Refractory Period	  Refractory Period by Meris  
 

When Napoleon slid noiselessly around the bend in the corridor, he hadn't
expected to see himself in a mirror. Then he realized it couldn't be: his
own head wasn't thrown back with eyes closed, his shirt and jacket weren't
hanging open, his belt wasn't carelessly dangling half-unthreaded from its
loops. 

And his partner was not leaning hot against his exposed parts, hands busy
inside Napoleon's loosened pants. 

It wasn't him whispering hoarse endearments as he was worked by hands that
didn't need to look at what they were doing, hands that wrapped and pulled
and grasped, caressing in quick, hard movements even as Illya's mouth
moved familiarly, heatedly, against his neck. 

The quick, hot flush of shock ran through him and stopped him in his
silent advance, leaving him gaping at the unexpected figures, unable for
the moment to absorb more than the simple, primal movements taking place
in front of him. A groan arose from one of the two, he couldn't tell from
whom, and it triggered a wave of sympathetic arousal which he ignored
until he could figure out what was going on. Besides the obvious. 

Illya's back was to him, and the man he was making love to leaned in turn
against the wall, allowing Napoleon to see his face clearly. There was
blurred familiarity in the outline of the head tilted blindly up against
the wall, and Napoleon's blooming embarrassment was swamped with a surge
of mingled disbelief and anger and his brain started ticking over again. 

That's why he'd thought it was a mirror. The head was dark, the chin broad
and cleft, cheekbones a little higher and more prominent, and there was no
mole. But otherwise, it was like looking into a photograph where the
camera had jerked as the shutter snapped: he recognized himself as if
through a filter. And as his gaze fell again on the other man leaning
against the bad reproduction of himself, the anger leapt into unreasoning
rage: Illya, his Illya, his stiff-necked, polite partner, was replying
just as hoarsely, passion unmistakable in the broken syllables, as that
bad imitation laid disrespectful, sacrilegious, pleasure-giving hands on
Napoleon's friend and partner. 

This was not what he'd expected when he'd followed Illya as he slipped out
of the smoky main room three minutes ago. When Illya had risen casually
from the small table in the jazz club after the waiter had brought him a
drink and a note. Napoleon had seen his partner carelessly flick open the
note and scan it, had watched Illya stiffen, read it more carefully,
extend his hand without looking, capture his glass, and drain the
contents. Had watched as the eyebrows arched over the suddenly sparking
grey-blue eyes. Had seen the half-shudder shiver through his partner, a
movement familiar to him from numerous torture sessions, made strange now
by the odd smile and the slightly catlike motion of his shoulders, before
he relaxed and sat back nonchalantly for a second, only to shrug and stand
up, pushing his way between the crowded little tables. Napoleon had
counted to ten slowly, then he stood up from his own little table hidden
in the corner and had followed. 

He'd been delayed a little in his wending pursuit: people littered the
hallway, waiting for their turn at one of two loos at the end of a
corridor, and he'd almost lost the slim silhouette as it threaded its way
surely down the hallway and out the back door. 

Napoleon had hung back then, aware that Illya would detect anyone
following him this closely. By the time he emerged into the tiny cobbled
courtyard, he'd lost sight of his partner. 

The thin puddles of frozen water were no help; they lay between the stones
and had apparently been disturbed by many people. There was nothing to
indicate which of the three doors giving onto the courtyard Illya had
chosen. They all stood ajar, hanging dispiritedly from their hinges. 

Napoleon chose one at random, trusting to his luck, walking as softly as
he could down the grimy passageway. There was no other sound, and
occasionally his shoes crunched on something unidentifiable on the
pavement. He stopped. If Illya had come this way, he would have heard
this. This time his luck had let him down. 

He made his way back out and stood irresolutely before the two doors.
Might as well try the one on the right. The hinges groaned as he tried to
draw it open and he let go immediately. Too noisy. 

That left only the door on the left. He pulled at it and it swung open
silently. Napoleon paused before entering and ran a finger over the
hinges. Oiled; he'd have to remember that for future usehe should have
checked them all for recent oiling, since he'd heard nothing to indicate
which door Illya had taken. Right now it had cost him only time, whereas
it could have cost him his life. Still could cost him his life. 

This corridor was deserted, its paint under the single dim bulb showing
forlornly tattered and dingy. Napoleon listened for his partner's
footsteps, heard a faint scrabbling ahead, and followed, ghosting down the
corridor, gun drawn now and held high. 

He'd expected to find Illya in trouble, under threat. Instead, he'd found
him engaged in mutual self-gratification with some bastard who let himself
be felt up in hallways. So deeply involved that he wasn't aware of
Napoleon's presence behind him, hidden in the shadows, fingers clutched
white around the stock of his Special. 

He had thought himself prepared for any eventuality, in the state of
attentive readiness that could react to anything out of the ordinary with
lightning reflexesbut this had caught him flat-footed. 

Illya, of all people... 

Why hadn't he known? 

And who was his bad copy? 

Napoleon faded back, placing his feet carefully, drawing on all his
experience to move silently in the passageway, until he reached a spot
where he could keep an eye on the passageway and an ear on the encounter
still going on around the corner. Until he knew what was going on, he'd
guard his partner's back. The way a partner should. He settled to watch,
alert to sound or movement, unaware of the snarl on his face. 

 

Two months ago... 

Standing in the disco, watching Napoleon and the rest dance, Illya found
himself engulfed by an enormous wave of longing for his days in Paris,
where the courtship rituals were both more staid and more wild, where he'd
discovered friendshipand love. Of several kinds. 

As the disco beat pounded around him, he watched Napoleon gyrating in his
suit, looking both impossibly young for the sophisticated agent Illya knew
he was, and oddly out of place. The unrelenting beat was hypnotic and
Illya felt his heart start to beat in the same pattern: LUB-lub-dub,
LUB-lub-dub. He remembered the last time that had happened, posted an
imaginary sentry against strangers approaching, and let the beat carry him
back to a different time, a different wildness of music and bodies. 

As he watched and drifted, Napoleon's features blurred, shifted under the
flashing light and shadow. The driving beat changed to a more syncopated
rhythm, the room became vast, echoing, with raw lights shining on a
surging crowd of students dressed in outlandish costumes, and in the
forefront of their dancing ranks, Illya saw Jean-Michel, his arm around
Claude. They had paused in their dance and were both looking at him with
that sultry challenge that had exploded into the most erotic exploration
he'd ever experienced, at the last Bal des Etudiants before he'd
graduated. 

 

Three years ago... 

He'd been free of any surveillance that evening, had planned for it for a
long time, having arranged for his keeper to meet someone who would keep
him occupied. Carrying his usual shabby knapsack, he'd ducked into one of
the public men's rooms and quickly changed into his costume. The friar's
robe would keep him warm and its hood would help disguise him in case he
hadn't quite given all his watchers the slip. 

He'd been working toward this moment ever since Claude had told him that
the Bal des Beaux-Arts was still held. When he'd first heard that he would
be sent on to the Sorbonne for his second doctorate, he had of course
researched the school and the city, not quite daring to believe that he
would be in the famous capital of learning and decadence. He'd held out
very little hope of living like an actual student, having been kept on a
very short leash in Cambridge. 

But the leash was lax, here. He wasn't even living in the crammed common
house, and the surveillance was minimal, as far as he could tell. As long
as he didn't try too often, he could arrange brief periods where he was
unwatched, unsupervised. Free to live like any other poor Parisian
student. 

"You mean the Ecole de Beaux-Arts still holds the Bal des Etudiants?"
Illya asked. 

"Of course!" Claude was shocked. "You mean you didn't know?" 

Illya shrugged and kept on cutting up the carrots for the stew Claude was
making on the hot plate. 

"It was something I had read about. I never expected it to still happen." 

"Well, then, you must go! You must come with us! All we have to do is get
you a costume." Claude swept his carrot pieces into the pot and put three
potatoes in front of him. 

"Of course, you must come," Jean-Michel added from the depths of the
shabby armchair he was studying in. "You will enjoy it." 

"What kind of costume?" Illya asked. "Have you gone before?" 

"Every year for three years," Jean-Michel answered promptly. "And it
varies. Everyone goes in costume, the more outrageous the better. And the
hangovers can be stupendous!" 

"Do you remember when Anouilh came as an artist's model?" Claude's smile
was wicked. 

"Oh, yes!" Jean-Michel threw his book aside. "That was a Bal to look back
on." He let his head fall back in reverie and licked his lips. 

"What was so special about an artist's model?" Illya asked. He gave up the
potatoes and accepted the handful of green beans to pick and snap. 

Both Claude and Jean-Michel laughed out loud. 

"It was the scandal of the hour," Claude started. 

"There's always a scandal of the hour," Jean-Michel butted in. 

Illya looked from one to the other, smiling. The give and take surrounded
him with comfortable familiarity. They had taken to spending time with
each other in the evenings, even after going out with other students,
gravitating back to Claude's or Illya's little rooms, which were in the
same pension, two floors apart. Less often, they would go to Jean-Michel's
flat, which was not as private since he shared it with two other
roommates. 

"And this scandal was?" he asked. 

"Two of the professeurs were competing for the same model for the drawing
from life class. Anouilh had declared that she was sick of them both." 

"Bon Dieu, she was beautiful, though," Jean-Michel sighed. 

"Yes, she was," Claude agreed. "Anyway, she had taken up with a third
professeur and on the evening of the Bal, she showed up dressed only in
paint. It was fantastical! You couldn't tell until she moved her legs
apart that she was nude. And of course by the end of the evening, she was
all smeared." 

"Many people had a hand in that." Jean-Michel grinned like a wolf, and
Claude chuckled. 

"But there's always something like that going on," she added. "The Bal is
famous. Who will you come as?" 

"I should not go at all," Illya pointed out. 

"Party pooper! You'll never get to go again, unless they do this in
Russia." 

"But they do not do this in Russia." 

"So you should go now. Illya," Claude dimpled and blinked her eyelashes at
him, "you know you want to, and we are going, so you should go. Then you
can carry the memory back to Russia with you when you have your degree." 

"Flirting with me will get you nothing," Illya said, "except a handful of
green beans." He passed the handful over and she trapped his hand in hers.


"But it's something you should do. Please?" This time the look was a
request, without the outrageous flirting, and Illya weakened, tempted
beyond belief. 

"I should not..." he began. 

"Then you will! Chouette!" She clapped her hands, causing an explosion of
green beans. "Merde! You'd think I'd remember I was holding on to
something!" 

"...but I will need a costume that conceals, not reveals." 

"Well, Russia is famous for its monks. Why don't you just come as
Rasputin?" Jean-Michel asked. 

"A little too noticeable. But who sees the wandering friar?" 

And easily as that, the Bal and its consequences were set into motion. 

The friar's robe was easily come by, but Claude nearly drove them to
distraction until she made a choice. Then she'd become silent, and she and
Jean-Michel would exchange glances fraught with mischief when Illya asked
what they would wear. He stopped asking after two tries, although he tried
to find out indirectly, checking her room for clues when he came upstairs
to visit, but finding nothing. 

Sometimes he would feel their eyes on him and, looking up, would surprise
another look under the teasing fun. Something more speculative, which
would vanish when they saw he was looking. 

So now he was moving toward the huge salon where it was taking place, the
noise already at an enormous level. He didn't know where he was going to
meet them. Claude had simply said, "We'll find you. Don't worry," and he'd
been forced to leave it at that. 

People in odd and wonderful costumes were flowing past him and he
quickened his step, starting to be caught up in the noise and confusion,
the hubbub of voices. There was a feeling of wildness in the air. A group
of gypsies wandered past, bare feet slapping the ground, the girls
laughing unrestrainedly and shaking their pale bare shoulders, offering to
read fortunes for silver across their palms. 

Illya sniffed; someone was smoking the dreadful little clove cigarettes
somewhere nearby. Then it was swirled away, lost as a courtesan and her
courtier tripped by him. He was swept up in a crowd hurrying from behind
and carried off his feet through the door, then set down in an eddy as the
tide of people washed away again. 

Inside, the salle was enormous, decorations strung like jungle vines,
music blaring at tremendous volume. He saw a Tarzan and Jane shimmy past
him, shoulders moving in rhythm, heads close together, then they were
swallowed up in the throng of dancers. 

"Hallo, who are you? Can't have anyone hiding out here, can we?" A hand
snatched at Illya's hood, pulling it down, and he whipped round, eyes
wide, ready for combat, only to find a drunken musketeer grinning
foolishly at him. 

"Ohé, monsieur le moine! Bless us, Brother, for we are sinning against
everything tonight!" The musketeer fell to his knees. Illya bemusedly made
the sign of cross over the musketeer's lolling head, and the drunken man
seized his hand and kissed it. "Long life to you, Brother!" 

No sooner had the musketeer pushed himself to his feet and staggered off
than another costumed fool presented himself. Illya signed until his arm
was tired, then he pulled his hood back up and said, "Go and sin no more,
my children!" His audience took this with a roar of laughter and
dispersed. 

When his arm was seized yet again, he rolled his eyes and turned
disgustedly around, only to stop dead in his tracks. Claude had her hand
out, just touching himbut a transformed Claude, dressed in sleek black
velvet that was cut out here and there so that it suggested a jungle cat
in harness, her feet in the highest of black heels, and a leash around her
neck. The leash was held by Jean-Michel, but an unfamiliar Jean-Michel: he
was clad only in a dun-colored loincloth, his body daubed with ochre and
yellow paint, dark hair, stiff with yellow paint, flaring like a mane
around his head. Around his neck, a leash, held by Claude. 

They stared at Illya like predators, and he stared back, aware of the
island of quiet that surrounded them in the middle of chaos. His heart
slammed within him, and his blood hummed under its propulsion, making his
extremities tingle, but he kept his eyes fixed on theirs, absurdly
convinced that if he looked away, he was doomed. 

Moving with exquisite slowness, Claude gathered both leashes into her hand
and then took Jean-Michel's hand and placed his on hers. 

Then she extended their joined hands to Illya, offering him the leashes
that were now strained tight upon their necks. 

The battering of his heart made his hands shake where they were clenched
in the robe's front pocket. Don't take them, and suffer embarrassment that
would probably ruin their friendship. This was too intense to be turned
off later as a joke. 

Take the thin pieces of leather, and become part ofwhat? Part of
something. He couldn't conceive of either of them wanting to hurt him, and
they were too bright to not have thought this out. 

And they were his friends. 

He reached out and took the leashes. 

The bubble burst, the silence around them collapsing as if it had never
been. Claude and Jean-Michel pulled him into their embrace, and the three
of them danced together to the insane volume of music, drank together, and
went home together in the wee hours of the morning. 

In the years following, Illya could never remember the details of the rest
of that first night clearly. He wondered if excitement had blurred his
perception at the time or if it was the rough red wine Claude favored and
that they all drank too much of. 

He remembered odd snatches of vision caught in lamplight and moonlight,
patterns of heat and cold across his body, fingers and lips in old and new
places. Remembered with utmost clarity the first time he ran his hands
over Jean-Michel's body and felt the large hands running over his at the
same time. 

There were blank spots, jumps in the memory track. He remembered Claude
standing with one piece of her cat harness left on, trying to tug off the
stubborn high heel without breaking a toe, and he'd knelt and kissed her
foot, leaving a trail of moist sloppy kisses up her ankle and leg. Then
somehow she was in his lap, claiming his mouth with her own, and
Jean-Michel was running a finger around Illya's nipples. 

He did remember very clearly the passionate heat that flared and burned
all that night. Still remembered the incredible eroticism of Claude's
touches on Jean-Michel's body, his own tentative attempts at emulation,
their willingness to play tutor. Remembered the quiet times when holding
and kissing was everything, and silky, luscious words were whispered,
though he'd forgotten what they were. He only remembered that they were
gentle words of love and affection, and they'd roused a hunger in him for
more. 

And he remembered with profound impact the last exchange between him and
them, as they lay on the bedding spread on the floor, Claude massaging
Jean-Michel's cock with the fingers of one hand and her lips, her other
hand busy between her legs, while Jean-Michel suckled Illya's cock with
powerful and well-regulated suction. 

"We have to finish," Illya had gasped. "I must go homehooh" It was lost in
the throes of an orgasm that had ripped itself out of his balls and his
spine and he'd toppled, caught by Jean-Michel's arm and eased down to the
warm woollen floor. 

"Don't worry about going home," Jean-Michel had said. "You are home. We
love you." 

Claude had raised her head, hands still occupied. "We do love you, Illya.
You don't have to worry about where you are. You will always be home with
us." She reapplied herself to her task, running her lips around the
cockhead, and Jean-Michel roared and bucked under her, slipping out of her
mouth, even as her other hand spasmed between her thighs and she went
rigid. 

Jean-Michel roared again, his hand flying down to his abandoned cock. He
pumped twice, hard, and his entire body arched, pulsing in terrific
bursts, then relaxed all at once. 

As one, Illya and Claude both struggled up on one elbow and looked down.
Jean-Michel sprawled between them, deflated cock swimming in a skin-locked
sea of semen, unconscious. 

"Jouir, c'est mourir un peu. We can wash tomorrow," Claude chuckled
sleepily and pulled the sheet up over them all, already tucking herself
back down, curling herself into a ball against Jean-Michel's side. 

Illya let himself fall back onto the pillow, boneless with fatigue. He
could hear Claude snuffle a little as she slipped into sleep. Exhausted,
exalted, he lay on his back, listening to the slow deep breaths coming
from his companions. 

He had never known this kind of oneness. Never known a sexual hunger could
contain such tenderness. Never known it could be more than one-on-one,
more than man/woman. More than what he had been taught in a dozen quick
encounters and one girlfriend. 

His mind played with enlightenment and theories, jumbling them, combining
them, until they all merged in a whirl of background noise, spiraling down
into a contented slumber. 

He'd crept out before dawn the next morning, returning to his room two
floors below. If his watcher noticed, it had never been mentioned. 

 

Two months ago... 

The disco beat intruded on the memories, and Claude and Jean-Michel's
images withdrew into the background of his thoughts as he stared at
Napoleon dancing. Illya felt an ache of loneliness and a desperate want,
fueled by his memories. Any of them... 

 

One year ago... 

It was ridiculous. He was here, in the fabled Land of Golden
Opportunities, where oranges grew on every corner, the streets were paved
in gold, and everyone was a movie starand he was filling out paperwork. 

His guideno, his new partnersaw the small shrug and laughed. "There's
always paperwork; you just have to know how to deal with it. Give me that"
Illya looked up, startled, and saw that Napoleon was holding out his hand.


"I am capable of doing my own paperwork," Illya said matter-of-factly. 

"I'm sure you are, tovarisch, but if you do it at that rate, we'll never
get to dinner before our stakeout." 

Tovarisch? Raising his eyebrows at the unwonted familiarity, Illya handed
him the papers and his pen. Napoleon laid them on the desk and paged
quickly through them, then dashed off a note on the top one, tapped them
till they settled in a flat sheaf, and gestured to Illya to put on his
jacket. 

As they stepped through the sliding door, Illya saw a flirtatious smile
appear on Napoleon's lips and was amused at the transformation. The
chocolate eyes crinkled at the edges and the dark eyebrows moved in an
appreciative arc. "Mitzi," Napoleon drawled and Illya laughed to himself;
the very tone of Napoleon's voice had changed, become velvet and silk.
"Would you please help us out?" 

"What do you want, Napoleon?" The secretary's voice was just as
flirtatious, silken, teasing. Illya cast her a sidelong look; she sounded
like she'd be fun. Mitzi caught it and arched an eyebrow back at him.
Illya smiled slightly, then straightened his face as Napoleon looked at
him. 

As he trailed Napoleon through the building, Illya also catalogued the
secretaries and support staff he was introduced to. It was interesting to
note that almost all the women reacted with the same flirtatious interest
to Napoleon. After the sixth or seventh introduction, Illya started
listening to the tone of what Napoleon was saying rather than the words,
and he was startled to hear, quite clearly, a subtle declaration of
interest postponed only by cruel circumstance. 

As the tenth secretary sighed a little over Napoleon's unwillingness to
name a night, Illya looked at him covertly. When Napoleon made an actual
date with the thirteenth, Illya realized that he was seeing a protective
mechanism: his new partner could apparently no more not flirt than not
breathe, but he'd perfected this routine to manage it. Sensible for a spy.
No connections that couldn't be easily broken, nothing that would disturb
his peace of mind on a mission, and everything to do with relief and
relaxation. 

A sensible thing to do. So on the sixteenth introduction, when the
secretary showed unmistakable signs of interest, Illya decided to take her
up on it. 

"Well, Napoleon, what can you do about it?" Cynthia asked. 

Napoleon said, "Thursday would provide an excellent opportunity." 

"Thursday is very late, Napoleon, almost a whole week," she complained. 

"That's true, Napoleon," Illya said. "You are making a lady wait a long
time for the pleasure of your company." 

"He is, isn't he?" Cynthia tossed Illya an arch look even as Napoleon
said, "But it's the first day off I'll have after the next affair." 

"But I am not bound by that, since Waverly is not yet sending me out on
any affairs," Illya observed innocently. "I could offer myself in
Napoleon's place if you would like to do something tonight. I would just
need a little help selecting a place to eat." He looked at Cynthia
apologetically. "I am not yet familiar with the area." 

"Well, of course you don't. There's a really good Hungarian place near
here! We could walk there!" Cynthia was bubbling. 

"Of course. Shall we go from here? The weather is cool but should be
enjoyable." 

"I'd love to." 

"How about next Thursday for me then, Cynthia?" Napoleon put in, trying to
get back his lost momentum. 

"I'm sorry, Napoleon, that's too far away for me to plan. As a matter of
fact, I should show Mr. Kuryakin" 

"Illya, please." Illya gave her a small smile. This was too easy. 

"I should show Illya some of our map room resources." 

"Well, I can do that, I'm giving him the grand tour anyway." Illya could
tell that Napoleon was still grasping at straws. 

"Nonsense, you're busy. I can show Illya anything he needs to know." She
rose and started talking exclusively to the Russian agent. 

"Our map room is a great convenience and resource. The library...." 

Napoleon watched them go, aware that he'd been out-manoeuvred by his new
partner, not quite sure whether to be piqued or amused. He watched Illya
and Cynthia walk down the hallway, trying to decide, appreciating the back
views. The pencil skirt was a wonderful invention, showcasing an
exceptional pair of legs, but he'd bet that there was strength and
elegance in the compact body under Illya's black suit. 

Even though one of his first acts should be to get Illya into a department
store and find him a decent suit. He narrowed his eyes, estimating the
size, picturing Illya in a better-tailored, well-pressed black suit, which
would hang well from the strong shoulders, covering the narrow hips and
powerful thighs. 

"Briefs or boxers?" he wondered briefly, then roused with a start from his
daydreaming. He checked the corridor before standing up from where he was
still leaning on Cynthia's desk and discreetly adjusting himself. 

That pencil skirt with the single black seam leading down to the high
heels. Very enticing. 

He resolutely put out of his mind the niggling thought that he hadn't
started to get hard until he'd thought of the body under Kuryakin's
clothes. It recurred to him briefly over the next week as he became
accustomed to his partner's presence, as they sparred together, ate
together, went on Illya's first affair. It lingered and was shoved into
the back of his brain with a legion of other bits of information he had
nothing to do with. 

 

"Napoleon." 

The corridor was long and branched weirdly, stone flags leading up and
down off the main corridor and the side avenues became hazy after a few
steps, but he wasn't looking, couldn't look. He was too intent on
following that voice. He knew that voice, heard it beside him daily, but
had never heard it like this. Had never heard it low, roughened, husky,
speaking his name, over and over, slowly, lazily. Napoleon felt his
insides blaze up with unexpected heat at each low-toned call, and he had
to find the voice. There was danger behind it and around it, danger that
had him closing his hand tight on the stock of the Walther. 

He followed the corridor, listening to that voice, that usually clipped
and controlled voice drawling his name, slower, lower, whispering it in
broken syllables over the little moans and gasps, deepened breathing
echoing along the dark hall, echoing inside Napoleon, shaking him to his
core while he felt the muscles of his abdomen tighten in responsive want
and need. Not pain, no pain, just heat and desire. He recognized the
stress and yearning in those sighing breaths that were being drawn faster
now, the urgent muttering that came faster now, now, now, do it. 

Napoleon ran faster and faster along the corridor as the familiar voice
called his name in a high, clarion summons and evocation, a glorious blurt
of sound as Napoleon burst out of the corridor, catching his foot on the
lintel, tripping over it into - 

His bed. 

Napoleon blinked , stunned at the sudden sprawling fall that had ended up
with him face down in his bed, hand half-under the pillow, fingers curled
round the butt of his gun. He was aware of the soft cotton of the pillow
against his cheek, felt his stubble drag on it as he turned his head,
looking around the dark, familiar shapes. His room. It was his bed, in his
room. And there was no dark, lazy voice calling him. Just silence, broken
only by the quick muted tick of the alarm clock. 

He shifted and pleasure shivered through the length of him, wavering like
wandering lightning from his cock, crushed against the mattress, through
the ends of his limbs. He was close, so close, he realized, the gripping
tingle drawing him back into the urgency of his dream. He slipped his hand
blindly under his body, sliding under the waistband of his pyjamas, down
and in, and he held himself hard, the warm skin of his palm surrounding
the hot, hard velvet that throbbed against the bones of his hand. He
rolled over onto his back, eyes closed, gripping himself strongly, his
hand starting to move in short, powerful jerks, thumb scarcely needing to
travel round the crown. 

He heard an echo of the voice calling his name, and the remembered sound
dried his mouth as he gasped, sent its lure traveling down his spine in a
rush of heat, surging, gathering force as it rolled through his body,
drawing every muscle tense behind it, pushing it onward, and it crested in
an awesome explosion through his own tight grasp, smaller waves sending
powerful spasms down his arms and legs in backwash, head thrown back so
far into the pillow he could feel the cotton on his eyelids, hand still
clenched tight, tight, tight, as though it could hold on to that faint
echo, draw it back through sheer strength, before his grip fell open,
exhausted, feeling the blood pulsing through his fingers, slowing into an
echo of its spiraling urgency... 

He breathed out a sigh of replete exhaustion, falling into lassitude,
tumbling quickly into slumber, hearing somewhere a voice calling his name
softly, so far away, so sadly he nearly awoke again, then sleep claimed
him. 

 

Present day... 

The plane ride had been atrocious and the ride from the airport even more
so, the bus taking a long time to groan its way into the city. Alighting
from it, making his way over to the mtro entrance, Illya took a deep,
satisfying breath of an air that held memory and promise. Now he made his
slow way down the familiar little streets, one hand deep in his pocket,
the other holding the umbrella against the cold winter drizzle. He'd left
his luggage in the little pension he remembered from long ago; there had
been a deep satisfaction when he had stepped off the bus and found its
known worn door still facing stolidly out onto the street, the discreet
hand-lettered sign, "Chambres à louer", still tucked into the corner of a
panel, shielded by a sheet of plastic now. 

When he had entered, the tiny lady with the broom had looked up and
gasped, "Monsieur Kuryakin! Bon dieu d'un bon dieu!" and he had found his
hands captured in hers, as she stammered welcome. "Bon soir, Mme. Kolly,"
he said, finally able to break into her breathless spate. "Do you still
have a room for me?" His voice lilted up and she smiled, accepting his
teasing. 

"Bien sûr! Of course! Even if I had to move someone else!" She struck a
dramatic pose with the broom, as if sweeping some unlucky tenant out, and
Illya joined in the soft laughter that broke from her. 

"You should have let me knowI would have been able to give you your old
room back. How long can you stay this time? Are you still being subsidized
by the company that sent you for your doctorate? A single, and the
bathroom is still down the hallit's the little one on the 5th floor, you
rememberthe window still sticks but if you stand on the chair you can see
the tops of the monuments. You'll need to pay a week in advance15 francs a
day or 85 for the weekand if you stay after that, eh bien, on s'arrangera
" 

She stood back from him and her eyes narrowed. "But you are not a student
any more, you work for a real company. Life must be treating you very
well. Maybe I will charge you the full amount." At Illya's surprised look,
she explained readily enough. "You have a real suitcase now, not the
cardboard thing you had before. Your shoes show signs of wear but aren't
ruined. And your clothes are first-hand, not second." 

Illya swallowed the laugh that welled up strongly from within. The
concierge had married many of the quintessential traits of all good French
hotelkeeperssharp with money, and a terror when the rent was due, able to
unerringly nose out deadbeatsto an otherwise grandmotherly disposition and
a true Gallic faith that things would fall into line somehow. "On
s'arrangera..." Anything could be managed somehow. She never gave loans or
advanced credit, even to the most impecunious of her boarders, but her
practical advice on where to shop and what to buy to keep oneself fed and
clothed on very little had helped numerous students keep body and soul
together during the long school year on what was left over after her rent
was paid. 

Mme. KollyIllya never discovered whether there had ever been a Monsieur
Kollyhad taken him under her wing after he had repaired a shutter's hinges
for her and they had arranged a barter system whereby Illya would fix
something mechanical and she would rebate a small part of the rent. It had
helped stretch his budget, but he had conceived a true fondness for the
bantam-weight landlady, with her good humor and fierce grasp of finances. 

He would report good bargains he had found in the market to her, and she
would invite him to take coffee with her in the late morning, when she
would have finished cleaning and shopping, in what he still thought of as
elevenses. It was all very correct: the coffee was in a formal coffee
service, a little battered, but old, that she had inherited from her
mother. There was always some kind of cake, of which they each would have
a thin slice, and one cup of coffee, strong enough to dissolve the spoon,
sugared. A formal ritual, and one that had created a background order in
his days, when it sometimes furnished breakfast and lunch as he struggled
to finish his chores and his work before running to his classes. 

Now he wrangled with her out of old habit, protesting the amount, not
succeeding in knocking it down by so much as a centime, signed the
register, and stepped lightly up the stairs, soon finding himself on the
landing facing the well-used door that had "50" painted on it. He took a
deep breath, inserted the heavy key, gave it a turn, and entered the
small, familiar room on the 5th floor. 

He set down his suitcase, seeing the familiar dresser, and ran his hand
over it, feeling the dents and initials and scratches he had known under
the coat of paint. This had been Claude's room and he and she and
Jean-Michel had spent many evenings crammed in it with as many other
students as could find place to sit or stand, arguing philosophy and
politics, as all students did, lost in a cloud of stinging cigarette
smoke, studying in groups, drinking the acrid red wine that was cheap and
plentiful. The spark and flare of clever, sometimes brilliant minds had
been a very attractive light. 

He sat down on the narrow bed, staring blindly at the shuttered windows,
hearing the hubbub of argument as though they were all there now, fifteen
or twenty of them packed in, with not a sou among them to go to the cafés
where it was warm and they could lean in over their drinks and their
coffees, to expound and expatiate until the cock crowed. 

And there had been the other times, the times when it was just she and
Jean-Michel and him, talking late into the night after the others had left
to go back to their own studies or women or families. Playing with
theories and beliefs, dissecting the universe. Times when they had huddled
together for warmth, arguing hard enough to create plumes of steam in the
freezing room, cocooned in their blankets and extra clothes. Times when
the huddling had turned into lovemaking, warm under the blankets, the soft
worn cotton and hot satiny skin wrapping around intertwined limbs, cold
hands diving for warm crevices, bringing a sudden surprise to urgent
moments, with moonlight stuttering through the closed shutters, picking
out odd features from the darkness... 

Claude's eyes, sparkling in breathless playfulness, the strong knuckles of
Jean-Michel's hand surrounding the rosy cap of Illya's cock, his other
hand disappearing into the dark near Claude's legs... Claude's tongue, her
glorious, talented tongue, flicking over her teeth before her mouth
disappeared into shadow as she leaned forward and nuzzled Jean-Michel's
neck, her shoulder rubbing against Illya's as he did the same. 

The curve of Jean-Michel's jaw as he threw his head back, sucking in a
breath as they both kissed and nipped at the strong muscles cording under
their efforts, feeling the friction of arm against arm, soft wiry woman
against hard male chests, flat nipple sliding across flat nipple, kissing,
touching, the three of them working at each other until they were all
gasping in violent explosion, moonlight picking out an open mouth, a
shuddering ribcage, a hand clenched tight on the blanket. 

Then they would subside in sweaty, satisfied exhaustion, the moonlight
sliding over the now featureless cotton landscape, three bodies curled
like puppies together under its shelter, rearranging themselves drowsily
before sliding into deeper slumber... 

For that year, they had been closer than brother and sister to him.
Between Mme. Kolly and Claude and Jean-Michel, the pension and his
studies, he had had an unexpected family and a home. And he had had to
leave with no warning, with no forwarding address, starting another new
life, leaving their closeness behind. He didn't even know where they were
now... 

He started, finally aware that he'd been staring like a dummy,
automatically checking the time from the shadows through the shutters. Not
very long, ten minutes; maybe twenty. Illya rose, flipped his suitcase
onto the bed, and put its contents neatly away into the dresser, then
slipped the case under the bed. There was nothing other than clothes.
Nothing to betray his connection with U.N.C.L.E. Everything that could do
that was already secreted on his person. As he looked over the tiny room,
Illya finally acknowledged what he was going to do, what he had intended
to do from the start, what had drawn him back over the Atlantic after the
disappointment and grinding unhappiness of his partnership with Napoleon. 

It was time to track down his friends. He should never have left them in
the first place. 

As he walked down the stairs, he turned over the questions he could ask
Mme. Kolly without seeming to be searching for just two people... 

 

Napoleon emerged from the shabby door two numbers down from the building
Illya had entered. He'd thought of waiting in the lee of a shop, but after
Illya had been inside for half an hour he took another look at the door he
had entered, and an alternate plan had occurred to him. Several of the
doors on this street boasted the same discreet offer of rooms. 

He chose the closest one, and asked for a room that overlooked the street,
haggling just enough to not raise suspicion. Then he hailed a taxi, going
to the train station and picking up his suitcase from the consigne. He
took the opportunity to change some more money and buy some supplies from
the kiosks, then took a second taxi, returned to the little pension, and
settled himself to wait for his partner to enter or leave. 

He seated himself in the single small armchair, wincing a little as it
pinched through its worn covering, evaluating his surroundings with a
practiced eye, then dismissed them as irrelevant. Sitting against the
shutters with the lights out, he was able to see the front doors of most
of the street, including the pension where his friend was. 

He crossed his legs, brushed an imaginary speck of dust from his trousers,
straightened the crease, and finally let himself wonder why he'd come. 

 

Two months ago... 

When Illya had told him off-handedly that he was needed in Paris for
specialty consultation, Napoleon had acknowledged it equally casually.
They were often consulted for their specialized knowledge, and he knew
that Illya had a soft spot for the city he had taken his second advanced
degree in. 

He had noticed that Illya had been distracted recently, and Napoleon
thought the Paris visit might relieve that distraction, get him back on
track and concentrating again. They had too many affairs coming up that
would need their full attention. 

Illya had seemed pleased by the prospect, enough that Napoleon had felt a
little left out as he watched his partner turn slowly from a grouchy
Russian into someone who could be surprised smiling to himself. He seemed
to be counting the days till he left. 

Then Mitzi inadvertently spilled the beans. 

"Well, Napoleon," she said in that seriously flirtatious manner. "Whatever
are you going to do when your partner stays in the city of love? It's hard
enough to coordinate affairs when you're both in one officeit will be
impossible when you're separated by an ocean." 

"What?" Napoleon stared at her from his perch on the edge of her desk.
"Separated?" This made no sense. 

"Of course, we do it whenever you have to work with other offices anyway,
but having you both here makes it easier." 

"Well, you know," he gave her a soulful look. "Whatever we can do to make
your life easier..." 

Mitzi laughed. "Well, it's only if he follows through and makes the
temporary request a permanent one. Heather's betting against it, but
Saundra thinks he might do it after all." 

"And where do you stand on it, Mitzi, my love?" Napoleon gave her one of
his most melting glances, but she just raised her hand and said, "Don't
try it, Napoleon. I never tell where I've put my money and I don't tell
tales out of bed." 

"You know I've been trying to get you to tell tales in it, don't you?" he
murmured, then straightened. "Wait. What do you mean, tell tales out of
bed? Has Illya?" 

He received his answer as she colored, then her eyes fell and she frowned
fiercely. When she spoke, her voice was stiff with consternation. "Don't
you dare say anything, Napoleon Solo! That is my business, and none of
your own! Pry into it, and you can do your own paperwork for the rest of
your life!" 

Illya had been dating Mitzi? Sleeping with Mitzi? Why hadn't Napoleon
known? Unbidden, a picture of his cool Russian with the vivacious woman
formed in his mind, then he hastily clamped down on that thought as he
realized he was visualizing Illya more than modesty warranted, exerting
himself instead to soothe his secretary's ruffled demeanor. 

"You're absolutely right, it's none of my business. You know us spies, we
just have to put two and two together" Napoleon broke off hastily as she
shot him a furious glance "slip of the tongue, I'm sorry. You know we have
to pick up on everything. It's a matter of survival." 

It took several minutes to placate her, and she sat rigidly at her desk as
he left, still angry at herself. 

He retreated to his office, alarmed now. Illya had put in for a temporary
transfer? He'd felt that a distance had opened between them recently, but
he'd thought that they were good enough friends to be able to discuss it.
Why hadn't Illya brought it up? 

And yet when Illya came into his office with a question later that
afternoon, he couldn't bring himself to ask. Instead, he looked over at
the partner he spent most of his time with on the job, was trying to lure
out more often after the job because he enjoyed his company, the dry
humor, even the sarcastic jabs, and couldn't bring himself to ask whether
he'd actually put in for a transfer. 

Illya had sat on the edge of his desk for a moment, scribbling a note to
himself as Napoleon answered his question, then had asked another one, his
pen moving idly as Napoleon explained. Napoleon saw that Illya had
doodled. 

The doodle looked suspiciously like a heart before Illya just as idly
scratched it out, folded the paper and stuck it in his pocket. After he
left, Napoleon sat for a while. He'd been trying to figure out how to
tease Illya into telling him about his temporary request; the heart had
torpedoed his plans. He'd answered Illya's question on reflex, and hoped
it had made sense, while he wrestled with an uncomfortable truth. 

He was afraid to ask Illya about why he was going to Paris. 

Every instinct Napoleon had was screaming at him that something serious
was going on. Nothing concrete. Just feelings about the moodiness he'd
picked up: Illya's distraction, his anticipation, Mitzi's embarrassment.
And now the heart. 

He had no idea why the heart had clinched it, except that Illya was not
given to doodling. Especially not doodling something out of grade school. 

He had to find out. And he couldn't let his partner know. 

Napoleon started making arrangements to visit Paris. A private trip. 

 

Present day... 

A light on the 5th floor flickered more brightly for a moment as a
silhouette moved across the closed shutters, then the light went out. He
knew it was unreasonable, but he was convinced that it was Illya who had
just turned the light out, and was now lying in the dark. 

He rose stiffly and prepared for bed, resigned to the bathroom and shower
down the hall. He set his travel alarm for 6 a.m. Illya was here on
personal business; there was no way his partner was going to get up early
voluntarily. Napoleon would have plenty of time to prepare. 

And of course, the next morning, it was raining. He could see no movement
or light in the room he'd marked as his partner's, but realized that he
might have very little warning if Illya emerged while Napoleon was still
in his own room, so he made a quick breakfast from his cache, and went
downstairs, waiting in the little lobby area as if for a friend, keeping
an eye on the street, grateful he'd at least remembered the little folding
umbrella. 

He hated being rained on. So of course it was raining. 

Water was his downfall, whether it came from above or below or was
gathered in a pool. Napoleon sighed to himself and shifted from one foot
to the other, realizing he'd have to leave or risk being noticeable,
loitering in what was growing to be a steady drizzle. 

He hoped Illya would come out soon. Even as he formed the wish, his
partner stepped out of the door across the street, umbrella up, long tan
coat buttoned and tied, and took a deep open-mouthed breath. He saw Illya
tilt his head back, looking up at the grey clouds, and a wonderful smile
spread across his face. It dazzled and shocked Napoleon with its open
tenderness, an emotion he'd never seen on his thoughtful partner's face.
Then Illya started walking at a slow pace down the street toward the main
thoroughfare. 

Napoleon gave him a 50-yard head start and started following him. 

 

It was raining. 

As Illya left the pension's steps, he breathed deeply, mouth open, drawing
in the cold damp air that was mixed with exhaust, the sharp tang of winter
greenery, the souvlakis being sold from the little window down the street.
This was also part of his memories: somehow rain, even these hard stinging
cold rains of Paris winters, was interwoven in all the complex sense
memories he had carried away from this city. The soft pattering that had
chased him to class, the downpour slashing against the windows in the bus
before the mad dash for the metro steps, the far more gentle mist that
hung over the water the first morning he had sat on a bench near Notre
Dame and had watched the sun come up over the Seine after a rowdy student
party. 

He smiled to himself as he walked along the bank now, a little older,
feeling the remembered heat and wildness discovered during those nights,
now controlled and channeled into more dangerous pursuits. He wondered
idly what Napoleon would have made of his stoic, staid Russian if said
Napoleon had been able to be a fly on the wall during some of his
university days, then he grimaced. That part of his life belonged to
nobody but himself. What was on paper could pass as truth. What was in his
heart lay as its own verity. What was in his memory... 

Illya smiled to himself. 

Napoleon, loitering in the window at Brentano's, saw the smile and a
shiver of shock curled through his chest. That couldn't be his partner;
Illya never looked that...relaxed. Not when coupled with a smile of such
serene lasciviousness that it would have raised the horns on a satyr. 

Napoleon saw the smile return again and again during the day, as Illya
wandered over what seemed like a great deal of Paris. Napoleon couldn't
for the life of him tell whether his partner was indeed sauntering
aimlessly or whether his ambling had any point to it. 

From time to time Illya would stop and look at some doorway, a yard barred
from the casual view, or the river, but drew close to none of the famous
landmarks. He walked, keeping a decent pace in the light drizzle, just
purposefully enough to seem to have a goal, but Napoleon hadn't seen him
interrupt his wandering for more than the time necessary to wait for a
light. Even a little past noon, Illya simply stopped into one of the many
bistros with a stand-up counter and had a quick bite to eat, leaving again
ten minutes later to resume his desultory travels. 

Napoleon would have been far more uncomfortable if he hadn't finally
commandeered a series of taxicabs, telling each he was waiting for a
friend, loitering till he saw where Illya was headed next, then passing
him in the cab and alighting a block or two ahead of him. The method
worked well enough, even if it did convince a number of taxi drivers that
Americans were all crazy. 

He usually had enough warning of a change of direction that he could
direct the cab to catch up and pass his friend. It kept him out of Illya's
view, and it sheltered him from the light rain and the cold. He wondered
idly how Illya could put up with it, then shook his head. Illya could put
up with anything that didn't actively kill him, and he seemed to be
letting memories guide him now; a little damp, chilly weather wouldn't
bother him. 

Once as he alighted, he saw Illya stop and bend down, lowering one hand,
then rise again and put his hand back in his pocket. Napoleon craned to
see, but all he caught sight of was a striped behind under a ragged brown
tail vanishing with dignity around the corner. 

Illya? petting a street cat? He stood for a while, trying to figure it
out, and had to hurry to catch up when he realized Illya was nearly lost
to sight. 

 

Illya rubbed his fingers together, shedding the brindled hairs. The cat
had at first thrown him a venomous glance, then had suffered a single pat
before stalking off. Cats and poets, two things Paris was full ofand they
had been indirectly responsible for setting in motion the events that had
brought him back here. 

 

Three years ago... 

"Excusez-moi, mademoiselle." He'd found a place to sit, finally, in the
big student commons. He had only a half-hour for lunch and had forgotten
to buy anything from the little street market two streets over from his
pension. He'd make do with the unidentifiable ragoût that was the cheapest
thing the cafeteria had to offer and not be so careless again. "Y-a-t-il
une place de libre?" Pointing at the chair, he juggled his tray and its
contents. 

"Ben, oui." A face with short bangs over little glasses turned up and
nodded. When the girl turned back, Illya saw the long black hair sweep
over her shoulder. 

"Merci." He put the tray down carefully but his book slipped off and
crashed onto the small table space left uncovered between them. 

She caught it before it could slide into her own tray, looked at the
title, and glanced back up at him. "Pierre Emmanuel. Not many people read
him anymore." 

"It's for a class." That got him a dry look. 

"Either that, or you are the world's most obscure literary critic." 

Illya felt his eyebrows climb. "I didn't think he was that unknown." 

Her head shook and she flashed a little grin. "He is." 

"Have you taken the class already?" Illya dug in. He only had fifteen
minutes left; he'd have to eat and run, no matter how charming his
neighbor - 

"Bon Dieu!" The first two forkfuls had been shoveled in. The third went
slower, and he held the fourth up for inspection, head cocked. It couldn't
be... 

"It's terrible, isn't it?" She was glancing sideways, grinning more
widely. 

He looked closer at the stringy meat, sniffed, licked his lips. He could
see her dark eyes sparkling as she watched him. "It tastes like" 

"Like cat," she finished for him. 

"Yes, like cat," he agreed without thinking. Then he frowned. No one else
should know that unless... "How do you recognize cat?" he asked, not
joking now. 

"Just the way you do." The teasing had vanished, dark eyes had widened and
lowered. "It's gamier, all dark meat, the kidneys are lower and wider
apart than in rabbit, the pelvic basin is different " 

"When you saw it in the black market..." 

"When it was the only meat available and you didn't ask questions." She
was looking at him again, flirtation gone, dark eyes really seeing him
this time, and it was like a recognition signal. "When it was the only
thing that kept you and your friends from starving that day." 

"In our city, the rabbits went first, the horses went second. Cats didn't
come out till the last." Why was he talking about this at all? It had been
a long time since then. "It made a difference. But not when your next-door
neighbor was calling down the hall" 

"Calling for Minou," she cut in. "It was sad. As a small child I was very
sad for all the little cats that I didn't see anymore. But I lived through
the war. And the cats came back." 

"So you and the famille Lustucru survived?" He smiled. He couldn't help it
because she'd grinned at the name, a wide, delighted, urchin grin, then
burst out laughing. 

"How did you know?" she asked, amazed laughter still echoing. "That's what
Jean-Michel and I called ourselves. La famille Lustucru. Only we sang it
differently." And in a small light voice she chanted, 

C'est le père Michel qui a perdu son chat, Et crie par la fentre qui le
lui rendra. C'est la mère Lustucru Qui lui a répondu 

" Ton chat, ce n'est plus un chat, c'est un ragoût!" they finished in
chorus, laughing, and Illya, who had only come in to eat lunch on the run,
found himself feeling at home with a girl he had just met, his sense of
panic assuaged by the recognition signals, like Very rockets, exchanged
out of long-ago pasts. He doubted that she was a tail, a plant or a mole;
nobody had known he would be lunching here, not even he himself. She was
just herself. 

Then she raised those dark eyes again and he felt his heart pound hard,
once, in sudden suspicion of himself. Just flirting, he tried to tell
himself. You can't be in love with someone you've just met. Over a common
basis of cat meat. But as he looked at the wide, high-set cheekbones and
arching brows, echoing the wide, generous mouth, a face of distinction
rather than prettiness, he wondered whether they had other things in
common. Since she knew the taste of cat meat. 

Reminded, he pushed aside the bowl of stew. He doubted that it was cat,
probably beef that had gone bad, but the memory was too strong to allow
him to finish. A pityhe'd wasted his two francs, and now there was that
much less to put toward dinner. 

He saw her catch the rueful glance he threw at his plate, her eyes staying
on him with renewed amusement this time. "Come have dinner with us," she
said. 

"No, I couldn't." The withdrawal was instinctive, the caution instant. 

"Of course you can. You'll be hungry. Especially after listening to
Professeur Grillet rant on about Pierre Emmanuel for two hours. Are you
taking the study group?" 

"No, I have a physics group at the same time." 

"Physics." She studied him again. "Come to dinner. You should talk with
Jean-Michel." 

"Le père Michel?" 

"The very one." 

He knew he shouldn't. But he'd been isolated for so long, pursuing studies
solitary because of his scientific concentrations, suspect as much for his
nationality as all of them were about protecting their dissertation
subject matters. 

She was silent, waiting. 

"All right." He yielded to temptation and to curiosity. 

"Wonderful!" She gave him an address not too far from his own. "Come at
six." As he stood up, she said quickly, "Je m'appelle Claude." 

 

His class and study group lasted till late afternoon, and the early winter
night had already closed in when he emerged from the hall. Shrugging a
little further into his jacket, he looked at the sky, wondering when it
would rain, knowing from the damp touch of the air that snow wasn't
likely. He stood in the bustling courtyard, and knew he had come to a
decision point. 

Claude had invited him to dinner. He knew he shouldn't become involved,
even at this level, but he missed the companionship of other students. He
was supervised far more loosely than he had been in Cambridge, where he'd
lived in a small house composed exclusively of Russian students: it had
been very difficult to escape surveillance. He'd been able to form several
professional associations with his fellow graduates, but it had gone no
further. He suspected that the organization here had been slightly ...
corrupted ... by the decadent Western life in the capital of love. Or
maybe it was just that the Distinguished Honors of his Cambridge doctorate
had won him a slight loosening of control. He could think of no other
reasons why they had told him to find a room in one of a number of cheap
pensions on their list rather than to cram him into the already
overcrowded dwelling that housed his compatriots. 

Illya sighed and admitted to himself that he was hungry; going to dinner
would mean he would only have to buy a bottle of wine to bring, and be
able to hoard his shekels for the other books he needed. And it would mean
company. If he was lucky, intelligent company. And if not, it was only one
evening wasted. His decision rationalized, he shifted his bookbag, and set
off at a fast pace for the little wineseller's on the corner. Their reds
weren't too bad... 

Half-an-hour later he shifted the book bag again and knocked on the shabby
door. One of the best things about Paris: walking everywhere kept you fit
and limber for all the stair-climbing you had to do. It opened promptly,
and a man about his own height or maybe a little taller said, "You must be
Claude's friend." He extended a hand and drew Illya in, pulling him into
the center of the room, saying something about jackets and damp and
closets. Then Claude came out from behind the little curtain strung along
the side of the room, still buttoning her dress at the neck, and Illya
knew he'd done the right thing. The look of friendly welcome warmed his
lonely soul and he yielded his jacket and bookbag without even being aware
of it, until Claude's voice brought him back to earth. 

"And this is le père Michel. Jean-Michel Jeandet, this iseuh" She looked
at Illya expectantly, and Jean-Michel burst into laughter. 

"Claude, you invited him home and didn't even know his name!" His laughter
was rich and inviting, and Illya found himself relaxing, more than he
should with people he didn't know. 

"Illya Kuryakin," he murmured. 

Jean-Michel nodded. "Salut," he said more quietly, but with a hint of
mirth still behind it. "If Claude invited you, you are welcome and I am
glad to meet you." He held out his hand. 

Illya took it and they exchanged a strong clasp. And that was the
beginning of a fellowship that was, for that year, closer than family,
more precious than blood. 

 

Two years ago... 

He'd left after he took his doctorate, returning to Moscow for the rest of
his training, fitting back into the mould as if he had never left. It had
just been another skin, he told himself; another chance to practice covers
that he could use all his professional life. 

Most of the time, it worked. And over the next couple of years, he was
able to let the memories settle further and further into the recesses of
his mind, able to look them over more dispassionately for points of
interest. His profession was demanding more of his attention, and he
enjoyed it, enjoyed the training, the missions, the convoluted thinking
necessary to maintain the personas for the cover. Enjoyed the chances to
exercise his talent for languages. And it finally brought him the chance
to travel to America, where everything he did would be on a razor's edge,
because of who he was and what he was, in an association of people who
were also what he was. 

And it had taken a dream and a noisy visual hell of a disco to remind him
what he also had been. Had had. And could still have. 

If he chose. 

 

Two months ago... 

The night of the disco he had awakened to the reason for his restlessness.
He'd looked at his partner, dancing among the others, and had realized
that he was treading near forbidden ground. It was not possible in America
to simply declare oneself. There were consequences and repercussions, none
of them pleasant. He'd been there long enough to explore the subculture
and, while it was lively and sometimes overexuberant, it was also shut-in
and secretive, concealed among the ruins of otherwise normal lives. 

He had too much of that with his job to desire it outside of work. And the
only person who might make it tolerable was not available. If Napoleon had
ever indicated by even so much as a breath that he was interested, Illya
could have lived with being undercover at work and out. But his partner,
while a solid presence at his back and side for the job and during some of
their free time off it, also had a lively sideline in dating going on, and
it had been exclusively women. 

Illya had had fun finding out which secretaries were daring and which
demure. He had also had the occasional escapade among the culture of men,
but none of his fast and fleeting contacts in either world did anything to
feed the growing hunger for a constant connection, a grounding of the
spirit in the body which would turn his time outside of work into a
satisfying existence. 

He had endured, depending upon the involvement of his work and the growing
ease of his partnership with Napoleon for that satisfaction, until he
looked around in the disco and saw that there was nothing there for him. A
man could not exist on an acquaintance with Miss Rosie Palm and her five
daughters alone when he'd once had so much more. 

The next day, he had started the manipulation that brought him to Paris on
a temporary assignment, and had started searching for the two who had been
family and partners to him then. In the back of his mind, he acknowledged
that he might not find them; after all, staying in touch had been
impossible. But if he could find them, perhaps they could pick up where
they had left off. He could request permanent assignment. And if they had
disappeared, as so much else had, he could at least stay in a place, a
city, where he might find his connection more openly than in America. 

 

Present day... 

Illya raised his hand as the waiter walked by again, and his wine was
refreshed a moment later. He shut his eyes, let the music wash through him
again as if it were breath itself, then let it out and opened them again,
looking into the distance, not seeing the smoke or the small glints of
reflected light, but the dream that had disturbed him when he'd had it.
The first day he'd been at U.N.C.L.E., the first day he'd been in America,
the first night in his own little apartment. 

 

One year ago... 

He'd been very tired, too tired to sleep, wired despite schooling himself
to calm and impassivity, excited by the potential he'd seen that day,
brain relentlessly churning through all it had observed, all the
experiences of a strange new country and new customs that were exhausting
to keep up with, no matter how much he'd read about them. Now that he'd
seen the U.N.C.L.E. headquarters, talked to Mr. Waverly again, he was more
convinced than ever that this would work, that he could find a scope for
everything he wanted to do. It would just take a little time to get
accustomed to it all, but he was used to finding his feet quickly, and he
was sure that Napoleon would help. 

And Mitzihe reviewed Mitzi's efficiency and some of her other charms,
remembered some of the other female staff he'd been introduced to, several
of whom had exchanged dove-eyes with his partner, some of whom had had a
questioning, faintly flirty look when he'd been introducedoh, yes, there
was scope for everything. He'd been his usual reserved self around them,
but he knew who they were, and he was pretty sure that Napoleon had a
string of them on the side too. Even on this first day, he'd felt his new
associate's impact, could feel the physical fascination Napoleon exercised
as naturally as breathing. And was stirring in Illya, too. 

Illya wondered why, during the long day. He knew he'd never seen Napoleon
before, other than in the briefing photos before he'd come to the States,
but he kept being reminded of something... someone... 

Little things that tugged at his memory. As Napoleon laughed at him over
his shoulder when Illya exclaimed at the cafeteria food... The trick of
letting his eyes go wide and watching you as he dipped his head...
Something about the line of his body as he held the door for Mitzi... 

His head was starting to hurt, all the fatigue and strangeness catching
up, and he'd finally turned off most of the lights and taken himself and
his drink to the older armchair, pulling it over toward the window,
stopping short of actually placing it in the window space. He sat, feeling
the stiffness, the tension, and consciously started relaxing, letting
himself sink deeper into the soft worn cushions, trying to make a familiar
space for himself out of the strangeness of the day, of the transition. He
took a deep breath, and let it out, another, less deep, letting tension
flow out of this arm, that leg, until he was breathing easily, slowly, and
his limbs felt like lead. He let his head loll back on the headrest,
looking out the window into the deep blue-black winter night that had
fallen over the unfamiliar city. 

The street was busy and the bustle of buses, cars, and people floated up,
emphasizing the silence in his apartment. Illya sat in the comfortable old
chair, taking an occasional sip from his drink, and let his mind wander as
it would, letting the events of the day replay themselves randomly in his
mind, aware that at some point his thoughts would quiet enough that he
could fall asleep, and quietly, without effort, the resemblance he'd been
searching for slipped into his mind. 

Napoleon reminded him, a little, of Jean-Michel. 

Idly, he compared them, head back, eyes searching for any familiar
constellations in the few stars he could see that weren't drowned by the
visual noise of city lights. Facially, there was a resemblance, though it
was more as though one was a blur of the other: the same dark hair, though
Jean-Michel's had been longer. Napoleon's somewhat aquiline nose was
thinner, his chin more pronounced, but the sturdy cheekbones were the
same, the set of the head on the neck similar. He thought Jean-Michel
might have been a little taller, and of course, there was no distinctive
mole. Overall, Napoleon was the more elegant, a bit more finely drawn in
all particulars. Jean-Michel had been rather rougher around the edges, as
befitted someone in the plastic arts. Even Jean-Michel's hands were
bigger, broader, the fingers bluntly spatulate, the hands of an artist, of
a sculptorof a creative lover... 

Illya could still feel those hands, lingering on the nape of his neck,
trailing down the middle of his back, handling him, exploring just as his
were doing... 

The hands fell away and he stood without them, feeling cold where they had
lain on his skin, even though he had his clothes on. But they were wrong,
the gray cotton of the gulag uniform wrapped him, changing quietly to his
perfectly normal shirt and trousers even as he thought, "I was never in
the gulags." For a moment he thought he'd said it out loud, it echoed so,
and he turned to see the cause of the echo. A long tunnel stretched into
the distance and as he watched, stones bloomed through the dirt on the
floor, and he recognized the back corridor where he sometimes would
meet... 

Who was he meeting? It was important to remember, to find out, because his
feet were carrying him towards the meeting, starting to run down the
tunnel, and he was calling to someone, someone who was going to leave if
he didn't let him know he was coming, it was important. Out of the corner
of his eye he could see the stones melt back into the ground as he passed,
and he skidded, running wide around the next corner, overrunning the
person who turned to meet him. 

He could feel the gladness, could feel the welcome, could feel his own
heart responding in a bloom of happiness. He was smiling as he slowed,
felt the hands seize him in a welcome grip and looked up into a blurred
face changing as crazily as Picasso's skewed visages, sliding from one
into another, and then the body in front of him split into two, each
taking one of the faces, a Janus of glad welcome and saddened leavetaking,
and Illya found himself stammering, "Don't leave!" 

The sound of his own voice woke him, blinking blurrily in the half-light
of the lamp. The curtain from the window flicked out a little toward him,
carried by cold air leaking through the frame, and he pushed himself to
his feet, already losing the thread of the dream, muzzily aware that he
should go to bed now, while he was drowsy enough to fall asleep. 

He changed into his pajamas and flicked off the lamp, then padded into his
bedroom and slid under the covers, stretching out, already yielding to the
wave of slumber that reclaimed him, rolling up over him as soon as he lay
prone and snug. Sliding back into it, he saw briefly the flagstones of the
corridor in his reverie, but now there was only one face, and a light
baritone voice that welcomed him, warm hands sliding lightly, lovingly,
over his arms, and the well-loved voice said, "Stay." But he was lapped in
an endless darkness, dragged down by black fatigue, and his tongue lay in
the cold earth of his mouth and could not answer. 

In the morning, he remembered very little of the previous evening and the
few shards he could put together made no sense, except for that warm voice
saying, "Stay." He carried that with him for the next few confusing weeks
like a talisman as he learned the ropes of yet another new environment,
fingering it a little in memory every time he grew frustrated with what he
didn't yet know, and its utility faded over time as he settled into the
Enforcement spot and became more comfortable with his partner, until the
recollection finally disappeared completely. 

 

Present day... 

Sitting at the little table, Illya watched the cigarette smoke eddy as the
waiters threaded their way to and fro, creating currents that dragged the
fragile smokescreens this way and that. The strong scent of unfiltered
Gauloiseshow had he ever done without it? He closed his eyes and inhaled
deeply, the sharp, heavy scent of his wine mixing with the incredibly
acrid smoke, and the dampish smell of many raincoats and topcoats, the
rosin on the stage adding its sharp pungency. 

The lazy arrhythmia of the drummer blended seamlessly with the noodling of
the sax, with the cleaner, mellower notes of the guitar backlighting them,
and he let himself sink back into the odd state of suspended presence this
music induced in him, where every note was unexpected, yet dovetailed with
the rest. Somewhat like the best times he'd had with Napoleon, where they
acted as one mind with different actions, left hand and right hand, sax
and guitar taking different paths to the syncopated drums. And for once
the thought of his partner didn't provoke the irritated longing it usually
did, just resonated with the wandering music, the clever, mathematically
required notes, the perfect blend of intuition and logic. 

His meditations were interrupted by a brusque tap on the table; one of the
waiters had slapped a piece of paper in front of him. "I didn't order" he
started. 

"Not an order. Somebody gave me a franc to deliver this to you." The
waiter's black eyes challenged him and his finger still pinned the note to
the table. Illya reluctantly drew out a 10-centime piece and tossed it to
him. 

"You've already been paid to deliver it. Leave." He felt blackmailed. 

The waiter took in the situation and vanished. 

Illya pulled the paper to him, unfolded it and tilted it up, trying to
catch some of the dim light. The inscription was in bold black letters on
white, making it marginally easier to decipher. 

Salut 

In the old spot. 

J-M 

Illya felt an electric shudder of anticipation and homecoming, followed by
another, more disquieting one, which he finally pinned down. He reached
for his wine and tossed it back. He shouldn't be feeling nervous.
Jean-Michel had been part of his family here; there was nothing to fear.
And yet, the cold feet still walked down his spine. He gave in to it for a
couple of seconds, letting his nerves work themselves out, thinking of the
last parting. 

 

Two years ago... 

Claude had come down to his room. 

Claude had come down to his room with a bottle of Greek liqueur, and
Jean-Michel had joined them later. They had stayed awake the whole night,
making love in the dark little room, speaking of commonplaces, making no
promises. He had pushed himself away from them in the early dawn, washed
and dressed and made it to the airport in an hour, his two suitcases
carrying very little more than they had when he arrived, but his mind and
his heart infinitely richer than before. 

 

Present day... 

He shuddered again at the memory, the spider walking down his backbone
washed away in the warm flood of sensual reminiscence. He pushed the empty
wine glass back and stood up. 

The back corridor was still thronged with people, as it always had been
when they frequented this club. And it still let out on the small
courtyard, its puddles thin panes of ice in the cold night air. He slipped
through, quiet and unnoticed, and plunged into the deserted corridor on
the other side, feeling the chill of its flagstones surround him, a
nervous exhilaration growing as he approached the bend. He made the turn -


Jean-Michel leaned on the wall in the corner of the bend, hands in his
pockets, coat debonairly unbuttoned. His dark eyes rose and locked on to
Illya's, expression calm, a small smile touching the corners of his mouth.


Illya halted, suddenly wary. They had been apart, grown apart, followed
different paths for three years. Why was he doing this? What was he
expecting? A fairy tale to come true? Even as he looked, a double-vision
troubled him. He knew Jean-Michel, and yet he didn't know him. The
coloring was right, but the proportions seemed suddenly false, wrong.
Something about the head, something about the face... He tensed, ready to
run... 

Then Jean-Michel said, "Illya," and abruptly time rolled back, and they
were lying tangled in the comforters, debating who would get up and get
the petits pains for breakfast. 

"Illya." He was pulled into a bear hug, was returning it, feeling the love
and desire running through the familiar figure. 

"Illya." Their mouths caught on each other, opened, the pressure familiar,
welcoming. 

"Papa Michel." He drew back a little, welcoming the wave of mingled
nostalgic longing and raw desire that rose in him, thrumming through his
belly. He fought down the memories so he could see clearly now, only to
have it all blur as he saw the heat and longing in Jean-Michel's eyes,
felt the those familiar spatulate fingers caressing his jaw. He closed his
eyes, drew a deep breath, and smelled the subtle blend of Gauloises and
Pernod that had always identified Jean-Michel to him. 

He felt Jean-Michel's nose bury itself near the nape of his neck, sniffing
him, tongue venturing out in a lick that made him arch his head forward,
and the slightly raspy light tenor he remembered said, "Shampooing pour
les bébés. Still so contradictory." 

Illya's hands went by reflex to the strong shoulders, to the buttons of
the jacket, undoing them in a snapping rush, running his hands over the
warm shirt, feeling the muscles tense under his hand, and he undid those
buttons too, thrust his hands under the thin cotton in an impatient push
and felt at last the warm, warm skin he remembered, the flat strong planes
of the chest. He ran his hands over the ribs, down the sides, and found
Jean-Michel's arms threaded between his, going straight for his belt. He
pulled at Jean-Michel's buckle, feeling a similar loosening at his own
waist, and then he'd managed to pull down the zipper and his hands were
sliding down the front of the narrow hips, parting and easing around the
warm genitals, finding Jean-Michel already hard under his caressing
fingers, and he drew his hands along the hard, heavy cock, closing one
hand into a fist, letting the other slide even further down to gather the
pendulous sac into his hand. 

Jean-Michel had echoed his movements, the warm skin of his hands rubbing
wonderfully on the hot stone of Illya's hardness, and Illya felt as if a
giant cord ran from his throat to his groin which Jean-Michel's fingers
were strumming at will. He groaned aloud as the deft fingers moved under
him and along his length, teasing the head, firmly fisting down the root,
and he put all his memories to work, remembering which touch nudged, which
inflamed, and at their behest one hand went up to the open shirt and
lightly touched a nipple. 

Jean-Michel's head went back, his eyes closing in pleasure. Illya kissed
the vulnerable neck, nipping gently, then harder as Jean-Michel's hands
were moving on him. The thick strum of desire reverberated in him from his
throat down through his chest to his groin, pulling tighter and tighter,
as his hands moved on Jean-Michel's body, on his cock, and it was too
much, too much, and he gave himself up to pure sensation as the string was
plucked again for the last time, feeling Jean-Michel's body shake and
tauten against his, felt himself grunt and stiffen, cocks jerking
rhythmically as their spend mingled, warm between their bodies, sheltered
and starting to slowly drip down the open space where their clothes
exposed their naked flesh. 

Illya supported himself with his hands against the wall around
Jean-Michel's body as his legs quivered with the strength of that release,
letting his lips roam the flung-back neck, their breath coming in
hard-drawn gasps, until his stance firmed and he pushed himself back up a
little, only to feel those artist's hands warm against his back, and he
leaned back into them, bracing himself with one shoulder against the wall.


He felt one of those large hands leave his back and fumble between them in
the folds of their clothes, emerging and flattening itself against their
stomachs, then the thin cotton of a handkerchief was being wiped across
their skin, mopping up the remnants, turning carefully here and there, and
finally being balled up and tossed casually to one side. 

Illya made an abortive movement to catch it, and Jean-Michel chuckled
softly. "It doesn't matter. There are so many other souvenirs here, one
more will make no difference." 

Illya let his hand fall again. It was true, the floor was littered with
such debris; it would make no difference. He leaned his head back against
the wall, looking at the man he had come to find and blinked as the
double-vision intruded again, showing him a more elegant version. He
wondered why he was thinking of Napoleon at such a moment, and firmly put
the thought out of his mind, trying to return to the mindless bliss of the
last few minutes, wondering why all he could think of was the slight ache
in his deflated penis, feeling an odd emptiness in his satisfaction. 

"I was surprised to hear you were looking for me. Why have you returned
now?" Jean-Michel's voice was curious. His hand came up and patted Illya's
shoulder, stroked a finger gently along his jaw, the same tender motion as
before when they were all together, letting his other hand drift down to
rest on Illya's hip near the wall. 

"You both used to do that," Illya said. Claude's light, clever fingers on
him, stroking one side of his face as Jean-Michel stroked the other. 

"Touching was fun. There was always something to experience, something to
do. And it was fun making you respond. All of us together. A pity it's
over." Remembered sensuality colored Jean-Michel's voice. He shifted so
that he too leaned on the wall with one shoulder, facing Illya, and he
focused on Illya again. "Why have you come back? Why have you tried to
find us?" 

Illya opened his mouth to tell him of the memories, the longingand found
he had no answer. You idiot! his mind raged. Just say it! You've traveled
back across the ocean for this! 

"What's the matter?" Jean-Michel's eyebrows arched in inquiry. 

"I missed you." Even to his own ears, it sounded inadequate. He felt the
want shaking inside him, the same want he had carried across an ocean, had
let draw him back to remembered delight and comfort, and he realized with
vague astonishment that it hadn't been slaked by their encounter at all. 

"So you returned for a visit and tracked me down?" Jean-Michel's voice was
still soft, intimate, his hand shifting from Illya's shoulder, rising to
his hair, pulling the little strands out and letting them fall in a
repetitive motion. The action brought his sleeve close to Illya's face,
and he smelled something else under the familiar aroma, a strange cologne
mixed in with the tobacco and alcohol he was used to. 

"I was trying to find you and Claude." 

"Ah. I cannot help you with Claude, I'm afraid. She's become a good little
matron, in the 14ème, I believe. Far from her shocking past." 

"Claude? Married?" Illya was floored. How could she have done that? 

"Married. I was not invited to the wedding." That was an even greater
shock. Illya discerned a trace of sadness in Jean-Michel's tone, but it
vanished before the end of the sentence. Jean-Michel shrugged. "It was
what she wanted." 

"But her records didn't show..." Illya could have bitten off his tongue. 

"Records? You mean you investigated her?" Now it was Illya's turn to
shrug, assuming the flat mask that usually worked so well with everybody
except Napoleon. 

"Of course. I was trying to find you both." 

"And you couldn't find her." 

Illya shook his head. "I found a trace of you first. I thought I'd find
you together." 

Jean-Michel dropped his hand back to Illya's face, palm against his cheek.
The laughing lust in the dark-brown eyes changed, gentled, and he grew
afraid in his soul at the kindness he saw replace it. 

"That time is over, Illya." 

A silence fell and Illya felt his dream of homecoming wither and die in
the small cold space in which they found themselves. The sad kindness in
Jean-Michel's eyes burned him and he felt his face freeze in the
expressionless mask Napoleon teased him about. 

"It is over. We cannot revisit it. It no longer exists." 

"You still come here." He kept the disappointment out of his voice, too. 

"I came because ... because there was a rumor someone was looking for me,
and it sounded like you. I don't come here anymore. Now that I've seen
you, I'll never come here again." 

"Why did you come then?" There was hurt blooming, a fist round his heart,
but he'd expected it to squeeze more tightly. Why didn't it hurt more? 

"It's ignoble to hide from someone you've loved without an explanation."
Jean-Michel brought his face closer, dropped a kiss on Illya's closed
lips, drew back. 

"I left without an explanation. I didn't want to do that." 

"We knew you were leaving. It was the beginning of the end for all of us."


"What happened?" 

"You. You were our essential element. Without you to balance us, Claude
and I grew apart. She ended up marrying after she got her matrise. What a
waste. A proper little businessman, 9 to 5, no adventures. She told me she
was attracted by his steadiness after all our wildness. I knocked at her
door one day and she'd gone, no forwarding address. Joelle across the hall
told me about her marriage plans." 

"And you never heard from her again?" 

"I never tried to find her. You left. She left. The comedy was done."
Jean-Michel shrugged, a quick movement of regret. 

"What about you?" 

"What about me?" Jean-Michel smiled lightly, looking inward, then focused
on Illya once more. "I do what I can. A good business man by day, and I
come home to my love at night. I prowl different streets now." 

"You were going to be a sculptor." 

Jean-Michel looked at him with love and a little bit of pity. "All over." 

He stroked Illya's cheek again, dropped his hands and did up Illya's zip
quickly and efficiently, settled his jacket better, then did up his own
fly and moved on to his buttons, twitching them rapidly through their
buttonholes, first on the shirt, then the jacket. He pushed himself away
from the wall as he buttoned his coat, retrieved thin leather gloves from
the pockets and drew them on. When he'd finished, he dropped his hands to
his sides. 

"It's all over." 

Then he moved away in a swirl of coat, and Illya heard his quick footsteps
dying away down the corridor. 

Illya stood leaning against the wall for a long minute. He'd expected to
feel devastated, ruined, not this vague regret, mingled with a feeling of
empty expectancy, as if it weren't over yet. He chided himself harshly:
this was indulgent. Let it go and move on. You've just had your dreams
dashed. No happily ever after; no wonderful reunion. Experience it and let
it go. And yet he couldn't help but feel that there was something more,
something just out of reach, and it made him nervous, a little jumpy. 

He moved restlessly to the other corner of the bend. When they'd met there
before, the corridor had continued. Now it was blocked by a wall across
it. He stuck his hands into his pockets, turned sharply around and nearly
swallowed his tongue in shock as he saw someone leaning in the corner so
recently vacated. 

"Bozhe!" He backed up against the wall in quick reflex, aghast that anyone
could have snuck up on him, then stilled. 

It was Napoleon who now stood casually leaned back into the corner, dark
eyes steady on his. 

The double-vision of fifteen minutes ago rose up again and for an instant
he saw the two of them super-imposed. He'd never wanted to make the point
by point comparison. He knew that Jean-Michel had reminded him vaguely of
Napoleon, and Napoleon of Jean-Michel. In the two years since he'd left
Paris, he'd pushed aside all particulars of his life with Claude by the
time he'd arrived in America. 

But now it was blindingly obvious. The two of them were more alike than
he'd ever admitted, Jean-Michel and Napoleon. Standing in the bend,
staring at his partner who had appeared from nowhere, seeming to have
risen up out of the earth, he could see just how alike they were. The same
height, the same proud bearing of the head, the same sturdy build. And how
unlike in other waysNapoleon's features were drawn more finely, clefts and
lines ran deeper, his fingers longer and more elegant, his eyes - 

Illya faltered in his comparison, caught by the look of pain he'd never
expected to be seen directed at himthen it was gone, and just that steady
stare was directed at him before Napoleon's eyes fell. 

"Didn't expect me, did you?" It was Napoleon's voice, deeper than
Jean-Michel's. 

"No." Illya tried to calm his rapidly beating heart, taking a quick
breath, then letting it out slowly. "I thought you were in New York." 

"A very Pimpernel am I." Napoleon's tone was light. 

"Why are you here?" Illya wasn't going to let him get away with it. 

"I hadbusinessin the area. They should really keep these hallways up to
snuff. A coat of paint would work wonders. Make it safe to walk the
hallways." Napoleon looked up at the ceilings with great attention. 

Illya felt the blood burn into his cheeks. "How long have you been here?" 

Napoleon's eyes fell again. "Long enough to see you with your paramour." 

"Close enough ... to hear?" If Napoleon had been close enough to see, he
must have been close enough to hear. 

"Don't worry, I guarded the passageway against all comers." Jocular, but
with an undertone Illya couldn't quite interpret. 

"So you heard him say goodbye." Somehow, it lessened the hurt, that
someone had heard it. Made it more real. 

Now Napoleon's eyes flashed back up to his, cool, guarded. "It sounded
pretty intense." 

Illya saw that Napoleon was using the corner to hold himself up, arms and
ankles crossed in front of him. Ostensibly a relaxed position, it was both
defensible and defensive. As if he were going to be attacked. And yet
Napoleon was the one worried about his partner. Illya felt as though he
were groping toward something he couldn't quite put together. 

Illya shrugged. "It was a realization. The past is past. Mere romantic
nostalgia." He studied Napoleon more closely, noting the utter stillness.
He'd seen this often, when Napoleon had gathered himself just before
action. 

"It sounded like hewasimportantto you." Just for a moment, a precious,
fleeting moment, Illya saw empathy, hurt and pain blaze uncontrolled out
of his partner's eyes. A wave of protective anger flared through him and
in the furnace of its wake, the pieces spun slowly into place, dropping
silently through the heat of his realization until they formed a lacy
whole, a spider web of thought and intuition that spanned his entire
being, a puzzle solved. 

In the clarity of single vision finally achieved, he closed the distance
between them, moving lightly, clean and free, raised his hands, and laid
them gently on his partner's crossed arms, taking him by the wrists. 

"You do not need to protect yourself against me." 

"Who said I need to protect myself against you?" Napoleon's voice was
smooth and cutting. "You're a highly trained spy; I'm better." 

Illya let himself snort in wry amusement at his partner's blindness. It
was easy, when you could see clearly. 

The muffled snort was the last straw. Napoleon stiffened, his voice harsh
and low with rage. "I followed you to Paris to find out why you were
thinking of quitting on us. You asked for a temporary transfer and didn't
have the decency to tell me about it. I get here to find you so bent on
fucking my double that you'll give him a handjob in an alleyway." His eyes
were lit with fury and pain. "I don't need to protect myself against you.
I thought we were connected but you've done a dandy job of cutting the
cord." 

He pushed away from the wall, and Illya slammed him back by the wrists he
still held, eyes locked on Napoleon's. 

Illya let the words go by him, kept his grip hard and Napoleon off-balance
against the wall. He could feel muscles quivering under the woolen
sleeves, pent-up anger vibrating through the tense body, and he spoke even
more gently, keeping his eyes on Napoleon's. 

"You need to protect yourself against me because you do not yet know that
I am family to you," he said. "I went looking for the family I had. I did
not know that it was gone." 

"He seemed to be more than family to you." Napoleon's hands clenched into
fists. 

"He was. He and Claude were family, lovers, friends. They were everything
to me while I was here." 

"And you went looking for them so you could pick up where you left off."
Napoleon's eyes were pained. 

"Yes." Illya saw no reason to sugar-coat it. "I thought that was what I
wanted. You were not available." 

"I?" Napoleon drew a deep, ragged breath, hope and despair warring at
Illya's matter-of-fact tone. "I was not available? You thought that I?" 

Illya smiled, and Napoleon saw that it carried that same joyous aspect it
had when Illya was waiting to come to Paris. 

"I thought that I only needed sex, and America is no kinder to that than
my country. When I first came to Paris, I had had some liaisons, but they
were fast nothings. No love, just bodies. Make your body feel good, and
nothing else needs to be done. So I knew how to have sex. But I had never
made love. 

"Paris changed that. I met Claude and Jean-Michel. I learned that making
love could give you a reason to enjoy your life. It created a balance. We
revolved around each other during the year I was here." 

"You and Claude and Jean-Michel?" Napoleon's question was grudging, but
his voice had lost the harsh burr of rage. Illya could hear the
calculating undertone, and took care to grin only on the inside: he'd
gotten Napoleon thinking again, not just reacting. 

"Yes, me and Claude and Jean-Michel. We balanced each other. It was a joy
being with intelligent people you love, who care about you, whom you care
about. It was a joy belonging out of choice. 

"I just never thought we would walk away from it. I had no choice. I had
to return to the Soviet Union as soon as I passed the defense, before the
end of the year. I left in the middle of the week, very early in the
morning. I always thought they would stay together, be together. Because
then I could come back." 

Napoleon was looking at him steadily now, and his voice carried sympathy.
"You could come back home. And I helped push you away." 

Illya shrugged. "A little." 

Napoleon held his gaze, mouth quirking, eyebrow lifting, and Illya sighed.
"A lot. We worked so well together on so many levels, that not being able
to create that kind of belonging was torture." 

"Weren't there other places you could?" Napoleon started. 

Illya cut him off. "Home is where you have sex and love, not just sex." 

"Idealist." 

"Yes. I acted on those ideals. I am just sorry that it hurt you." 

It was Napoleon's turn to snort in disbelief at this statement. "You set
up a complete operation to abandon me and you're just sorry? You set this
whole thing up so you could leave and come back to what you consider your
real family, and you're just sorry?" 

"I am sorry that I hurt you that way, Napoleon." Illya's eyes fell before
his, then his partner raised his head again. "Especially since it showed
me two very important things. 

"The family you love is precious and can be gone in an instant. 

"And the family that lets you re-capture that feeling may not even be
aware of it. I left you in spite of all our connection because I was not
aware of it. Nor were you." 

He tugged gently at Napoleon's wrists and Napoleon let them drift open,
his eyes fixed on Illya's, guarded hope in their depths. 

Illya pulled again and Napoleon came away from the wall, obeying the
signals of Illya's hands, uncrossing his ankles to stand on his own, hands
still quiescently captive in Illya's grasp. Illya slid his hands up onto
Napoleon's shoulders, held him there. "I will never leave again." 

Napoleon stood for an endless minute between Illya's palms, dark eyes
searching his partner's grey ones, searching and apparently finding,
because he stepped forward, hands coming up to Illya's face, and said,
"Illya," before tilting his face and kissing him. 

Napoleon felt Illya's mouth warm under his, opening under his as he opened
his lips and pressed with all the warmth and fury in him, all the love and
frustration, as his tongue explored so delicately, so strongly, as it
encountered Illya's tongue exploring, promising, and the kiss broke as he
drew back, as he tried simply breathing. 

Air was scarce, but it seemed to have no effect on Napoleon's busy brain.
And he hated the conclusion his mind came to. This was too easy. Illya
wouldn't just turn away from somebody he'd cared for. His partner might
not have many people he truly cared for, but when he did, it was deep.
Napoleon knew that he and his partner were still connected, by friendship
at least. Before this, he would have said by something deeper. But now, he
didn't know. 

It hurt to ask. But he had to. 

"I thought you..." Napoleon's voice was harsh velvet, grinding in his
throat. "I thought you and he ... would make up somehow." He drew a savage
breath. "I thought ... you came here so that you could be together again.
What will you do now?" 

He couldn't believe this was happening, couldn't believe he could hold
himself open for this kind of hurt, couldn't believe he was still going to
let Illya hurt him like this if he chose to walk away. 

His partner must have read him through the connection, which Napoleon
could feel more strongly than ever, because Illya pulled their heads
together until they stood forehead to forehead and in the tiny hush
between them said, "Avant de créér le chef d'oeuvre, Dieu a fait un
brouillon. Before God creates a masterpiece, he does a rough sketch." 

He smiled into Napoleon's eyes. "I have made my rough sketch. Now, we will
create a masterpiece." 

He leaned forward against Napoleon, his hands going to Napoleon's collar,
and Napoleon's hands half-rose before he tore himself away, whirling away
from his startled partner. 

"Not here," he ground out breathlessly, and walked quickly down the
hallway, "not here, where he was, where there are ghosts and others." He
couldn't explain it better than that, the revulsion that had risen even as
he had leaned into his partner's nimble fingers, raising his chin so that
Illya could undo his collar buttons, suddenly and completely aware that
his head had tilted back, his eyelids droopingjust like that bastard
Jean-Michel, just like that half-assed son-of-a-bitch who had seduced his
partnerthe bad copy of himself. 

It propelled him out, away, trying to think of some other venue to satisfy
the incredibly intense arousal he'd experienceduntil the startled cry
behind him stopped him in mid-stride down the shabby corridor. 

"Napoleon!" 

Napoleon stopped. The voice was distant enough that he could tell that
Illya hadn't moved. The call was startled and urgent, and it woke a chord
of familiarity in him he couldn't place. 

"Napoleon." 

Illya's voice was lower now. He could feel the heat in it, the longing. 

"Napoleon..." 

God, it was tugging at his core. Low, husky, full of want and loneliness,
and unmoving. 

Napoleon turned and went back. He came round the bend and saw Illya still
standing just where he had been, face calm, eyes fixed on the corridor, an
unguarded look of relief crossing his features as Napoleon reappeared. 

"I understand," his partner said in a low voice. "All you can see is that
Jean-Michel looked like you and I was making love to Jean-Michel here. But
I need to make love to you here, the first time. I need to feel our
connection re-born in the same place the other was broken. I do not want
this to become a holy spot for me." 

Illya ran his tongue over his lips. "I want it to become a corridor like
all the other corridors. I want to ground my family and love in you." 

Napoleon heard the words, heard the embarrassment under them at having to
admit to this need on top of all the others, and understood that Illya
still felt he could be rejected. Comprehension sparked tenderness. 

"I can deal with that," he said softly. "I can deal with being loved." 

He walked slowly back over to the corner, standing in front of Illya
again, and let himself lean back into the corner. "Just promise me you
won't call me Jean-Michel during this part." 

Illya grinned, the wide, shining grin that appeared when he was genuinely
happy. "I think I can promise that." He leaned into Napoleon's space once
more. "Where were we? Oh, yes, here is the top button, here is the second
one...Wait, your jacket needs to be undone too." 

Napoleon's breath hissed inward as Illya's lips touched his neck, lightly,
teasingly, even as his fingers slowly undid the jacket buttons. Let out
the breath shakily as the shirt buttons were also carefully undone. He was
tempted to help, but realized even as he raised his hands that Illya
needed to do this on his own, needed to dismiss his ghosts, however loving
they had been. 

So he relaxed as much as he could against the corner wall, let his head
tilt back, and tried not to be self-conscious about the echo of the
position he'd walked in on. Shortly after that, he didn't have to
concentrate on it at all. Illya's fingers had slipped into the open shirt
and were dancing over his chest, running over his neck, pinching, patting,
and Illya's teeth were delivering sharp little nips to the skin he could
reach. 

Napoleon's shirt was pushed aside and his nipples were seized in a firm
bite and pinch. He yelped in surprise, then the yelp changed into breathy
little gasps as Illya tortured both nipples simultaneously. 

"Wheredidyouoh, Godlearn todothat?" he managed, then drew in a deeper gasp
when one nipple was loosed and the hand explored lower, sliding under his
belt. He reflexively drew in his stomach to allow passage, and then felt
the warm skin of Illya's palm glide straight under the waistband of his
briefs and onto the hardness of his cock, massaging it. Illya's other hand
was busy undoing his belt, undoing the zipper, pushing down the confining
fabric and Napoleon's cock was free, released into the cool air, where it
was captured between both Illya's hands and petted, made much of, explored
thoroughly by touch, but not by sight, because Illya's lips were busy
driving Napoleon crazy with the little nips all along his jaw and neck. 

Napoleon vibrated like a bow, his body caught in sensual overstimulation,
blood still racing from the earlier rollercoaster of anger and hope. He
felt his balls pulling up, felt his ass muscles tighten, his gut roil
once, his entire physical world shrinking down to the one urge that just
needed one little bit more to shoot down his spine and out his cock. Then
Illya's hands pulled here at the same time that he bit down there and
Napoleon's body imploded and vanished out his dick, springing free of any
corporeal connection, and Illya's mouth fastened over his before he could
shout, Illya's hands stilling, mouth working his, Illya's entire body
leaning into his to support him as Napoleon's weight slumped forward,
every muscle exhausted at once. 

Napoleon felt his partner's hands on his briefs, and realized dazedly that
Illya was wiping off the come. Then he felt those hands holding his face,
heard the soft voice murmuring to him. He couldn't understand them all,
they seemed to be mixed English and Russian, but the cadence was soothing
and he relaxed into Illya's hold, relishing the grasp, thinking vaguely
that he'd experienced being held by his partner a lot during the past
year, but this was different from all the rest. He feltcherished.
Indulged. 

He finally roused himself, stretching a little in his partner's grasp,
meeting Illya's eyes and seeing the connection, whole and expanded. He
raised a hand, brushing the back of it over Illya's lips, and Illya kissed
the knuckles as they trailed over his mouth. 

"I didn't say it," Illya said and Napoleon chuckled. 

"That's true," he allowed. "I did, however, hear you say my name." 

"I did?" Illya put on a patently false puzzled expression. "When?" 

"Right after you bit me." 

"Oh? When was that?" Little devils danced in Illya's eyes now. 

"I think it washere," Napoleon said, pulling down his partner's collar and
bringing his teeth together. Illya yelped and tried to push Napoleon away,
but Napoleon caught his wrist and kept it down. 

"Or maybehere." He seized a tiny corner of skin just under the jaw. Illya
caught his breath sharply, then groaned. His fingers caught at Napoleon's
hand on his wrist. 

"Now that Jean-Michel and Claude have been put back where they belong, in
the past, let me show you some of the future," Napoleon said, and let his
hands and body create a new image for Illya, where the fair hair was
caught on the rough spots on the wall, and Illya's eyes were closed, his
face upturned, mouth open. Napoleon covered it, savoring it, loving the
way Illya groaned under his lips, his agile fingers, bringing Illya closer
and closer to the edge, dancing around it, holding off. 

Then Illya brought up his own hand, wrapped it around Napoleon's on both
their cocks, and they exploded into their deeper connection on their own,
with no shadows hovering on the sidelines. 

 

"I just wasn't prepared to think about you and other people. I know you've
dated in the office, but Mitzi didn't think you'd gone outside it,"
Napoleon said, looking in the mirror to tie his tie, talking to Illya's
reflection. 

They'd come back to Napoleon's hotel room, walking fast in the cold dark
to stay warm, easy in each other's company. The weather had cleared while
they had been inside, the stars sparkling through wisps of cloud in the
clearing sky. They had stopped at the bridge to look up at the play of
starlight on water and Illya's stomach had rumbled, loudly enough that
Napoleon had laughed and promised that they'd have dinner first. 

"First?" Illya had asked. "Before what?" 

And his blood had sparked and raced at the sultry promise of Napoleon's
whispered, "Dessert." 

So he was watching Napoleon change for supper, talking lightly about what
he'd known or surmised. 

"She didn't? How would she know?" Illya turned on his back on the bed,
looking at the ceiling. 

"Anything one finds out, the others know. They can communicate faster than
skywriting. Damn." Napoleon inspected the button, went and found the nail
scissors in his Dopp kit, and snipped the dangling thread. "And she didn't
know about your taste in men." 

"My taste in men is impeccable, but I don't expect women, especially women
I date, to know that." Illya examined the ceiling idly. "It always takes
you so long to get dressed." 

"It takes as long as it takes. I like your taste in men. I wish I'd been
certain about it earlier." 

"It is not permitted in either of our countries to be clear about our
taste in men. It is why I returned here, where I can be as clear as I want
to be." Illya kept his eyes on the ceiling. 

"And what about women?" Napoleon paused, looked at Illya in the mirror.
"Will you still be clear about women?" 

Illya lowered his gaze from the ceiling, raised himself up on one elbow.
"I am clear about women. Women and masterpieces do not mix." He saw the
warmth bloom in Napoleon's eyes, Napoleon's smile, and asked his own
question. 

"And your taste in women?" He was sure of the answer, but found that he
needed to hear it. 

Napoleon shrugged and looked amused. "Women are fun. Some men think women
are another race, possibly an alien race, but they're wrong. They're fun.
They may look at things from a different angle, but women are people. The
ones I date are cuddly and experienced, know the score, are a delight to
be with. They can be soft, they can be hard. And they can be viciously
intelligent. Just look at some of the ladies we've come up against! 

"But once you've learned to talk with them, they can be your best friends
in that alien race. They're worth all the effort put into wooing them." 

Napoleon turned back to the mirror, finished buttoning the shirt, knowing
Illya was still watching him. Still waiting. 

"Women are fun." He flipped up the collar, threaded the tie under, flipped
it down again, started knotting it. He found Illya's eyes in the
reflection. "But you are essential." 

Essential. Illya heard it, examined it from all sides. It expressed
exactly what he felt for Napoleon. And Napoleon thought he was essential. 

Jean-Michel had also said that. That he, Illya, had been essential to the
small family that they had been. His leaving had removed an essential
thread and they had dissolved. 

If he was essential, then he could stay. 

Napoleon turned and preened just a little, lifting his chin, tilting his
head. Illya felt a smile steal over his face and tried to bite it back. I
went looking for my wild animals, and found a peacock instead, he thought
with as much sarcasm as he could muster. But even the sarcasm was tinted
with affection, and he finally let the smile out. Heaven forbid that I
minister even further to his vanity. 

Napoleon caught the grin in the mirror, and the mobile brows quirked
upward. "You're smiling? There must be something wrong then," he said in
that amused voice. 

"Oh, no," Illya said innocently, "nothing is wrong. You look perfect." 

Napoleon frowned, trying to decipher the smile, and turned back to the
mirror. "Something is wrong if you're giving me the choirboy look. Hair's
parted okay," he muttered to himself, checking his reflection
suspiciously, running his fingers over his fly, finding nothing amiss. He
turned, looking over his shoulder at the mirror, straining to see his back
without disturbing the drape of the suit. 

"What about my jacket? Is it on straight?" he asked worriedly. 

Illya couldn't resist. In his most dulcet tones of calm reassurance, he
said, "Of course it is. And I must say, a straight jacket suits you a
treat." 

"Oh, good, I thought" Napoleon stopped short. "What did you say?" 

"It looks fine, Napoleon, and you know it," Illya said, laughing. "Stop
playing the peacock and let's go." 

"Are you impugning my sanity, Kuryakin?" Napoleon half-turned from the
mirror. His arm shot out and dragged a startled Illya next to him. "Or
just my taste?" 

Illya stared into Napoleon's eyes for a moment, burning in their focused
heat, his smile gone. "Neither. I admire your taste in family." 

Napoleon held his grip for half a beat longer before his hand relaxed. "I
choose my familyand my friendscarefully." 

Then his hand let go of Illya's arm and moved up to his shoulder, where it
settled in an innocuous clasp that still burned Illya like fire. "But I
choose my lovers even more wiselyout of love." 

"You can't always choose your family," Illya said. 

"You seem to have done so," Napoleon returned. 

"But after family, you move on to other choices. And if you're lucky, they
support you," Illya murmured. "But breaking away can still be ... painful.
There may be a period during which it is impossible to love again, until
you learn to recognize the impulse in its new guise. Until you can
recognize that you are ready again for the great adventure." 

"Ah, but what if your family and friend and lover are all the same?"
Napoleon had turned back to the mirror, and the quick brown eyes were
downcast, watching the fingers carefully fasten the last button of the
vest as though they had never encountered a buttonhole before. 

"Then there is more to loseand to win. And the refractory period may still
happen, until you recognize the lover has come to the fore." 

"And has he?" 

Illya cast a quick glance into the mirror. Napoleon's eyes had lifted from
their intense scrutiny of the last vest button, and captured his. No fear
in the brown gaze, just a composed waiting. Then the gaze blinked and
shifted, and Illya saw that Napoleon was nervous under that composed
exterior. 

He reached out, draping his arm over Napoleon's shoulder, drawing his
partner closer, looking at their reflections. Joined, a solid front. For a
moment he saw Napoleon's eyes go bleak, just before he reached out with
his other arm and pulled Napoleon to him, letting both arms slip around
his back, and spoke into Napoleon's shoulder. 

"Oh, he has." 

There was the briefest hesitation and then he felt Napoleon's arms go
around him, tightly, and he smiled in their grasp, feeling the call of
home. 

Family. Friend. Lover. 

Home.  


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