, their eyes locked together as Illya seemed to come to some decision deep inside. His eyes were not cold now, as they had been in Napoleon's office, fire burned in their depths. All the fire that the American knew to be long-buried in Illya was shining through, all the courage and strength of character that Napoleon had begun by admiring and then come to love. "Always," Illya replied finally, the word husky with emotion, pulling Napoleon towards him for a searing kiss, a kiss which stole the very thoughts from the American's mind. All he knew was that he had taken his chance, gambled his life and future, and the wager had come off.
A high-pitched beeping sound brought the two men back to reality - after a long moment, they separated, recognizing the summons of an U.N.C.L.E. communicator. Reluctantly, Napoleon stepped back slightly, his eyes still on Illya's mouth, watching fascinated as Illya's tongue flicked out to wet his lower lip, even as Napoleon's hand was reaching inside his jacket for the offending item. "Solo here." "Mr. Solo," Waverly's voice grated through the device. "Is Mr. Kuryakin there with you?" The innocuous question, so ironic considering what the summons had interrupted, made Napoleon grin slightly and he noted an answering blush beginning on Illya's face. "I'm here, sir," Illya replied quietly, refusing to look his partner in the eye. "Well, gentlemen, it seems that Mr. Kuryakin's plan has worked," Waverly said. "We have our mole. As Chief Enforcement Agent, Mr. Solo, you should lead the interrogation." "On my way, sir," Solo replied, stifling a sigh of frustration at the unspoken summons. "Solo out." He'd never been so reluctant before to answer the call of duty. As he put the communicator away, Napoleon watched Illya slide out from between him and the door, his face unreadable, his eyes looking anywhere but at his partner. "Illya," Napoleon began, "I..." "We should go," Illya said quietly, gathering up his jacket. "We?" "It was my plan, Napoleon," Illya said quietly. "Did you think I was going to let you take all the credit?" As he spoke, Illya glanced across at where Napoleon was still standing, one hand still pressed against the door, as if it would fall into the room if he were not there. Their eyes met again, and this time Napoleon was heartened by what he saw there. No coldness, no regret, just an element of promise.
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Concluded in Part 4... | |