Switching Sides	Switching Sides by nickovetch  
 

KoreaMarch 1951 

"Never volunteer," he'd been told early on in his military career. The
seasoned soldiers had always quoted it as gospel and now he knew why. His
sergeant needed one man to get an urgent message down the lines to the
commanding officer. The commo lines had been cut and the engineers weren't
repairing them fast enough to suit their ranking NCO. This particular unit
was dangerously close to being overrun and Sgt. Becker needed confirmation
of his orders to bug out. 

Becker had lined up B Squad and told them of his predicament. "I need one
man who's fast enough and healthy enough to get to Checkpoint Delta before
nightfall tomorrow. Any volunteers?" 

PV2 Evans had a sprained ankle, PFC Jackson was fighting walking pneumonia
and Slicksleeve Watson, well, Watson wasn't exactly the sharpest knife in
the drawer. His entrance scores qualified him to be a cook, and the army
in its infinite wisdom had given him a rifle and classified him Infantry.
A man didn't have to be smart to shoot the enemy. 

But Napoleon Solo was smart, very smart; smart enough to avert his eyes
when Becker glanced his way. He could feel the older man's gaze on him,
judging, sizing him up. That's when he made his mistake. He looked up and
met the intense green eyes with his own brown ones. 

"Solo. You were some kind of track star in school, weren't you?" Solo
nodded sheepishly. "Well, that makes you it, then." Napoleon heard the
quiet sighs of relief from the other three men as they drifted away to
hunt up lunch. Sgt. Becker jabbed a meaty finger into Solo's rank patch on
his upper sleeve. "Corporal," he spat derisively. "How'd you get that so
soon?" 

Solo looked at his face defiantly. He knew the Sarge wouldn't like the
answer. "ROTC. I had two years before I enlisted." 

Becker remained silent for a moment. When he next looked at Solo, there
was grudging respect in the expression. "College boy, huh? And you could
have stayed in; got a deferment. But you enlisted, anyway. How come?" 

He knew Becker didn't want to know the real reason he had enlisted. Hell,
he didn't want to remember what had driven him to the enlistment office
that day that seemed a lifetime ago. She would have turned twenty this
fall.... 

Corporal Solo looked at the tops of his scuffed and worn boots. No spit
and polish required in this unit. "It, ah, seemed like a good idea at the
time, Sarge." 

Becker snorted once, clapped him on the back and asked, "Starting to have
second thoughts now, son?" 

He thought of the bad food, squalid living quarters and the biting wind
that cut straight through his army issue like a knife. Napoleon smiled and
said, "Every damn day." 

Becker roared and tugged on Solo's arm, directing him into the command
tent. They sat in collapsible chairs and Becker drew Solo's attention to
the map spread out on the table. "We're here. Checkpoint Delta is here.
You probably marched past it two months ago when your group of
replacements got here. Look familiar?" 

Solo checked the orientation and squinted in the afternoon gloom. He
recognized the terrain. Marching across it had a tendency to etch it in
your body's memory sense. He knew too well the hilly, rocky and wholly
inhospitable country that the Republic of Korea boasted. 

"Yes, I know where it is." 

Becker grunted. "Your field pack up to regs?" Their unit was having
trouble getting supplies. The North Koreans were getting more from Uncle
Sam than his own soldiers were. 

"I'll need to draw C-rats and first aid supplies." 

Becker nodded and added, "Take an extra blanket. Cold snap coming down
from the north." 

Solo sighed. He hated the cold. He'd promised himself a trip to southern
California when his tour was up. 

"Once you get there, check in with Captain Sommers, grab any supplies
they'll let you have, and wheedle a jeep out of them for the trip back. I
need every available body back here by day after tomorrow for the next
push. Or, to bug out with, whichever comes first." 

Solo nodded and got up to grab his gear. Becker stopped him with a hand to
his shoulder. "And Solo, watch out for snipers. Last big push, 1st Cav
took some high ranking NKs. Our Soviet counterparts don't like the idea of
their intel leaking out. They send their own boys in to plug it up. You
keep your eyes peeled and listen to your short hairs, all right?" 

"Yes, Sarge." Napoleon shook the meaty hand offered him and stepped out
into the blustery wind that seemed determined to leech all his body heat
away. Lovely, he thought. Cold snap, my ass. It's freezing.... 

It didn't take long to gather what meager supplies his unit could spare.
Evans, Jackson and Watson gathered around his cot and added their bounty
to his loot. Relieved but feeling somewhat guilty that Solo had been
picked, they had pooled their resources. Evans held out two extra C-rats. 

Napoleon smiled when he saw the label. "Ah, Ev, you shouldn't have.
Beanies and Weenies." He kissed his fingers and made an expansive gesture.
Evans blushed and stepped back. Sometimes, Solo felt like the old man here
at nineteen. His squad consisted of boys just out of high school. They
were too poor to buy their way out of the draft and not smart enough to
get into college. Wars always seemed to be so populated. 

Jackson had a bundle behind his back. He pulled it out and Napoleon saw it
was a wool blanket, brand new and still clean. He held a hand out,
attempting to refuse, but the soldier's face darkened and he said, "Take
it, Lee. You're the one who's gonna need it. You drew the short straw, not
me." Solo nodded his thanks and added it to his bedroll. 

Watson held his hand out with a full pack of cigarettes in it, his entire
Red Cross ration. This time Solo did refuse, but he softened the rebuff.
"Thanks, Brian, but I can't smoke while on patrol. Enemy might smell me.
Do me a favor and hang on to them for me. We'll all have one when I get
back, all right?" Brain nodded, his red hair flopping into his eyes. 

Napoleon felt his throat tighten as he said goodbye. He had only been here
two months, but war had a way of bonding men together in a short time.
Swallowing hard, he shook hands with each soldier and said, "Watch your
backs while I'm gone. Things could get bad in a hurry." 

"CYA, Lee?" Evans asked, grinning. 

"Yeah, Ev. CYA, buddy." Solo swung his pack onto his shoulders and
adjusted the straps. He gave his M1 Garand a final check: locked and
loaded. He heard the men talking behind him but did not look back. 

Brian was needling Ev about something. "What's CYA mean, Ev? Huh?" 

Evans just laughed and didn't answer. Napoleon repressed a grin as he
heard Brian try Watson. He, too, refused to answer. 

As Solo walked into the deepening afternoon shadows, he heard Watson's
wheedling, "Aw, come on, fellows. Somebody tell me." It made it that much
harder to keep going. 

 

He followed a small defile that ran away from the camp. In the rainy
season it would be a thick gorge choked with water and brush, but now it
was just a dry gulch graveled and treacherous to foot traffic. Solo kept a
careful eye on the terrain ahead but cast around every few seconds,
scanning the horizon for anything moving or out of place. Of course, if
there were a sniper, he'd never see him before it was too late. That
thought caused an itch to start twitching between his shoulder blades
where his pack was centered. He sighed. Cut it out, Solo, before you start
talking to yourself. 

Gusts of wind buffeted him every so often, making him stagger and curse
under his breath. He pulled his field jacket tighter around his midsection
with the drawstring and covered the strip of skin on his exposed wrists
with the woolen glove inserts. He kept the pace brisk to cover ground
quickly and keep him warm as well. 

Napoleon reckoned he had covered close to five miles when the hair on the
back of his neck prickled. He took meager cover in a copse of stunted
trees and waited. The wind drifted and swirled around him, making
listening difficult, but he heard nothing and saw nothing. He waited a few
minutes more to be safe and then cautiously crept out of his cover.
Napoleon shook his head, hoping he was just being paranoid. Maybe Sarge's
dire warning had shaken him up more than it should have. 

He lost himself in the steady cadence of his stride, the beating of his
heart, and the caustic bite of cold air as it entered his lungs. His chest
was beginning to ache from the frigid air and he pulled his woolen scarf
up to cover his mouth. It trapped warm moist air and funneled it from the
vee of his neck to his mouth. He felt warmer immediately and his chest
stopped hurting a moment later. 

Wanting to put at least fifteen miles in before stopping for chow or rest,
Solo nevertheless had to stop for a call of nature. He left the worn
defile and aimed for the thicker overgrowth of bushes to his right. It
took a moment to unfasten enough of the thick wool layers that he could
relieve himself on a convenient bush. Idly he watched the spray of his
steaming urine as it dribbled and ran down the thin branches of the poor
excuse for a shrub. There was a spot on the backside of the bush that
looked as if something had stirred the ground surrounding it. Recently.
Very recently, his mind screamed at him. 

Not wanting to be caught literally with his pants down, Napoleon quickly
finished and zipped. He appeared to be taking a breather, but he was
carefully scanning the immediate area. There weren't any cigarette butts
left behind, no garbage or pieces of human flotsam or jetsam scattered
about, but Solo's sixth sense told him that someone had squatted next to
this very bush and watched him coming. 

The first instance he could shrug off as nerves. This second one.... He
was certain he was being watched, if not outright followed. He was
listening to his short hairs after all. 

He meandered casually back to the thin trail and tried to appear bored and
unaware. A half-mile or so ahead he could see where the rocky slopes of a
saddle encroached on the defile. A plan formed in his mind and he headed
for the narrowest part of the stricture. Once he was sure the outcropping
hid him from view, he sprinted to the left, circling around one side of
the saddle. Adrenaline surged through him, making his tired leg muscles
pump, his arms catching handholds to speed him along. He checked the
rifle, making sure the safety was off. 

As he rounded the short side of the saddle, he watched for his quarry.
He'd been fast enough to catch him from behind before the enemy passed
through the narrows, but as he drew nearer he saw no one there. What the
hell? 

Solo crept slowly forward, hugging the rocky slope as he searched the
crags. He saw a rock zigzag its way down from the right side of the
saddle. He tensed and saw a number of the rock's cousins join it. All
right. I've got you now, he thought. 

He brought the rifle sights up and focused the weapon on the top of the
small slide. Now that he was closer, he could hear the crunch of booted
feet on the loose gravel at the top of the hillock. The sound stopped
abruptly as his pursuer realized his prey wasn't in sight. A moment later
a camouflaged figure entered directly into his line of fire. North Korean
uniform.... Solo's finger tensed on the trigger. 

Just before he fired he saw distinct surprise register on the square face
of his target, and the man bring his sniper rifle up quickly. Not quickly
enough to make much difference. Solo's rifle cracked in the silence,
sounding like thunder to his ears. Napoleon watched with mixed awe and
horror as his round hit the target, driving him back with the impact and
staggering him. His head covering flew off with the appulse of the bullet
and Solo was shocked to see bright blond hair beneath. A blond Korean? 

He surged forward to check on the enemy's condition. The soldier was down
on one knee, breathing like a bellows. He heard Solo coming and tried to
get to his feet. His weapon was still in his hand though hanging from
nearly nerveless fingers. The smallish man risked a look at his attacker
to gauge the distance. Frantically, he pushed himself to his feet and
tried to throw himself over the top of the hillock to put distance between
them. He almost made it. 

Solo watched as the scene played out before him. He was too far to stop
him and too close not to see the disastrous result in living color. The
man stumbled to his knees once again as his legs refuse to take his weight
and began to slide down the sharp incline. His rifle clattered from his
hand and reached the bottom a few seconds before he did. Napoleon winced
as he clearly heard the soldier's head strike the ground as he landed
hard. 

Expecting the worst, Solo crossed the trail and advanced on the downed
foe. He was lying on his side facing away from Solo. His weapon was a few
feet from his left hand. Napoleon covered the body and carefully kicked
the weapon out of reach. A low moan came from the inert form and Solo
tensed, walking in front of him to see how badly he was hurt. Napoleon
used his boot to turn him onto his back. 

The mana boy, really, from the looks of himstared up at him in shock and
despair. Solo's shot had taken him through the left side, blood staining
the uniform front and back. Through and through, Solo registered. The pale
features were matched by paler blue eyes, dilated with fear and hazy from
the head wound. Blood seeped from a gash on his right temple and an ugly
knot was growing there as well. 

Solo stared at his prisoner and wondered what the hell to do with him. He
was wearing a North Korean uniform. Napoleon would be well within his
rights to shoot him as a spy and be done with it. Obviously, he was
Russian. Probably KGB. GRU at the least. He looked so young, though.... 

Solo shook his head and decided to give him the benefit of the doubt. He
set his rifle out of the boy's reach and shrugged off his pack. "Do you
speak English?" 

There was no response save for painful panting. Solo opened his first aid
kit and took out a field dressing. He showed it to the young man and said,
"I need to stop the bleeding. Understand?" He fished out a packet of sulfa
as well and knelt beside the Russian. The blue eyes widened a bit as Solo
tugged gently at the uniform top, exposing the wound in his side. It
wasn't pretty and it bled alarmingly. The blond tried to sit up and look
himself, but subsided with his hand pressed against his temple, moaning.
Solo placed the dressing and tied it as tightly as he could. His charge
bit his lip against the pain and tried to roll on his side. Napoleon
quickly rolled him over and held his head as he retched again and again.
His stomach must have been empty, as only thin brownish liquid came up.
The pain vomiting caused must have been severe as he panted against it,
obviously trying not to show the enemy how badly he was hurt. 

Solo sat on his heels trying to formulate a plan. He was too far away to
carry the prisoner back to camp and too far from Checkpoint Delta to do
either of them any good. It was fast approaching dark and they were out in
the open. He made up his mind and retrieved his gear and scooped up the
Russian's rifle. He returned to the narrow place in the trail and shook
one of the blankets out on the ground against the leeward side of the
defile. 

The American returned to his prisoner and carefully pulled him up to a
sitting position and then hefted him over his shoulder. He tried to ignore
the cry of pain his rough handling elicited. The soldier barely weighed a
hundred fifteen, hundred twenty pounds tops. 

"Sorry." He picked his way back cautiously and gently set the boy down on
the blanket. He placed the first aid pouch under his head and saw the
uncertainty and confusion race across the pain-etched face. 

"I'm not going to hurt you, understand?" He pulled out his flashlight and
pointed to the man's face, his eyes. Solo quickly checked his reflexes,
wanting to know the extent of the head trauma. The pupils were equal but
sluggish. The knot was bleeding less but growing darker and more bruised.
Solo soaked another dressing in water from his canteen and placed it over
the lump. The kid swallowed a hiss at the pain and gulped once or twice. 

"Hurts like hell, huh?" Napoleon didn't know if he understood or not, but
his choices for conversation were limited. "I'm sorry I can't give you any
morphine with that head wound. Just try to lie still, eh, tovarisch?" 

The blue eyes opened wider at the use of the Russian word for friend.
Napoleon shrugged. "Well, it's better than 'Hey, you.'" He looked
pointedly at the Korean uniform and said aloud, "You're the funniest
looking Korean I ever did see." 

He decided to try the few words of Russian he knew. "Kak vas zavut?" 

The boy narrowed his eyes at him as if gauging the question. "Kuryakin,"
he said weakly. "Illya Nickovetch Kuryakin." A coughing fit overtook him
and he tried to roll over. The American steadied him again until the
spasms passed. He seemed to breathe easier on his side so Solo propped him
up with part of the blanket. 

"Govorite pa-russki?" Illya asked between breaths. He was growing paler by
the minute, and his voice was a bare whisper. Solo checked the bandage and
was concerned at the amount of blood loss. 

"Nyet, nyet." He wiped the blood from Kuryakin's face with the wet
dressing and was glad to see the head wound had stopped bleeding. 

"Is all right. I speak good English." The Russian almost smiled. 

Solo laughed. "Well, Mr. Kuryakin, was it? That's great because I don't
speak Russian, good or otherwise." He noticed his prisoner shivering, his
body trembling with shock and cold. Solo sighed and pulled out the
remaining blanket, covering the small body with it as well. He tucked it
around the smaller man and heard him sigh. 

Solo sat next to him and asked gently, "How old are you?" 

He looked puzzled for a moment and then answered, "Eighteen." 

"Try again." 

The blue eyes closed in pain and resignation. "Sixteen." The word was
slurred and indistinct with shock. The Russian's face relaxed as he lost
consciousness. Solo checked his pulse and couldn't rouse him. He changed
the bandage and noted it looked like the wound was clotting to some
extent. Still, he didn't think the kid had much chance of making it
through the night. That would at least solve my problem if he dies. The
American felt a stab of guilt as the words ran through his head. Solo
exhaled loudly in sheer frustration and looked morosely at the hard
scrabble of rock where he had been sitting. He placed his rifle within a
quick grab's reach and took his .45 out of his pack, securing it in his
waistband at the small of his back. 

He sighed, then lay down on the blanket and used the second one to snug
around them both, placing his body next to his prisoner's, spooning up as
close as he could without risking injuring him further. He heard a small
sound from the boy. It sounded like, "Mikhail" or something like it.
Obviously, he was delirious. Napoleon said, "Da, da," and felt the small
body relax in the loose embrace. A moment later he was asleep as well. 

 

Hours later Napoleon started awake. Disoriented, he felt the body next to
him shivering with cold and remembered. He placed a hand on the Russian's
forehead and felt the cold, clammy skin where it wasn't lumpy with
bruises. The kid moaned in his fitful sleep, mumbling incoherently in
Russian. 

Solo felt the wind plucking at the edges of the bedroll, its intensity
increasing as the temperature decreased. He swore and pulled the slight
body closer to him, throwing the top part of the blanket over their heads.
Their combined body heat and warm exhalations soon had them cocooned in
relative comfort. At least he's still alive. 

Napoleon listened for a few moments, hoping to hear the roar of a jeep
engine or the chug of a deuce and a half but heard nothing more than the
howl of the ever-present wind. Illya's shivering became less pronounced
and he wormed his way backward toward the heat of Solo's body. Another
couple of minutes and the Russian sighed complacently and drifted deeper
into sleep. There was nothing else to do but wait for dawn, so Solo went
back to sleep as well. 

The sun had already risen, but the hillocks surrounding them kept the
light and heat from reaching the two sleeping men. Napoleon's bladder was
better than an alarm clock, however. He drifted slowly awake, the quiet
and the warmth surrounding him lulling his body and making it difficult to
rouse completely. As he stretched he felt his prisoner beginning to wake
as well, and he slowly and carefully rolled away. 

The wind had died during the night and it was eerily still now. Solo got
to his feet, every muscle protesting a night on the hard ground. The
Russian was just beginning to stir and the older man took a quick trip to
the bushes before he woke completely. 

Solo swung both rifles on his back and returned the pistol to his pack,
out of Kuryakin's reach. He squatted next to the man, waiting until the
bleary blue eyes opened and stayed open. Kuryakin tried to sit up and
stifled the cry that tried to eke out. He gasped quietly instead, shutting
his eyes as weakness swamped him. In a moment his eyes opened once again
and he glanced to the side. He didn't try to hide his look of
disappointment that the American was still there. 

Solo read the look and smiled. "Yep, still here, I'm afraid. I wasn't a
dream." 

The young man sighed and looked straight ahead. "I thought perhaps you
were a... a nachtmare?" 

Solo laughed at that, and patted Kuryakin's shoulder gently. "Nightmare.
Yes, I can see where you might. You had a rough night from the sounds of
it." 

The Russian's face pinched with embarrassment. If he'd had enough blood in
his system, he would have blushed. As it was he merely appeared less pale
for a moment or two. "I am sorry. I don't remember last night. But thank
you for keeping me from freezing to death." 

Solo shrugged. "We kept each other warm. Worked both ways." He eyed the
blond man critically. "Will you let me check you out? I promise not to
hurt you." Anymore, he thought ruefully. 

Illya looked away, resigned. Solo pulled the blanket back and removed the
bandage. The skin around the entry wound was purple and swollen and there
was a pronounced bulge in the lower abdomen. Napoleon gently probed the
site and heard Illya whimper in pain once before the sound was grimly
bitten back. He was down to his last dressing. 

The Russian was silent and kept his eyes averted. Napoleon took his pulse
and felt a steady but weak rhythm. He tapped the hand closest to him and
saw Illya's pain-filled eyes move to meet his. "Can you drink something?
Just a little? You're getting badly dehydrated." 

The boy nodded. He avidly watched Solo take out his canteen and pour a bit
into the cap. Napoleon supported Kuryakin's head as he poured the liquid
between the chapped lips. Solo talked to him as he drank. "I don't think
the bullet touched stomach or intestines. It should be all right for you
to drink small quantities. Your spleen is enlarged from the looks of the
swelling. That's where the pain and bleeding is." 

The injured man regarded his captor with a puzzled look. Solo noticed the
scrutiny. "What?" he asked. 

Illya sighed before he answered. "Why you are taking care of me like this?
Why you do not just shoot me and get on with your mission?" 

Napoleon thought about his answer. This one deserved the truth and would
probably see though a lie, anyway. He finger combed his forelock back over
his head and sat down on the rocky ground. "Well, Americans don't normally
shoot their wounded prisoners. And it's against the Geneva Convention. If
you've been told otherwise, it's a lie." He grinned a lopsided smile at
Illya before winking at him. "Besides, I honestly don't know who's likely
to come marching down that path first. Yours or mine. It never hurts to
hedge a bet." 

The Russian soldier looked puzzled at that phrase. He looked a question at
Solo. 

"Hedge a bet means play the odds in your favor. Try to turn the outcome
around." 

Illya nodded. "Like gambling?" 

"Uh huh. So tell me, Mr. Kuryakin, how does a good Communist know about
gambling? I thought that was reserved for decadent Amerikanskis." 

Illya snorted and then caught his breath. "And for the Politburo." 

"See? We're not so different, you and I, my Russian friend." 

Kuryakin narrowed his eyes. "That is second time you have called me
friend. Do all Americans act this way?" 

"Ah, well, probably not. But we're in a bad situation and the two of us at
each other's throats won't make it any better, will it? Seems to me
cooperation is in order." 

Illya shrugged. "I don't believe there is much I can do for you at present
time." 

Napoleon sobered. "Just remember this if I end up your prisoner, all
right?" 

Kuryakin looked disturbed and dropped his chin on his chest. 

"What?" 

"The North Koreans don't take prisoners. And the Soviets certainly do not.
If my people arrive first, we are both dead men." 

"Both? Why would your own people kill you?" Napoleon's face betrayed his
shock. He was very American and not used to the cannon fodder philosophy
of most armies. 

"I am... how is it... disposable?" 

"Expendable?" Solo asked. 

"Yes. Expendable. I am wounded and have not fulfilled my mission. They
would shoot me in back of head and leave me behind." He saw the look of
horror flash across the American's face. "You, they would interrogate and
then shoot." 

Solo shook his head, not believing what he heard. "Well, let's just hope
my people find us first." He thought for a moment and then regarded the
boy. "Look, I'm starving. Do you think you could eat anything?" 

Kuryakin shook his head adamantly. The pressure in his abdomen was nearing
intolerable levels. Just thinking of food made him nauseous. 

Solo gave him another drink of water and then moved to the rock ledge. He
took out a C-rat and tore into it, stomach growling loudly as he opened
the cans. He ate the beans and weenies, crackers and cheese and peaches,
but saved the chocolate bar for later. He'd need the energy. He drained
the peach juice from the can into his canteen cup and went back to
Kuryakin. He was nearly asleep again, and his color was worse. 

"Hey, Illya, wake up, boy." 

Kuryakin stirred and didn't object when Solo propped his head on one knee.
"Drink this. It's okay. It's just fruit juice." Kuryakin swallowed the
thick sweet liquid and gagged. 

"Slower. Just try to get this down. You need the fluids and the sugar." 

Illya took deep breaths and finished the cup. Solo leaned him against his
chest and ran his hands up and down the cold arms. 

"All right. You try to wake up a bit and keep that down. I've got an
idea." Solo thought aloud, letting Kuryakin hear in case he had a better
suggestion. 

"Waiting here is getting us nowhere. You need medical attention in the
worst way. I'm not thrilled with the idea of the North Korean Army
stumbling on us, either. Way I figure it, we've got two options. We can go
back the way I came and hope my unit is still there. Or we can go forward
and get to my company commander's base." 

The Russian stirred slightly. "There is other option." 

"Let's hear it." 

Solo felt the slender body stiffen. "You shoot me and leave me here and
get back to your men." 

Napoleon wondered at the mindset that could think the way this Russian
did. "That's not going to happen." 

Solo's no-nonsense tone appeared to get through to the soldier. Illya's
voice sounded very young and frightened as he spoke again. Napoleon was
quickly reminded that this soldier was only a teenager. "What..." He took
a steadying breath and finished, "What will your people do with me?" 

Mindful of the indoctrination this Russian had received, Solo told him the
truth. "You'll receive medical attention. When you're stable, you'll be
interrogated." He felt the shoulders tighten at the word 'interrogated.'
"Don't worry, Illya. We don't use torture or drugs. You'll be treated in
accordance with the Geneva Convention, I promise you." 

The younger man shrugged, obviously not believing it. "My country laughs
at the Conventions." 

"Well, perhaps that's one of the reasons my country is over here fighting
for these people." 

Solo cleared his throat when Illya didn't answer. At least the boy had
relaxed a bit. "How're you feeling now? Good that you kept the juice
down." 

"Better, I think." 

Napoleon got to his feet and looked down at the Russian, noting that his
color had improved. "No time like the present. Can you get to your feet?" 

"I will try." 

Solo leaned into him and gently pulled while he staggered to his unsteady
feet. Kuryakin bent double, but refused to sit down. The soldier weaved,
nearly fell, Solo's strength keeping him up. 

"Just take it slow and easy. Get your sea-legs." 

Illya seemed to get the gist of the words if not their meaning. He slowly
raised his head and grimaced, lips set in a thin line. He removed Solo's
arm and stood on his own, wavering just a bit. The American stayed close
and watched his prisoner's face. When it appeared he would stay vertical,
Solo left him long enough to gather his gear. The Soviet standard issue
Mosin-Nagent rifle, Solo broke down and threw to the four winds. 

The American frowned at the uniform his charge still wore. "Ah, look,
Illya, it would be better if you didn't show up wearing a NKA uniform.
Technically you could be shot as a spy for wearing it. You being Russian
and all." He glanced at the worn trousers. They wouldn't give anything
away as they were threadbare and nearly worn out. Solo helped Kuryakin out
of the woolen blouse, carefully pulling it away where blood had pooled and
stiffened the fabric. Next he placed one blanket across Illya's shoulders
and rolled the second one up onto his pack. 

A thought struck him as he looked the disheveled man over. "Do you have
any identification papers that we should dispose of? Anything in your pack
worth going back for?" He hoped there were medical supplies at least. 

Illya shrugged. "I only had one extra magazine and a compass. My unit does
not carry any type of identification for obvious reasons." 

Solo sighed. "No food or first aid supplies?" 

"I ran out of food days ago." Illya hung his head in shame. This American
seemed to have everything and he had nothing to contribute. 

Solo's head came up sharply. "When was the last time you ate anything?" 

The Russian shook his head. "What day is it?" 

"Thursday." 

"I shot a rabbit on Monday. My rations ran out a few days before that." 

Napoleon swore loudly in Italian. "How do they expect you to do your job
under those conditions?" 

"My superiors expect me to fulfill my mission or die trying. We do not
know any other way." 

Napoleon's heart went out to this young soldier whose short life had been
dictated by men in authority over him. Hell of a life, he thought. "Well,
I can honestly say that you'll be better treated by your enemy than your
own countrymen." Illya seemed to not hear him. Napoleon decided to let the
lecture go but added, "You'll have to come up with some kind of story as
to why you were here. I'm assuming your country sent you here to 'educate'
the backward North Korean Army in the fighting ways of Mother Russia?"
Kuryakin looked embarrassed but nodded anyway. "All right. From what we've
heard from the U.N. forces that story will work. Let's get moving." 

Solo went to Illya's bad side, placing the Russian's left arm across his
shoulders and wrapping his own right around his waist. He felt the smaller
body tighten in pain, but there was no sound. "Ready?" 

"Not quite." The Russian looked at him and Solo was startled to see how
blue his eyes were this close. Napoleon raised his eyebrows at him in a
silent question. 

"I would like to know your name. You have not told me. Your name tag says,
'Solo.' Is this real name, yes?" 

Solo chuckled. "Yes, but wait 'til you hear my first name." He leaned
closer and whispered it in Kuryakin's ear. 

The Russian's eyes widened and his first real smile broke across the
boyish face. 

Napoleon matched the smile. "Come on, tovarisch. We've got 'miles to go
before we sleep.'" 

"Robert Frost." 

Solo goggled at the young Soviet. 

"We do have books in Soviet Union, my Amerikanski friend." 

Solo shook his head in wonder. There was more to this kid than met the
eye. They took a tentative step. Illya hissed in pain but kept going. 

"So tell me, Professor. What do you think of Homer?" 

Solo kept up the banter as they made their painful way together. 

 

The American decided going back the way he came was the better choice. The
distance was shorter and the chances of meeting resistance from the enemy
less. He wasn't overdue yet, so he knew it was too early to expect his
unit to miss him. Looking at the drawn face of his traveling companion, he
knew it wouldn't be long before he'd have to carry Kuryakin. Or leave him
behind to get help on his own. He didn't like that option and kept it to
himself. 

For his part, the Russian was gamely putting one foot in front of the
other. But his breathing was harsh and painful and his steps were getting
wearier. He stumbled heavily against Solo and moaned. "How... far have we
come?" he asked hopefully. 

Solo lied, "About five miles." It was closer to three. Sister Mary Cabot
would forgive him a white lie, wouldn't she? He knew Kuryakin was near
collapse but didn't let on. "Let's take a breather." 

Illya groaned in agreement and slid down Solo's body wearily. Napoleon
took out the extra blanket and draped it over the lower half of Kuryakin's
body. He propped him up against his chest and listened to the struggle for
breath going on in the slim body. Illya had a gray tinge to his lips and
his fingernails were turning blue. Napoleon sighed and laid his head on
top of Illya's hair gently. He hugged him against his body and tried to
give him some of his own warmth. It won't be long now. 

Kuryakin's head lolled against Solo's shoulder as he drifted in and out of
consciousness. He woke abruptly, stiffening and crying out, "Papa! Papa,
gde ty?" 

Napoleon's eyes brimmed with tears as he listened to the Russian words. He
didn't know them but he understood just the same. "I'm sorry, Illya. I'm
so sorry. Another time, another place, we might have been friends." 

Kuryakin roused a bit and looked around him. He took a few measured
breaths and then said, "Napoleon." It was the first time he had called
Solo by his first name. 

"Yes, Illya?" 

"Go. You must go." 

Solo grasped his shoulders tightly. "I won't leave you here like this." 

Illya shuddered. A sharp sound of agony came from him and the tears
finally spilled down Solo's face. "Then... give me your pistol and... walk
away." 

"No!" Solo shouted. "I won't! I'll carry you the rest of the way if I have
to." 

One pale hand drifted up slowly to take Napoleon's. "We both know this
is... is far as I go." 

Napoleon buried his face in Kuryakin's hair, his tears wetting the crown.
"I can't, Illya. I can't...." 

Kuryakin squeezed Solo's hand weakly. "I know, tovarisch. That is why
you're going to leave me the gun." 

Napoleon started to argue but he knew the Russian was right. If their
positions were reversed, he'd want the same consideration. He shrugged out
of his backpack and reached in for the M1911. Through blurry eyes he
checked the ammo and made sure it was loaded. He jacked a round and they
both flinched from the cold hard sound. 

Solo wrapped his arms around his new friend one last time, telling him
goodbye. He wanted to tell him more, but he knew the soldier in each of
them understood the other despite their differences in ideology. He placed
the .45 in Illya's right hand and slowly edged away, and then came around
to the front and looked into his eyes. Solemnly, he kissed him on both
cheeks, Russian style. Illya smiled a weak smile as he tried to brush
Solo's tears away with a hand that was too weak to lift. His fingers
brushed Napoleon's lips gently and the American surprised them both by
leaning in to kiss him on his cold lips. It was a tender and sweet
embrace, and both men were rocked by the promise of it. 

Napoleon broke the contact and then laid Illya down gently and covered him
as best he could with the blanket. He did not look back as he forced his
feet to move away. He knew he couldn't get far enough away not to hear the
shot. He kept moving anyway. 

The wind had freshened again. He heard it growing as he rounded a bend in
the hilly terrain. His vision was dim and it took a minute for his fogged
brain to register another noise in the background. It grew as he walked on
and it suddenly became clear to him. A jeep! It was the straining sound of
a jeep loaded down with too many bodies. He knew that sound well. His
elation was short lived as he jumped into the nearest depression. Just who
was driving the jeep? 

The vehicle came into view a few seconds later and he jumped up as he
recognized Sgt. Becker. He waved frantically and leaped into its path.
"Stop! Stop, it's me, Solo." 

Becker stood in the cab as it lurched to a stop inches from the soldier.
"Solo!" he bellowed. "What in Sam Hill are you doing, you idiot?" 

Napoleon dropped his pack and his rifle next to the bewildered man. He
took off at a frantic run and said, "Follow me." 

"Follow....Where the hell are you going?" 

Solo had indeed been a track star in college and he ran now like he'd
never run before. He tore up the ground, legs pumping and arms pistoning
as he flew back to Kuryakin. Almost there... almost there, Illya, hold on.
He rounded the bend again and then he heard it. The distinct sound of a
.45 firing. No, God, please, no! Not now, not when I'm so close.... 

He scrubbed viciously at his eyes as he covered the rest of the distance.
One last twist and then he was there. Kuryakin's body lay still on the
blanket, unmoving. The hand with the .45 lay limply at his side. Smoke
still curled lazily from the barrel. 

Solo dropped to his knees where he was, too sick at heart to go any
further. "Illya, Illya, no...." He didn't want to see the beautiful face
marred by the violent end. He covered his face with his hands. A sudden
breeze picked up a sound from the blanket. It sounded like his name. Just
the wind playing tricks on me. I will not lose it.... 

He heard it again. "Napoleon?" The faintest stirring of Illya's voice
drifted to him. He surged to his feet and ran toward the blanket, spewing
gravel over the form as he skidded to a halt. "Illya? Illya!" Kuryakin
looked up at him, too weak even to smile. "What happened? I heard the
shot?" 

"Couldn't hold the guntoo heavy...." There was a scorch mark on the
blanket next to Illya's head where his hand had fallen back a split-second
before it discharged. Blood seeped from his right ear from the concussive
blast. 

Napoleon placed his hand on Illya's cold cheek and closed his eyes. Thank
you, God, and thank you Sister Mary Cabot. Solo heard the jeep squeal to a
stop and the harsh voice of Becker yelling at him. 

"What the hell are you doing, Solo?" He saw the body on the ground and
strode over, hand automatically going to his sidearm when he neared the
scene. Solo placed his hand over the holster. 

"No, Sarge. He's my prisoner. My responsibility." 

Becker pulled the blanket from the soldier and saw the blood-covered
undershirt and sodden field dressing. "Medic!" he ordered. "You shoot
him?" He chewed on the stub of a cigar as he asked questions. It had gone
out miles ago but he'd held onto it. Now, he threw it to the ground. He
had something else to worry. 

Solo nodded. He'd slipped under Illya to support his head and was holding
the .45 loosely. Even Becker had to agree this man was no threat. He was
barely alive. 

A medic ran up carrying a field kit. "How bad?" He started when he saw a
blond-haired, blue-eyed 'prisoner.' He immediately started an I.V. and
pumped in fluids rapidly. 

Solo helped and he soon had a unit of plasma in place as well. The
corporal finished with a shot of penicillin and inspected the wound.
"Nasty. Probably needs a spleenectomy. We get him stable enough that he
can live through the operation, that is." 

Napoleon nodded and only then met the eyes of his sergeant. 

Becker said, "Guess you got some story to tell, huh, Corporal?" 

 

Solo recited an edited version of his story, saying that he had surprised
a lost Russian soldier cut off from his unit and that he'd been forced to
shoot him in self-defense. He helped the medic move Kuryakin to the bed of
one of the deuces, making an impromptu litter out of a slab of wood and a
sleeping bag. They hung the bottles of I.V. fluids and made the Russian as
comfortable as possible. He was unconscious but his color improved by the
minute. Becker had tried to relieve Solo, but he refused to leave the
prisoner's side. "He's my responsibility, Sarge. Besides, he'll need to
see a familiar face when he wakes up." 

Becker scowled at his subordinate. "What do you care, Solo? He is the
enemy, you know." 

Solo sighed. "Well, Sarge, this enemy is barely old enough to shave. Look
at him, he's just a kid." 

"Hell, half this platoon ain't old enough to vote, either, in case you
hadn't noticed. Doesn't stop them from blowing the bad guys to hell. Won't
stop this one either." 

"Look, Sergeant Becker, I accept full responsibility for this prisoner. I
personally guaranteed him he would be treated according to the Geneva
Conventions. I don't give my word lightly." The fire in Solo's eyes flared
brightly as Becker took another step nearer. 

The sergeant was used to being obeyed, but he also allowed his men to
think for themselves when it was warranted. Solo had obviously been
through a lot already and making an issue of this man would be
counterproductive. 

Becker fished into his right blouse pocket and pulled out a third of a
cigar. He took his time lighting it and drawing on it until it was going
satisfactorily. He pointed the stubby end at Solo. "All right, son. You
get to baby-sit the Commie." A cloud of blue smoke gusted from him as he
added, "You just remember one thing, though. The only Russians you gonna
find 'round here are snipers and assassins. Which one you reckon that
cherub-faced Soviet is?" 

Napoleon started to reply when a small cough came from the deck. "Corporal
Illya Nickovetch Kuryakin. Serial number SVN2249537." 

Becker's eyebrows disappeared into his hairline. "Hey, he speaks English."
He squatted next to the boy and asked, "What's your unit, and who is your
commanding officer?" 

Kuryakin laid his head back wearily and recited in a bare whisper,
"Corporal Illya Nickovetch Kuryakin. Serial number SVN2249537." He drifted
off again, the warmth of the sleeping bag and the first aid lulling him
into peaceful sleep. 

Becker tromped to the end of the deuce and bellowed. "Kaminski! Get your
skinny butt over here on the double." 

The unit's dark-haired radio operator came trotting as fast as his gangly
legs could bring him. "Yes, Sarge?" he panted. 

"Get on that horn and tell HQ we got us a prisoner. A Soviet prisoner name
of...." He looked at Solo. 

"Kuryakin, Illya Nickovetch." 

Becker glared. "What he said, Kaminski...." 

"You got it, Sarge." 

Becker jumped down from the tailgate and gave one last look to the two
soldiers in the truck. "Guess his side should know where he is, at least.
There might be somebody missing him." 

Napoleon remembered Illya calling for his papa in his delirium. "I hope
so," he said. "He did say his own people would kill him if he is returned
to them." 

The Sarge sighed in frustration. "Look, we had to bug out early this
morning. We're so close to the enemy we are the front lines." He seemed to
think for a moment and then yelled again. "Evans!" 

Evans appeared a moment later. He grinned at Solo and said, "Hiya, Lee,
welcome back." 

"Thanks, Ev." 

"Pardon the interruption, but would you mind breaking it up long enough to
get me a uniform?" Becker blew smoke in Evan's eyes and watched him cough
and sputter. 

"Uh, sure, Sarge. What size?" 

Solo answered. "Small-short." He was way ahead of his NCO. "Smart idea,
Sarge." 

"Well, at least they won't know who they got if we get overrun. Cover up
that blond head while you're at it, Solo. Least until he gets an American
uniform on." He walked away screaming orders as he went. "Twenty minute
chow break. Smoke 'em if you got 'em." 

Solo relaxed against the side of the truck. Illya was out cold. A familiar
face peeked into the truck bed and smiled at him. He held out a pack of
cigs. 

Napoleon beamed back and said, "Well, hey, there, Brian. I see you
remembered my cigarettes." The older man took the pack and opened the
seal. He lit two of them and handed one back. Watkins and Evans appeared
as if drawn to the smell of the cigarettes. Ev tossed the uniform to Solo
and Solo tossed the pack to his buddies. They all drew the smoke deeply
into their lungs with sighs of pleasure. 

The guys watched avidly as Solo stripped the soiled and bloody clothes
from his prisoner. When he had Illya down to dingy gray briefs, Napoleon
got a good look at the condition this Russian soldier was really in.
Skinny to the point of emaciated, the pale body shivered in the cold air.
Every rib stood out starkly and his collar and hip bones were well
defined. 

Jackson spoke first. "Geez, don't they feed their guys?" 

Evans added, "He's just a kid, ain't he, Lee?" 

Solo nodded and rapidly began dressing the injured man. Pulling socks over
the cold feet, he noted the soles were covered in sores and blisters. He
carefully disconnected the I.V. lines long enough to pull the t-shirt and
fatigue blouse over the skinny arms. The trousers hung on the scarecrow
frame and he had to snug the waist tabs as tight as they would go. He
finished by zipping the bag up as far as he could and then threw another
blanket over Illya's chest and upper body. 

Sitting back down, Solo enjoyed a moment with his friends. "So how's it
going with you boys?" 

"Not anything to write home about," Jackson answered. "We got the word
that the NK were gonna push our way today so we bugged out before we could
get orders confirmed. Sarge says we're just gonna meet up with Company HQ
and then regroup." 

Evans nodded to the Russian. "So what's the story on this guy, Lee? You
shoot him?" 

Solo nodded. "He was trying to get the drop on me, but I got him first." 

"Atta boy, Lee," Brian said and then regretted it when he saw the look on
Solo's face. "Aw, gee, Lee. I didn't mean nothing by it." 

Napoleon let him off the hook. "I know you didn't, Brian." He flicked his
cigarette butt off the tailgate and took a swig from his canteen. "Brian,
go tell the medic he needs another round will you?" Both I.V. bottles were
nearly empty. 

The truck engine started with a growl and the men jumped down, getting
back to their assigned vehicles. "We'll see you later, Lee," Jackson said.


The medic, Cpl. Juarez, hopped into the truck, shoving a box of C-rats
into Solo's hands. "Okay, fellows. Thanks for the reception." Napoleon
watched his prisoner's new solutions being set into place and dug into his
food. 

 

A full stomach and the contented snores coming from the sleeping bag
lulled Solo to sleep within a few minutes of the convoy's start. He was
propped against his backpack next to Illya when the unmistakable sound of
an AK-47 ripped through the air. More weapons joined the melee and the
American heard the return fire from BAR's and shouts of alarm and
surprise. The truck lurched to a halt and the cry of "Medic!" rang out
loud and clear. 

Juarez hightailed it out of the truck and went to tend the wounded. Solo
jerked his rifle up and placed his pack next to Illya. He wanted to join
his squad but knew his first consideration was to guard Kuryakin. He was
awake, his eyes wide and fearful. "Schto?" he asked. 

"Just lie still. I'll try to take a look around...." 

His words were cut off by the intrusion of a small round face at the
corner of the truck's flap. "NKA!" Solo shouted, bringing his weapon to
bear on the small target. He fired and heard the roar of his enemy's
weapon going off at the same time he pulled his trigger. His shot went
wide and he felt a searing pain in his right shoulder. He dropped his
rifle and staggered backwards from the impact. He landed against the front
panel of the truck and saw the barrel of the AK-47 point at his head. It
looked like a cannon at this distance and Solo knew his luck had just run
out. Another roar went off in the close quarters and he jerked, expecting
to be dead. The NK went down with half his head missing. 

Napoleon felt like he was mired in molasses. He turned his head to see
Illya clutching his .45 automatic. Shaking his head, Solo slumped next to
the Russian, ears ringing and shoulder burning like fire. He heard Illya's
concerned voice from a long distance. 

The next few moments went by like time-lapse photography. Solo could hear
his own stressed breathing, and orders being shouted around them. He tried
to lift his head but had no strength. 

The truck flap was thrown back sharply and Becker filled the opening with
his large angry body. He had blood running from his forehead and was
loaded for bear. What he saw in the truck was a Soviet soldier holding an
American issue .45 auto and Solo lying next to him bleeding heavily. "You
Commie bastard," he growled as his finger tightened on the trigger of his
sidearm. 

Illya dropped the weapon and recoiled. Solo seemed to wake suddenly, aware
of the danger at once. "No, Sarge!" he screamed and dove across the
Russian's body covering it with his own. 

Becker swore and pointed the gun upward. "What are you doing, Solo? Have
you gone completely crazy?" 

Napoleon's voice was shaky with shock, but he managed to say, "Look under
the truck...." 

His sergeant followed the blood trail and pulled what was left of the NK
out from under the wheel well. He let the body fall to the ground in
disgust. His green eyes bored into the prisoner and he pointed the gun at
him. "Don't move, understand?" 

Kuryakin nodded. His hands were held out in front of him, still poised to
ward off the shot. Solo rolled to his back with a groan. "He saved my
life, Sarge. The NK had my number for sure...." 

Becker jumped into the deuce and ripped into Solo's uniform. The wound
looked bad, bright red blood pulsing out with each heartbeat. He pulled a
dressing from his kit and pressed it hard into the wound with the heel of
his hand. Solo gasped in pain and felt his right hand being taken in a
warm grasp. Illya. If Becker noticed, he said nothing. 

It was quieter outside and the sergeant yelled at the first body to run
by. It was Evans. "Evans, get the medic back here, now." 

Evans took a quick peek in the back of the truck and took off at a dead
run. "Juarez!" 

Napoleon was shaking with shock, his teeth chattering together. Kuryakin
threw his blanket over the wounded man and said quietly, "Napoleon?" 

He turned his head to the side and saw Illya's concerned face. "Thanks,
kid.... I owe you one." 

Kuryakin tried Becker. "Skirmishers?" 

The large man nodded. "Didn't have much fight in them. They're all dead." 

A small voice came from the vicinity of Becker's boots. "Anybody else
hurt?" 

"Nah. You're the only stiff who gets to go to a nice clean hospital with
gorgeous nurses." The bandage was soaked through and he applied a second
over the top. He put his knee into the works and heard Solo groan before
he passed out. 

Juarez jumped in beside him and took over. "I got him, Sarge." 

Evans wormed his way in also, and Becker backed off, needing to go
supervise the cluster hump outside. They needed to get moving again to
reach HQ. Now there were two casualties that needed evac. 

Shouting at the top of his lungs before his boots even hit the ground,
Becker took charge and two minutes later the convoy roared off again. 

 

Napoleon heard voices all around him, hushed and low as in a church. He
swam up from unconsciousness a layer at a time, feeling nothing but
softness surrounding him. His nose registered smells now, the sharp
antiseptic odors of a hospital. He remembered his sergeant's parting words
to him about gorgeous nurses and smiled. 

There was a figure in white bending over him. He tried to focus on her but
his vision was still blurry. A warm hand lifted his head gently and he
felt a cup pressed to his lips. He drank a few sips and then sighed.
Opening his eyes again, he nearly gasped. The ugliest woman he'd ever seen
was sitting at his side with a cup of water in her hands. He tried to
regain his composure and squeaked out, "Ah, thank you, Miss?" 

A deep bass voice replied, "Hey, don't let the dress fool you. I'm all
man, bud." 

Solo shook his head, trying to make sense of it when he heard someone
call, "Klinger. Get this man to x-ray, stat." 

The man in the starched white nurse's uniform grumbled, "A woman's work is
never done," and moved off to collect his patient. 

Solo was dumbfounded and looked around. He was in a M.A.S.H. unit by the
looks of it and the beds were half full. His head whirled dizzily and he
closed his eyes until the vertigo passed. When he could, he opened his
eyes and slowly took in the scenery. He didn't recognize any of the
patients and then a sharp memory hit him like a brick. "Illya," he
whispered. 

He tried to sit up and a flash of pain ran through his right shoulder. He
groaned aloud and sank back down into the pillow. An I.V. dripped steadily
into his arm and he was fuzzy around the edges. Morphine, he reasoned. 

He heard footsteps and saw a tall, thin doctor with gray-flecked dark hair
take his chart from the end of the bed and then sit next to him. "Corporal
Solo, is it?" Napoleon nodded. The doctor smiled at him and briefly placed
his palm against Solo's forehead. "No fever. Good, very good." 

"Where am I, doctor?" he asked politely. "And is it still Thursday?" 

The man's eyes crinkled when he smiled. Solo thought he had a nice honest
face. "You're at the 4077th. The best M.A.S.H. in the entire R.O.K. Not
that that's saying much, I know, from what I've seen of the R.O.K. In
fact, I don't think the R.O.K's A.O.K. at all, do you?" He laughed at his
own joke and Napoleon smiled back. "And, no, it's not Thursday anymore.
You skipped right past most of yesterday. Slept right through my talented
surgical procedure on your shoulder, I might add. I was highly insulted." 

Between the morphine and the anesthetic hangover Napoleon wasn't sure how
to take this man. It was like having Henny Youngman for a doctor. He
winced as he tried to get comfortable. 

"Don't move around too much. I wouldn't want to have to go back in on that
shoulder. The name's Pierce, by the way. Dr. Hawkeye Pierce." He shook
Solo's good hand and checked the drip rate. Satisfied, he asked, "How do
you feel?" 

Napoleon sighed. "I'm not sure. I'm a bit fuzzy around the edges. I think
I just hallucinated a large hairy woman." 

Pierce laughed out loud and patted Solo's leg. "That, unfortunately, isn't
a morphine hallucination. That's just Klinger. Our resident Section Eight
candidate. You know he just got that nurse's cap in the mail today. He's
quite proud of it." 

Solo squirmed in impatience. "Doctor Pierce? There was another man that
may have been brought in with me. A Russian prisoner named Kuryakin. Do
you know what happened to him?" 

"Blond kid, skinny?" 

Solo sighed in relief. "Yes, that's him. He was my prisoner. I, ah, was
the one who shot him." Solo wouldn't meet the doctor's eyes. 

Pierce felt the waves of guilt coming from the young man and put him out
of his misery. "He's doing better now. We've had him in Critical since his
surgery last night. In fact he's going to be transferred here later
today." 

Napoleon let his head drop in relief. "How bad is he?" 

Pierce frowned. Why was this soldier so interested in the Russian? "Pretty
bad. He nearly didn't make it out of surgery. I removed his spleen and
we've been transfusing him all along. His blood count's coming up and I
think he's out of the woods for now." Pierce watched the emotions play
across the younger man's face and asked gently, "Why are you so interested
in him?" 

"He saved my life. Shot a NK who was about to kill me." Solo sighed. "And
that was after I'd shot him. I promised I'd take care of him." He looked
away for a moment, the drugs taking away some of his emotional control. He
turned back to the surgeon and asked, "When they bring him in, can you put
him next to me? He's just a kid, and he's going to be scared." 

Hawkeye was taken aback at the genuine concern this soldier seemed to have
for someone who was the enemy. He rarely saw that emotion at this end. He
liked this kid instinctively. "I'll see what I can do." 

The young man nodded. He seemed much relieved. "Thank you for everything,
Dr. Pierce." The dark eyes radiated sincerity as he reached his left hand
out. Pierce took it and shook it solemnly. 

"Get some, sleep, uh...." 

"Napoleon," he said sheepishly. 

"No kidding? And people say Hawkeye's odd." He winked at his patient to
show he was joking. Solo drifted off again, content that his new friend
was alive at least. 

 

Napoleon woke to loud voices intruding in the quiet hospital atmosphere.
He blinked awake, trying to get a grasp of where he was. The tall man, Dr.
Pierce, was arguing loudly with another man in fatigues. He was shorter,
stockier and had the air of someone who was used to giving orders and
being obeyed. 

"I don't care if he's Stalin himself, he's my patient and I will treat him
to the best of my ability." Pierce's voice had an edge of steel to it that
Solo recognized. "You are interfering with this man's treatment. Get out
of my way or I'll go over the top of you, Flagg." 

Napoleon tensed, waiting for the outcome of the verbal war. The other
officer, Flagg, was a lieutenant colonel and obviously outranked Captain
Pierce. He narrowed his eyes and tried to look down on the gangly doctor.
It didn't help that he was a good eight inches shorter. Flagg poked his
index finger in Pierce's chest and said, "Your patient is a Commie,
Pierce. A Russian Commie. That makes him my responsibility." 

The doctor pushed forward onto the stabbing digit and spoke so low that
Solo had to strain to hear. "Let me explain something to you, Flagg. I'm
the ranking surgeon here. This is my shift. That makes it my hospital.
That makes him my patient. If you interfere with his treatment anymore, I
will have you escorted off the hospital premises and you can lodge a
complaint with the O.D." Pierce snapped his fingers and Klinger appeared
at his side with a "Guard" patch on one shoulder of his pink nightgown. He
had matching fuzzy pink slippers. But he held a BAR in his hands. 

Flagg's eyes disappeared into his weasel-like face as he stared at Pierce.
He grunted and stepped back. "I should have expected this kind of
behavior. Bunch of Pinko Commie-loving deviants in this unit." He stared
at Pierce and then shook his head at Klinger. Klinger blew him a kiss. 

Flagg backed up further, trying to distance himself from them, disgust
clearly showing. He whispered to his aide and the man left momentarily. He
came back with two beefy-looking MPs. The three of them stood in the
middle of the doorway to the critical bay. They blocked the gurney trying
to get through until Pierce took one of the ends and barreled right
through them. 

Napoleon sighed in relief as he recognized the man on the litter. His eyes
met Pierce's and the doctor motioned to the empty bed next to Solo. He
spoke to the orderly opposite him. "Nice and easy, Igor." They transferred
Kuryakin to the clean bed, attached the I.V. poles, and tucked a blanket
up to his chin. He was still terribly pale and deeply unconscious. Dr.
Pierce checked his vitals one last time and winked at Solo. 

"Are you through, or do you want to tell him a bedtime story while you're
at it?" Flagg shouldered his way to the other side of the Russian and
placed the MPs on either side of the cot. They snapped to parade rest with
their rifles touching the floor. 

"You watch this Commie bastard every second. I want to know the minute he
wakes up." Flagg stalked off to find the company commander's office. 

Solo heard Pierce talking to the guards as he left: "Yes, watch yourself
around this man. He's terribly dangerous. If you aren't careful he might
bleed on you." 

Solo nearly laughed out loud at the remark but schooled his features. The
MPs could make things complicated and Napoleon didn't want to add to the
uproar. Pierce sat on his bed and checked his bandages. He kept his voice
low and asked, "How's the pain?" 

"Not too bad now. I'm stiff more than anything. May I sit up a bit?" Solo
wanted to be able to keep an eye on Kuryakin and, with Flagg still around,
that might be a tall order. 

Dr. Pierce helped him sit up a bit with the aid of a pillow. While he was
adjusting the sling he whispered to him, "Your friend is doing fine. He
should be waking soon." He moved to the end of the bed between the two
patients. "I've ordered you supper. Feel up to eating?" 

Solo's stomach rumbled loudly at the mention of food, even army chow. 

Pierce smiled. "I'll take that as a yes." 

A few minutes later, Igor carried in a metal tray with toast and some
fruit. He helped Napoleon get settled and let him sip some of the apple
juice before he went to the next bed. Solo, being one-handed, had a hard
time with the slippery fruit but gobbled down the toast. He was nearly
done when he saw Col. Flagg trailing behind a full bird, yelling about the
Russian commie again. The colonel was short, bandy-legged and undoubtedly
regular army. His lack of size didn't keep him from being completely in
control of the situation. He turned to Flagg and barked at him like a pit
bull. 

"Don't quote regulations to me, Flagg. I was giving orders when you were
still in short pants. I've talked to Dr. Pierce and the Officer of the
Day. The soldier in question doesn't appear to be much of a threat." 

He pointed a finger in Kuryakin's direction. "That him?" The colonel took
the patient's chart and looked it over carefully. The Russian was still
asleep, looking small and pale against the olive drab blanket. 

"Flagg, my diabetic mother could guard this pathetic excuse for a threat.
I believe two MPs are a bit much, now don't you?" 

The blustering intelligence officer sputtered, "But, Colonel Potter...." 

Potter turned smartly on his heel and glared at the younger officer. "I
will allow one and only one guard in this room. And he will be stationed
at the door and not by the bed getting in my doctors' way." Potter
snapped, and one of the guards moved away instantly to Flagg's side. The
colonel glared at the second man and he, too, moved to stand at one side
of the bay's door. Solo watched in awe at the way the older man held sway.


Flagg's face had been slowly turning from mottled red to purple as Potter
undermined his dubious authority. "I'm going to lodge a protest with
General Mitchell as soon as I get back to Seoul, Colonel Potter." 

"You do that, Flagg. And don't let the door hit you in the rear echelon on
your way out." 

Flagg collected his MP and stormed out. Potter shook his head and muttered
to himself, "And that man's in Military Intelligence. Frightening." He
moved through the door, giving the remaining guard a stern look before he
left. 

Solo did chuckle at that, laughing quietly as he dug into the rest of his
meal, his appetite back in spades. He heard a hushed voice saying, "What
is so funny?" Illya. 

He turned a little too quickly and gasped as his stitches pulled. But he
smiled through the stab of pain at the sight of Kuryakin's blue eyes
looking back at him. 

"Hey, you're awake." Napoleon signaled the prisoner that they were being
watched. Illya's quick eyes flicked to the MP at the door and he nodded
fractionally. 

"I believe that may be overstatement." Kuryakin shifted on the bed and
grimaced. 

"How do you feel?" 

He shrugged. "Better than last time we talked." He took in the room around
him. Most of the other soldiers there were more interested in their supper
than in the Russian. The smell of food made Illya's mouth water. He tried
not to let on how miserably hungry he was. 

The MP had sent an aide to get the ranking officer now that the prisoner
was awake. Col. Potter appeared a few minutes later and sat on the empty
bed on the Russian's other side. He looked the young man over for a minute
and then said, "I hear you speak English?" 

Illya nodded. Napoleon could tell he was nervous. He hadn't seen these
doctors in action like Solo had and didn't know what to expect. He wanted
to help, but knew better than to interfere. 

"Yes, sir. Corporal Illya Nickovetch Kuryakin, serial number...." 

Potter waved him silent. "Yes, we've gotten all of that, son. You can
relax. I'm not here to interrogate you. I'm the commanding officer of the
4077th Mobile Army Surgical Hospital. M.A.S.H. for short. I'm also one of
the doctors on staff. I generally put people together here, not take them
apart." 

At Illya's puzzled look, Solo cleared his throat. "Sir, if I may?" 

Potter nodded and Napoleon explained to the confused Russian, "He's one of
the good guys, Illya. No one here's going to hurt you." 

Potter narrowed his eyes at Solo's use of the Russian's first name. He
glanced at his chart and nodded. "Ah, yes. Hawkeye told me your story. You
two seem to have been through a lot together in a short time." 

Napoleon nodded and pushed his supper tray away. He noticed Illya trying
hard not to look at it. "Sir, my, uh, your prisoner hasn't eaten anything
for days. Would it be possible to get him some chow?" 

Potter looked dismayed and then checked the orders in the chart. "Of
course. He can have some bland food. And in the army that means just about
anything." 

Solo laughed at the man's sense of humor. "Thank you, Colonel Potter." 

The C.O. nodded and patted Solo on the knee. "Both of you get some rest.
Don't worry about Flagg. I keep him on a very short leash." He winked at
Solo before he went out the door. 

"Thank you, Napoleon," Illya whispered. 

He whispered back, "You're welcome. I told you I'd take care of you,
didn't I?" 

A short, round Polynesian nurse came back with a tray of matching toast
and fruit for Illya. She pulled a chair next to him and gently extricated
Illya's arms from the blanket so he could eat. She propped him up and
asked, "Are you all right? Take it very slowly; we're not in a hurry
here." She flashed beautiful white teeth as she spoke. 

"I am fine, Miss, thank you." He reached out for the toast with hands that
were shaking terribly. Obviously embarrassed, he let them drop to his
sides. 

Nurse Kelly looked over at Solo. He smiled at her and she felt butterflies
start in her stomach. What a looker, she thought. She turned her attention
back to her patient. She gently raised his head and let him drink some
apple juice. "My name is Nurse Kelly. Just start with this. Your blood
sugar's bound to be low." 

After he drained the glass he tried the toast again. This time he made it
to his mouth with the triangle of bread. Kelly beamed at him. "Now you've
got it. You finish and then I'll be back to give you a sponge bath." She
winked at him and watched his pale color turn pink. She gave one last look
to the dark-eyed soldier in the next bed, sighed, and then checked on the
other patients. 

Solo teased Illya unmercifully. "A sponge bath? How did you rate that?" 

Kuryakin was too busy eating to answer. The American felt a twinge of
guilt knowing it had been days since Illya had eaten real food. He knew
he'd be well taken care of now. 

As he settled back on his pillow, he saw a bleached-blonde bombshell
wearing oak clusters come in and ask for a report. Kelly gave her a quick
rundown of patients' conditions and then she glanced his way. "Where's the
Russian prisoner?" 

Illya meekly raised his hand. The nurse seemed surprised he spoke English.
She drifted over and Napoleon noted with approval the womanly hips and the
smell of expensive perfume. He sniffed appreciatively. Now this is my kind
of nurse.... 

Major Houlihan also read the chart and looked at the half-empty tray. "So
you like American food, do you?" She looked to the MP and said, "Keep a
close eye on him. Make sure you get all the utensils back." She then
glanced Solo's way. She liked what she saw in the dark looks and thick
wavy hair. "How are you doing, soldier?" 

When she smiled at him, Napoleon was reminded of a barracuda he ran into
in the Pacific once. A shudder ran through him and the major noticed. 

"Are you cold? I'll get you another blanket. Nothing's too good for our
American troops." She stressed the word American and glared at Illya's
bed. 

"Ah, no, ma'am. I'm fine, thank you." 

"Very well." She stood and winked at Solo before she moved on. 

Nurse Kelly returned with a steaming basin and clean white towels. "Are
you through?" Illya nodded as she took the tray and set it on the floor.
The guard picked it up immediately and counted the silverware. 

Kelly frowned but then efficiently began stripping Illya's gown away. She
kept his lower half covered and began washing the tense body. Every rib
protruded and his collarbone jutted from the white skin. Cleansing him
gently, Kelly talked soothingly to him to ease his embarrassment. Kuryakin
kept his eyes averted the entire time and bit his lip as she removed the
lower half of his gown. She reached hip bones and tried to keep the shock
from showing on her face at Illya's condition. Tears welled up in her eyes
as she tenderly ministered to the Russian. 

As Nurse Kelly finished with his swollen and oozing feet, Maj. Houlihan
walked by and stood at the foot of the bed. She, too, was troubled by the
man's physical infirmity and shook her head. He may be the enemy but he
was still a patient. She softened her stand and looked at Kelly. She had
finished with the bath and covered her patient with a clean gown. 

"Kelly, see if you can get him some more apple juice, and maybe some
applesauce. Looks like he could use it." As her subordinate left, Houlihan
covered the Russian with a clean sheet and blanket but rolled the bottom
part back, exposing the infected feet. She told the Russian it would help
them heal if left open to the air. "It will, however, give you a bad case
of cold feet." 

Illya didn't get it, but Napoleon laughed. Houlihan smiled at both of
them. The skinny Russian kid smiled at her, and she nearly gasped at what
the blue eyes and gorgeous smile did to her. The tough-as-nails nurse left
before she made a fool of herself. Solo beamed at her as she departed. 

 

As he watched Illya dig into his applesauce, Solo sighed happily. They
were both full, clean and comfortable. Napoleon thought of his friends
still on the front lines and wished them well. He knew his injury would be
enough to send him stateside for the remainder of his tour, if not get him
home all the way. Worry began gnawing at his gut as he wondered what would
happen to his new friend. Dr. Pierce said they'd be sent to Seoul and then
to Tokyo, but at some point Illya would be taken from him. It was likely
he'd lose track of him and never see him again. His heart clenched at the
thought. Solo had his college degree to finish and an uncertain future
ahead of him, but nothing like what his Russian friend had in store. He
began trying to think of ways to help Illya in his peculiar situation. 

Napoleon looked at the friend in need as he lounged against the pillow he
was propped against. He drained the last of the apple juice with a sigh
and glanced at Solo. He smiled and the look on his face sent shivers all
the way to Solo's toes. 

The American glanced down, a bit embarrassed by his response. What was it
about this man that affected him in new and exciting ways? Solo decided
not to worry or question the feeling but just enjoy it. 

He leaned carefully closer to Illya's bed and whispered, "Illya, we need
to talk." Kuryakin saw the serious look on Solo's face. He eyed the MP,
but the man was more interested in flirting with a nurse than watching the
threat to democracy currently in Bed Two. 

"You know you're going to be questioned by our government, don't you?" 

"You mean, your government?" The Russian smiled disarmingly. 

"Right. Have you thought about what you're going to say?" 

The blond frowned. "I can't tell them anything. It would be treason." 

Now Napoleon frowned as well. "Illya, listen to me. You told me your own
people would kill you if you went home." 

"Yes. I failed in my duty and was captured as well. They will assume that
I told my interrogators everything I know and would sanction me." The
Russian said this with no outward show of emotion as if he knew it to be a
fate that he was powerless to change. 

"Well, what if you could stay in the United States? Stay with me? Would
you do that if you could?" 

Illya looked stunned. It wasn't anything he'd even thought was possible.
"But how, Napoleon?" 

Solo was elated. Illya didn't question the lifeline he'd just thrown him.
He'd merely grasped it with both hands. "You tell the officer in charge
here, Colonel Potter, that you want to defect. He'll offer you political
asylum. They won't send you back to a government that will kill you." 

Illya looked lost. "Defect?" He stared at his hands clasped tightly in
front of him. "I... I don't know...." 

Solo's heart went out to him. He didn't know what he was asking Illya to
give up back home. He thought back to the delirious soldier crying for his
papa and swallowed. "I'm sorry, Illya. I didn't think it through. I'm just
trying to find a way to help." The American lowered his dark eyes and
whispered, "Do you have family back home?" 

Illya seemed to come back to himself at the question and sighed sadly.
"No, Napoleon. Not anymore. Stalin took care of that with the purges. That
is why I am..." he looked around nervously, "in sniper unit. The army
comes to orphanages and takes us to fight. I was very good with gun. Very
good." 

"So they trained you and sent you to kill or be killed without any
consideration of what would happen to you." Napoleon felt his face flush
with rage. He imagined truckloads of Ukrainian and ethnic Russian
teenagers being dumped like garbage in war-ravaged Korea merely to gain
favor with the Chinese. 

"Illya, my young Russian friend, you just tell that same story to Colonel
Potter. You are the type of person the Americans are here fighting for." 

The Russian wiped the moisture from his eyes as he looked at the man
beside him. Illya's face was calm but the look in his eyes showed his
inner turmoil. 

"It will be all right, tovarisch. Didn't I tell you I would take care of
you?" 

"Da, moy Amerikanski friend." 

 

The next morning Dr. Pierce was doing rounds. He checked the Russian
first, noting the improved general condition and that the surgical site
was healing well. "You're doing well, comrade." 

"Thank you, doctor. I wish to tell you I have much gratitude for you."
Illya hung his head shyly. He only seemed to lose the timidity when he was
talking to Solo. The American had to admit it drove the nurses crazy and
had them lusting all over the skinny little body. They kept bringing him
extra tidbits to eat, especially Nurse Kelly. Solo thought he may yet have
to beat them off with a stick. Jealous? Solo thought to himself. 

Hawkeye patted the kid's head. "Don't mention it. I got to twist the knife
a bit in Flagg's side. Did I tell you I really hate that guy?" He beamed
at the Russian and shook the proffered hand solemnly. 

Pierce moved on to Solo. His shoulder was mending well and his mobility
was coming back. "Looks like you'll be able to lose the sling in a couple
more days." 

Solo nodded. "How much longer will we stay here before transferring to
Seoul?" 

Hawkeye didn't answer at first and seemed reluctant to spit it out.
"You're going out day after tomorrow. Your friend here...." Illya looked
nervous at the doctor's discomfiture. "Colonel Flagg and his Traveling
Band of Paranoia arrive in the morning to question Kuryakin. I thought
you'd both want to know." 

Solo looked to Illya and nodded, sharing his strength, giving him courage.
Now, he mouthed. 

The smaller man seemed to wilt and then drew in a deep breath. "Dr.
Pierce, I have statement to make, please." 

Thinking it was another thank you, Hawkeye turned to the Russian with a
half-smile on his lips. 

"I, Illya Nickovetch Kuryakin, wish to defect." 

The smile died on his face as Pierce realized what the Russian said.
Napoleon laughed at the look of shock that replaced the smile. "Not what
you were expecting, eh, doc?" 

Pierce snapped his mouth shut and stood up. "I'll, uh, go get Colonel
Potter." The long legs took him out of the room in record time. 

Solo beamed at Kuryakin. "Boy, kid, do you know how to clear a room or
what?" 

 

All hell had broken loose at the 4077th and one small blond Russian was
the cause of it. Napoleon Solo sat back and watched it from the front row.
Colonel Potter had indeed returned with Hawkeye and had listened as Illya
had carefully repeated his bombshell. 

Twenty minutes later, both MPs were back at his sides, Col. Flagg was
choppering in from Seoul, and one particular American was wearing the
biggest grin he'd ever manufactured in his life. 

Kuryakin was stymied by all the attention and fuss. He didn't know whether
to laugh or cry so he did neither. Potter told him that a Russian
interpreter and an ambassador from the Russian consulate in Tokyo were on
their way to boot. 

"You've sure stirred up a hornet's nest, young man. Are you sure about
this?" 

"Yes, Colonel. I wish to defect." 

Potter sighed. "Well, I can't say as I blame you knowing what you'd go
back home to. How old are you, son?" 

Illya's blue eyes flicked to Solo quickly. He nodded. "Sixteen, sir." 

Shaking his head, Potter looked the young soldier in the eye. "Do you
understand what this means: defection? You can never go home again. You'll
be leaving everything you ever knew, everyone you ever loved behind. You
will have no one." 

Illya dropped his head, sorrow mingling with his newfound hope. Eyes
welling, he heard a small sound from the bed next to him. 

"Ah, sir, that's not exactly true." Solo looked at his friend and saw the
sad face lift to his. "He'll have me." 

Illya turned away as tears finally spilled down his cheeks. He rubbed them
away quickly. Potter had to clear his throat before he could speak. "All
right, I think you know what you're doing. There are going to be some
uncomfortable moments in the next few days. You'll be coerced,
strong-armed and downright threatened before the Soviets will give up." 

He stood and extended his hand for the Russian to shake. "But know this,
Illya Nickovetch Kuryakin. If you wish to become an American citizen, I
won't let anything stop that. This is my unit, my army and my job. You,
and millions like yourself, are why I became a soldier in the first
place." Illya took the offered hand and Potter said, "Welcome to freedom,
son." 

 

It was soon after lunch that Col. Potter made another appearance.
"Corporal Kuryakin, the Russian ambassador is here. Are you ready?" 

Illya sat up straighter in his bed and replied, "Yes, sir, I am." 

Potter frowned. "Now he's going to make a lot of noise and stir up the
water but don't you worry. I had a mule like that back home. He can't hurt
you and he can't take you against your will. These guards here are to
protect you, not him. Got it?" 

Kuryakin nodded and took a deep breath. "Bring him in." 

Col. Flagg entered first, moving aside to let in a pair of steely-eyed,
no-nonsense types in bad suites. KGB, Solo decided. They scanned the room
and seemed to be satisfied that it was secure. One of the pair motioned
behind him and a tall bear of a man strode in, wearing the full ceremonial
dress of an ambassador in the service of Mother Russia. He puffed himself
up to full stature and then stood in front of Potter. An interpreter kept
close to his left elbow, hanging on every movement and utterance. Another
man wearing a tweed jacket entered last and kept to the back of the
contingent. He puffed on an unlit pipe. 

Flagg moved in and made brief introductions. "May I introduce to you his
Excellency, Boris Andreivich Paslov, Ambassador to the Russian Consulate,
Tokyo, Japan. Comrade Paslov, Colonel Sherman T. Potter, commanding
officer, 4077th Mobile Army Surgical Hospital." Flagg's voice seemed to
catch on the words 'Excellency' and 'comrade' as if they were rancid. The
interpreter parroted every word. Bad Suits One and Two flanked the
ambassador. 

Potter bypassed the salutes and instead shook Paslov's hand. The big man
looked shocked at first but grinned at the little officer's courage.
Paslov then locked eyes on Kuryakin and grunted. He spoke in rapid-fire
Russian with the interpreter struggling to keep up. 

"So this little one is the reason for all the fuss? He is hardly worth our
efforts." Paslov drew closer to Illya's side and addressed him. "So tell,
me, little one, is this true what they tell me? I must hear it in your own
words." 

Kuryakin was mortified at being addressed as 'little one' in front of so
many soldiers. His face was scarlet but he looked Paslov in the eyes as he
said clearly in Russian, then English, "I wish to defect." 

The ambassador made a dismissive noise. "Such big words from such a small
person. I have your military records. You are sixteen, yes? What does a
child know of the world outside his own home? Why would you want to leave
your homeland at such a tender age? I think these Americans have been
stuffing your head with nonsense and clouding your judgment. Put all this
behind you and come home with me now, Illya Nickovetch. Your country will
forgive you the indiscretion of youth." 

Illya sighed and linked his arms across his chest. He addressed Paslov.
"It is true I am young. But not so much as you think, Comrade Paslov.
Comrade Stalin made sure that I grew up before my time. My parents were
murdered before my eyes in a pogrom of our 'Beloved Leader's' design. I
was sent to an orphanage where I was taught whom to hate and how to kill.
My homeland placed a rifle in my hands and sent me to a foreign land to
kill their ally's enemies. And because I failed in my mission and was
captured as a result, my same country will gladly put a bullet in my head
as soon as I reach Mother Russia." It took a minute for the interpreter to
translate the entire speech. Illya took a breath and looked Paslov
straight in the eyes. 

"So you see, Comrade, I am not as innocent or as stupid as you believe me
to be. As for the Americans stuffing my head with nonsense...." Illya
looked at Napoleon for the first time since the summit began. "It took an
American to show me that there are people in the world who care enough to
fight against such injustices, and who are brave enough to try to stop
them from happening. I would be very proud to be one such as this." 

Paslov turned purple with rage and his meaty hands clenched in impotent
fury at the insolence of the young soldier. The KGB bulldogs moved a half
step closer to the bed, eyes flicking from each other to the prisoner. The
MPs instinctively moved closer, becoming more of a presence than before.
The ambassador saw the direction this meeting was heading and didn't like
it. He had seen the way the child had looked at the American soldier in
the bed next to him. He backed up a step in disgust and said, "It is
obvious you are a traitor to your own kind and a deviant as well." Paslov
looked pointedly at the dark American. "We have no desire to keep such
perversion in our ranks. You are a disgrace and an embarrassment to every
loyal Russian who ever lived." Paslov drew himself to his full height and
spat on Kuryakin's face. His spittle ran down Illya's cheek, but he did
not try to wipe it off. He simply stared defiantly at the ambassador.
Potter took a step closer, but Illya made a small gesture. 

The diplomat snarled, "I would suggest you stay very far away from Russia,
malenkiy izmennik. The next time you see Russian soil will be your last."
He gestured to the entourage and whirled on his heel, his greatcoat
flapping behind him as he marched away. 

Flagg followed the party with a smile on his normally sour face. One
Commie one-upping another Commie. Maybe today won't be such a loss after
all.... 

The tweedy gentleman stood where he was for a moment longer. 

Napoleon looked at his friend. Col. Potter walked over and offered him a
handkerchief. He was too stunned to notice. Potter reached over and gently
cleaned the young man's face. Solo threw his covers back and carefully got
to his feet. He sat heavily on Illya's bed and placed his good arm around
the shaking man's shoulders. Illya seemed to come to his senses and turned
his head to see his friend smiling at him. "You all right, Illya?"
Kuryakin looked lost and alone and the sight made Solo's heart ache. He
felt responsible for everything that had happened to this young man. 

The Russian nodded slowly and then asked quietly, "What will happen to me
now?" 

A cultured British voice came to them from across the room. "That, young
man, depends entirely on you." The man in tweed crossed the room to stand
directly at the foot of Kuryakin's bed. Solo went back to his cot and sat
on the edge. 

Col. Potter pointed a thumb at him. "Corporal Kuryakin, this is Alexander
Waverly, late of MI-6. We go back a long way, and he's someone you can
trust. He owed me a favor, so I called it in." Potter winked at the
middle-aged man and pulled a chair over for him to sit next to Kuryakin's
bed. "I'll be in my office when you're through here, Alex. Come by for a
drink. I've got a bottle of Glen Fiddich hidden away." 

"I shall do just that, Sherman. I believe I have an offer to put on the
table concerning these young men here." 

Napoleon watched the older man, surprised to be included in the meeting.
MI6? Likely, but there was something else going on with this operative.
Something he couldn't place, exactly. Talking surely wouldn't hurt, and
his own options were limited by the army and his remaining tour. 

"Now, I'm certain you want to know just who the devil I am and why I
should be interested in a Russian defector and his self-appointed guardian
angel." He arched bushy eyebrows at Solo and smiled to let him know the
jest was in good humor. 

Napoleon colored anyway and cleared his throat. "Devils and angels. Well,
at least I'm in good company, sir." Sister Mary Cabot, are you pulling
strings up there? he thought as he regarded the Englishman. 

Waverly chuckled. "Yes, well, as am I. And the current company I am
keeping is with an organization called the United Network Command for Law
and Enforcement." 

"U.N.C.L.E.?" Solo guessed. Odd name for a police department. 

Illya turned puzzled brows his way and shrugged. "How would we fit in with
such a place?" 

"That remains to be seen. But my organization is international and
non-political. You, sir, are a man without a country and therefore just
what I am looking for. And your friend, Mr. Solo, is it? He has
demonstrated the unique ability to look past national and ethnic
considerations to see the humanity involved. That is indeed a rare gift
and one which I seek in my operatives." 

"But, sir, I have the rest of my tour to serve. And Illya's only
sixteen...." 

"Quite. Quite so. I have an offer to make to both of you. I have the full
cooperation of the Army and the United States government. Mr. Solo, you
may avail yourself of the G.I. Bill and finish your college degree when
you get stateside. The remainder of your contract with the Armed Services
will be fulfilled with U.N.C.L.E. upon graduation and your acceptance of
our employ." 

Waverly turned to look at the young Russian. He was fidgeting in his
covers, unsure of what this all meant to him. "And, as for you, Mr.
Kuryakin, you will be given citizenship no matter what you decide. It is
your right and there will be no strings attached." 

The blond turned to Napoleon again for interpretation. He quickly
answered, "Ah, no restrictions on your freedom, Illya. You can refuse the
offer with no ill effect." 

The boy nodded and Waverly continued. "You are far too young to be sent to
our Survival School as yet. We would enroll you in the finest colleges
available and educate you according to your interests and aptitudes. At
the culmination of your education, you would serve the U.N.C.L.E. the
equivalent number of years of study our group provided. After that
obligation is fulfilled you would have free choice as to your direction."
The spymaster stopped and sat back in his chair, allowing the men time to
let his words sink in. 

"Now, if you will excuse me, gentlemen, I have a bottle of very fine
Scotch awaiting me." He handed a business card to each of them and said,
"I will be contacting you once you reach Tokyo and before you are sent to
the United States. I assume that Mr. Solo will be your designated sponsor
to the U.S., Mr. Kuryakin?" 

Illya threw a look to his friend who nodded and smiled. "I would be
honored, Mr. Kuryakin." 

Waverly stood and then solemnly shook hands with each soldier. "I know
this a lot to throw at you both. But I believe my organization is the
finest of its kind in the world and that we could mutually benefit from
each other's involvement in it. You have time to mull it over and Colonel
Potter is an outstanding judge of character. Seek out his opinion as well
if you feel so inclined." 

He finally lit the cold pipe and sucked on it until satisfied of its draw.
"It has been a pleasure meeting you both. I hope to see more of you in
future. Good day." 

"Good day, sir," came simultaneously from both beds. Waverly left the bay
with only the scent of his pipe lingering. 

Napoleon took off his sling and gave his shoulder an experimental shrug.
He winced, and got back under the covers. He glanced at Illya who looked
dazed. Solo was sure his face mirrored some of the confusion as well. "So,
what do you think, chief?" 

Illya frowned. "I was about to ask you same question." 

Solo began to reply when he saw Nurse Kelly come in with a heavily-laden
lunch tray. She stopped at Kuryakin's cot, of course. He beamed at her and
she blushed. She left to get a second tray. 

"Well, in my family, we never make an important decision on an empty
stomach." He watched indulgently as Illya dug into his food. "And from the
looks of it, you agree with that." 

Kuryakin stopped chewing long enough to reply, "We have similar saying in
my country." 

Solo grinned. "Yes, well, are you sure you aren't Italian?" 

 
CambridgeJuly 4, 1952 

Stepping off the train, Napoleon looked around the platform at the ebb and
flow of travelers surrounding him. He pulled at his collar and shot his
cuffs for the tenth time in a half-hour. It was dreadfully hot for England
in July. His fingers were sweating where they were wrapped around the
handle of his travel case. Why am I so nervous? he wondered. 

His destination was the Nyton Hotel in nearby Ely. He'd been told it was
walking distance from the station. Solo felt the rivulets of sweat running
down his sides and opted for a taxicab. He stepped to the curb to wait for
an available black cab. A very proper-looking gentleman tipped his hat at
Napoleon as he stepped into the cab ahead of him. He had only a moment's
wait until another car pulled over. 

He tossed his case into the back and climbed in. "Nyton Hotel, please." 

"Yes, sir." The driver pulled the meter and took off in a cloud of sooty
exhaust. Napoleon watched as the quaint shops and businesses rolled by.
The prevailing architecture was French Gothic and the ornateness was
breathtaking to the American. Illya would have to take him on a tour after
they'd had a chance to catch up. Solo smiled as they drove recklessly on
the wrong side of the road. He'd never be able to get used to that. A
double-decker strained past his cab, loaded with vacationers and students
taking summer reading sessions. Solo was lucky that Illya had a weekend
off, what with his murderous load of academics next term. 

Kuryakin was bound and determined to catch up with Napoleon in education
and advancement if not in actual age. Solo had one more year at Kansas
University and then he would join U.N.C.L.E. immediately after graduation.
Alexander Waverly had taken a keen interest in these two men and had
guided their steps as their paths led to New York. 

U.N.C.L.E. tested Kuryakin soon after his arrival in London and found an
amazing intellect hiding in the shy, unassuming boy. After some needed
tutelage to bring him up to standards, Cambridge had welcomed him to their
halls with open arms. The Russian had just turned seventeen when he began
his course of study in quantum mechanics. Instead of falling behind his
older classmates, Illya had buckled down and left them in the dust. His
scores were uncanny. 

Solo didn't know it, but his friend's obvious Russianness combined with
his natural reticence was responsible for Illya's alienation where his
classmates were concerned. They had little in common with the wunderkind
and so avoided him with great regularity. He had written Napoleon, and
kept the friendship alive and used it as a lifeline. Only the thought of
graduation and his future with U.N.C.L.E. kept him from despair. Illya
worked like a man possessed and his benefactors saw the benefits. 

Solo saw the consequences. Illya didn't come out and say it, but he was
numbingly lonely. He studied alone, ate alone, and lived alone in his
one-room staircase. It was just as well that he had a single since no one
seemed willing to have a "Mad Russian" for a roommate. Napoleon had read
between the lines in Illya's letters and seen through the glowing reports
Mr. Waverly forwarded to him. Ambassador Paslov's words came back to taunt
Solo. Illya truly had no one. 

Every football game Napoleon attended, cheering with his friends, weighed
on him. Every girl he went out with, dance he enjoyed and late night pizza
party reminded him that his friend was halfway around the world, sitting
at his desk wondering when he would see the American again. 

So Solo had scrimped and saved and used part of his G.I. Bill stipend to
pay for a trip to England. The Fourth of July was on a Friday this year,
giving Napoleon enough time away from his summer job to schedule the trip.
He had just managed to pay for one night at the hotel, wanting to get
Illya away from the university environs for a bit at least. 

He held the postcard Illya'd sent him telling him he'd meet Solo at two
o'clock at the hotel. The postcard had a picture of a "Bump Race" on the
River Cam. Napoleon looked at the smiling faces of the rowers and wondered
if Illya had actually gone to watch any of the contests. 

The taxi lurched to a stop outside the Nyton and Solo paid the fare. He
pulled his suitcase from the floor of the cab and wiped sweat from his
brow. Upon entering the hotel's lobby, he felt a cool breeze slide over
him and sighed with relief. The thick stone walls kept the heat of the
midday out nicely. A bellboy took his bag and waited while he checked in.
"Solo. Napoleon Solo. I have a room reserved." 

The manager checked his calendar and nodded approval. "Yes, Mr. Solo. I
have your reservation. A single on the second floor. Will that be suitable
for your needs, sir?" 

"Perfectly, thank you." The American dabbed the sheen of perspiration from
his upper lip. "Is it always this warm in England in July?" 

The man smiled. "No, sir, it is usually much wetter this time of year. But
I'm sure our accommodations will keep you comfortable. If you have need of
anything, anything at all, sir, please do not hesitate to ask." 

"Ah, yes, I need to leave a message for a friend. Please see to it that he
is shown to my room when he arrives." Solo pulled out an envelope with
Kuryakin's name on it and passed it to the concierge. 

"Very good, sir." He clapped his hands. "Peter." The bellboy took the
suitcase and the room key and led the way. 

 

Solo had at least an hour before Illya was scheduled to arrive. He took a
cool shower, washing away the grime of travel and heat and felt measurably
better. He perused the travel brochures and looked at the local maps,
planning the rest of the weekend. There were wonderful cathedrals and
castles nearby and he hoped they'd have time to poke around in them. Like
most Americans, he was intrigued by the antiquity of Europe. 

Solo looked at his watch and wiped his sweaty palms on his trousers. He
was unaccountably nervous at the thought of seeing Illya again. They'd
last been together in New York, compliments of Alexander Waverly and the
U.N.C.L.E. Before they had signed letters of intent, the old fox had
wanted to show off his state-of-the-art steel and glass castle. He'd given
a personal tour and both Napoleon and Illya had been impressed by the
place. It had sealed their commitment to the organization just as Waverly
knew it would. 

Now here he was one year later, a bit wiser and a bit older and sweating
like a nervous pig. The feelings that had surfaced for Illya in Korea had
not dimmed despite their separation. If anything, their forced absence
had, indeed, made his heart grow fonder. Said heart was beginning to beat
faster as the hour approached. Solo sighed and sat down on the
old-fashioned four-poster bed. He forced himself to calm and drank a glass
of water from the bed stand. Damn, it was hotter here than back home. 

He nearly dropped the glass as someone rapped on the door. "Mr. Solo?" It
was Peter from the lobby. Napoleon set the glass down with a slightly
shaking hand and drew open the door. His breath caught as he saw Illya in
the hall just behind the bellboy. His eyes were still the same brilliant
blue he'd almost forgotten. Peter took a step to the side and asked, "Is
this your party, sir?" 

More than you'll ever know, kid, Solo thought. He nodded and slipped a
coin to the young man. "Thank you, Mr. Solo, sir." He left and then
Napoleon was alone in the doorway, drinking in the sight of his Russian. 

They grinned at each other and Solo broke the silence by grabbing the thin
form and hauling Illya into the room bodily. 

"Privyet, moy droog." He greeted Illya Russian style, giving him a bear
hug and kissing him on both cheeks. Kuryakin blushed furiously and then
drew Napoleon into a hug of his own, tender and welcoming. Napoleon
grunted softly in surprise. Illya was by far less demonstrative and the
fact that he was initiating contact told Napoleon more in a few seconds
than he'd gleaned from Kuryakin's letters in the preceding year. 

He hugged back, luxuriating in the feel of the slender warm body in his
arms. 

Illya pulled back and they stayed linked loosely, their hands on each
other's forearms. "You're still too skinny, Illya. Don't they feed you
here?" 

"And you, my American friend, are getting fat. Too much beer and pizza,
I'd wager." Solo's jaw dropped and he looked at Illya for a moment before
he burst out laughing. 

"What is so funny?" Illya's brow puckered as he tried to figure out his
friend. 

"You; you big oaf. You have an English accent!" Solo looked at the shocked
face and laughed even more. 

"I most certainly do not." The more he spoke the more pronounced his
accent became and the larger the smile on Solo's face grew. Illya dropped
his hands and sat in one of the wing-backed chairs near the fireplace. 

"Methinks you doth protest too much," Solo retorted in his best English
accent, which was actually fairly awful. Illya smiled his shy, sweet smile
and Napoleon felt his heart do a quick roll-over. 

"Hmmpf. If I do have a bit of a local accent, it's merely
self-preservation. I've learned to try not to sound too Russian." The way
he said the last made Solo cringe. He sat opposite Illya in the matching
chair and leaned forward, their knees almost touching. 

"Has it been very bad here, Illya? Tell me the truth; you know I can tell
if you're lying. On paper or in person." 

Kuryakin sighed. "It has been hard without you. But the professors are
great men and they treat me with kindness. I am learning so much here,
Napoleon. I know I will make Mr. Waverly proud. That is worth it all." 

"Worth the loneliness, moy droog?" He edged closer, touching his knees to
Illya's. 

"I have been much worse than lonely in my lifetime, Napoleon," Illya
whispered. 

Those words broke something inside the American and he rose, pulling Illya
into his arms once again. "Then let me begin to give you new memories,
Illya, mine." He caressed the pale skin of Illya's neck, sliding fingers
gently up the soft cheek and across to the full lips. Illya threw his head
back in delight at the long-awaited touch, pressing forward into the heat
of Napoleon's body. 

Napoleon wrapped his arms tightly around Illya's back, replacing his
fingertip touch with his lips. Starting at the point of Illya's chin, he
worked his way across the Adam's apple and ended under his earlobe,
sucking the soft flesh into his mouth, nibbling eagerly on the tender
morsel. The deep moan spurred him on as he repeated his ministrations
across to the other ear, tasting it as well and comparing the flavor to
its twin. Illya was panting, eyes closed and delirious with passion. 

The American breathed in the alluring Illya-scent, nuzzling in the soft
hair above his ear and whispering how much he'd missed him. Other than one
goodbye kiss in Korea, they had not been physical with each other.
Napoleon had thought Illya too young and innocent and had wanted to be
patient and gentle with him. There was little of that boy remaining now as
Kuryakin took the lead and turned his face, capturing Napoleon's mouth in
a passionate kiss. Solo was happy to let him lead, allowing his lover to
suckle at his mouth, tasting him with a wet and inquisitive tongue.
Napoleon moaned and delved into Illya's mouth as well, savoring the first
taste of his passion. 

They broke for air, gasping in tandem, hearts beating furiously. Illya
looked into Napoleon's hazel eyes and saw what he was hoping to see
mirrored there. He took his hand and led him to the bed, then lay down and
drew the larger body to him. 

Solo kicked off his shoes and helped Illya out of his. Their shirts were
drenched with sweat and were removed hastily. Solo blanketed Illya and
sighed blissfully as he felt the soft smooth skin beneath his own. He
kissed him again, licking and nibbling at the full lower lip that he'd
dreamt about in his dorm room late at night. Illya's hands were restlessly
roaming across his back, caressing the hard muscles there. "Illya," he
groaned as he felt him move lower and sweep across his ass. 

Napoleon thrust his hips against the hard pelvis beneath him and felt
Illya's erection respond with a jerk. Illya hissed and said, "Napoleon,
please. I have to touch you. I need to...." Nodding, Solo moved off enough
to remove the rest of his clothes as he watched Illya do the same. The
Russian was uncircumcised, the heavy head of his cock bobbing as he sat up
on the bed. Napoleon was mesmerized by him, and reached a shaking hand out
to caress the jutting flesh. His hand was barely able to close around the
thick cock, and he played gently with the foreskin. 

Illya nearly sobbed and suddenly Solo was flat on his back, his own
erection begging for attention. "Krasiivy, Napoleon. Krasiivy." He opened
his mouth to ask for a translation when he felt the hot wet mouth descend
on him. Rational thought left him as Illya suckled the head and rimmed him
with his tongue. Solo threw his head back in ecstasy as Illya happily drew
him deeper, adding his hands to the sweet assault. 

Even in his fantasies, Napoleon hadn't dreamt it could be this good. But
he had wanted a much slower lovemaking than Illya seemed ready to accept.
He took deep breaths, calming himself and then gently guided Illya's mouth
back to eye level. 

"What?" Illya frowned. "Did I do something wrong? I know I don't have much
experience...." 

"Illya Kuryakin, will you shut up? Any more of your 'inexperience' and I
would have gone off like a rocket. Come here." He positioned them side by
side where the foreplay could be reciprocal. "I want to taste you as
well." He then began a slow inventory of the luscious young body before
him, mapping and exploring every hidden hollow and hotspot with tongue,
lips and fingers. He latched onto one puckered nipple and Illya arched
into his mouth, babbling in Russian. Grinning around the hardening flesh,
Solo slowly tongued his way to the other and bit gently. 

"Bozhe moy," Kuryakin whispered and dropped his head, kissing the top of
Solo's dark hair. Lapping gently, Solo trailed his slick tongue down the
trail of blond hair to Illya's navel, stopping to kiss his way all around
it. His lips came up against a ridge of flesh and, puzzled, he drew his
head up slightly. A puckered line of scar tissue ran along Illya's left
side, a reminder of a time when they were enemies and bent on killing each
other. It brought Solo up short, and he drew in a deep breath, rattled. 

Illya felt the change in his lover and touched the dark head. "Napoleon?"
he asked worriedly. "What is it?" 

Solo gently outlined the wound with a trembling hand. "This." 

Illya let his head drop back. "Oh. I know. It is ugly isn't it?" He sighed
in sorrow. "I'm sorry I'm not so pretty as you wish me to be." 

Napoleon was on him so quickly Illya didn't even see him move. The dark
face was clouded in anger, and he took Illya's face in his hands, holding
him fast. "Now you listen to me, Illya Nickovetch Kuryakin. I almost
killed you once. The only thing ugly about that scar is the reminder that
I was the one who gave it to you. You are the most beautiful man I've ever
seen. I only hope you can forgive me for hurting you so badly." 

Illya exhaled, relieved. "Oh, is that all?" he joked. He saw the pain in
Solo's eyes and sobered. "Napoleon, we were soldiers. If I had seen you
first, it would have been I who shot you. If I had, would you forgive me
now?" 

"You don't need to ask, Illya." 

"Then neither do you, Polya." Napoleon heard the diminutive of his name
and decided he liked it. "Now, can we get back to more pleasurable
topics?" 

"Just what I had in mind." Napoleon's erection had flagged during his
detour, but the taste and the sounds of his lover brought it back with a
vengeance. He was throbbing and nearly at the edge. He had to have Illya
now. The Russian's erection was hard and leaking and Solo licked the pink
tip just peeking from the surrounding skin. Illya groaned and wadded the
bedspread in his fists as he tried not to thrust up into Solo's mouth. 

Napoleon had never fellated a man before, and was at a loss as to what to
do about the foreskin. He grasped Illya in one hand and rolled the loose
flesh back with his other. Illya seemed to take great pleasure at that, so
he used the covering to massage the head of his cock back and forth. After
a few strokes Kuryakin growled and began to rock his hips with the motion,
panting faster. Napoleon wondered what it must feel like, since he had
never known anyone not circumcised. It was a definite turn-on, giving
Illya this much pleasure with only his hand. He had to know what it would
feel and taste like as well. 

Slowly he lowered his head, trailing along the abdomen and hips with his
lips and tongue, reaching the base of the thick cock and kissing his way
up its impressive length. When he nuzzled the hidden slit, Illya could
take no more and surged upward, the head of his cock entering Solo's open
mouth. His lips grazed the foreskin, automatically sliding it back as the
thick shaft worked its arrogant way into Napoleon's throat. 

Napoleon gagged a bit, then took the shaft in his hands and controlled the
depth. The tip of Illya's cock was velvety soft, and slick with pre-come.
Napoleon delighted in peeling the foreskin back with his tongue and then
sucking it forward with his lips. His palm kept a steady pull on the rest
of the straining cock and it was only moments later that Illya cried,
"Napoleon!" as he pumped into his warm mouth. Thick hot jets of come
pulsed into Solo's mouth, and he swallowed before he could give it much
thought. The taste was acidic and mildly abrasive. He decided it wasn't
too bad as he sucked and licked the deflating member, cleaning all traces
of Illya's essence from the pulsing cock. 

Illya sagged, devastated by the release and by Napoleon's loving act.
Napoleon mouthed his way up the slender body, and then took Illya's mouth
in a searing kiss. Their tongues tangled and Illya was shocked to taste
himself in his lover's hot mouth. He moaned into Solo's open lips and
reached a hand between their sweaty bodies. Napoleon was rock-hard and
just one caress had him pleading, "Illya, yes. Touch me." 

Illya knew he was near the edge and took pity on his need. He snaked down
the well-muscled abdomen, slipping fingers over the taut musculature
there, memorizing the line of this body. He blew a warm stream of breath
across the straining phallus inches from his full mouth and heard Napoleon
actually whimpering in response. The wine-red head jerked and then Illya
pounced, taking the bulbous knob with his lips and sucking the fevered
flesh in a quick and unforgiving rhythm. 

"Ahh, Illya, I can't... wait if you do that." 

Illya smiled around his mouthful and began pumping the shaft with a firm
stroke. Solo surged forward, but Illya was ready and waiting. He swallowed
the flesh repeatedly, using his throat muscles to milk the length of his
lover's cock, and reached under the tightly drawn pouch to rub his finger
on Napoleon's perineum. 

"Illya, Illya...." Solo went rigid and snapped his dark head back. "Ah,
ahh, ahhh!" Words failed him as he felt his orgasm coiling in his gut
before racing out of his body. He felt the come blast out of his cock and
into Illya's wickedly talented mouth. The little fiend swallowed every
spurt and kept sucking until Napoleon thought he would pass out from the
pleasure. 

A minute or an hour later, he looked down to see the blond head resting on
his shoulder. Illya's slick tongue was rasping across the whorled indent
where a North Korean bullet had ripped through the thick muscle there. He
kissed the old wound, scarred from the surgery done to repair it. Baptized
with fire, both soldiers had survived and had the scars to prove it. 

Napoleon hadn't the strength to lift his head. He closed his arms around
Illya's sweat-slick back and sighed, happier than he had been in a long
time. Illya relaxed into the embrace and drowsed. Solo felt the warm
weight on his chest and smiled against Illya's hair. He wrapped one leg
around Illya's, rubbing the calf with his instep and tickling the
sensitive skin of his inner thigh with his toes. Illya twitched against
his chest. Napoleon did it again and the Russian actually giggled. A broad
smile broke out on Solo's face. He'd never heard Illya giggle. So he was
ticklish? There were so many other places to experiment on and so little
time. They only had until tomorrow checkout for the room. After that,
they'd have to move to Illya's staircase. 

His eyes traveled around the room, taking in the airy color scheme and the
light-colored furniture. A clean breeze drifted through the yellow sheers
at the window, reminding him of summers back home. His arms tightened
around Illya and he sighed blissfully. "Nice room, huh?" 

Illya stirred minutely. "Room?" He lifted his head with an effort and
glanced quickly left and right. "Um. I hadn't noticed." He started to
drift again and Napoleon shook his shoulder firmly. 

"Oh, no, you don't. I didn't travel all the way to England just to watch
you sleep, you lazy sod." He slapped Illya on the ass and kissed him as he
yelped in surprise. "Let's check out the plumbing and then you can show me
the scenery." 

Napoleon filled the old-fashioned claw-footed tub with warm water and
added some bubble bath. Lilacs. Smells like spring, he thought. He set
thick towels near the tub on the sparkling white-tiled floor and stepped
into the forming bubbles. Illya's eyes gleamed at all that warm sudsy
water and he practically jumped in after his lover. Water swamped over the
side and nearly drenched the towels on the floor. "Hey! Easy there." 

"Oh, sorry. It's just that I don't have access to a tub or even a shower
very often. If we want a wash we have to dash across the commons in our
robes in the wee hours of the morning. Communal bathrooms...." Illya
sighed blissfully as he fully immersed himself. He leaned back against
Napoleon's slick and soapy chest, his wet hair tickling the American's
shoulder. 

Solo smiled and kissed the conveniently located collarbone. He ran quick
fingers across Illya's ivory skin, playing in the thick hair in the center
of his thin chest. He explored the muscles of Illya's arms, kneading the
strong bicep and triceps and trailed along until he reached the blunt
fingers. Illya's upper body had filled out nicely with the added weight
and he had obviously been working out. "Weight-lifting?" Solo inquired as
he slipped his hand across the taut abdominal ridges. 

"Rowing." 

"Machines?" Solo asked quizzically. 

"No, the real thing. Rowing is the big pastime here. Also, you can rent a
punt and go out on the River Cam. The scenery is beautiful and you can get
away from everything and just drift along." 

"Mmm. Sounds nice. Maybe we can do that tomorrow when we get to
Cambridge." Solo continued to explore, his hands below the water line now.
Illya caressed Napoleon's thighs and ran his fingers up the sleek flanks.
Kuryakin gasped as Napoleon's questing fingers grazed the crease of his
ass. He arched his neck and sought Solo's lips blindly. His lover was
eager to please. Napoleon sat a bit straighter in the tub and devoured the
soft lush lips of his Russian. Their tongues slipped over each other,
playing erotically. Solo captured Illya's rising erection in his palm and
used the bubbles to piston up and down frictionlessly. His other hand
cupped the fuzzy balls and rolled them gently back and forth. 

Illya felt Solo's heavy cock trapped under his hip and he rolled his body
to accommodate his need. Napoleon thrust his hips and his erection settled
between Illya's cheeks, making the Russian whimper in delight. 

"You like that, Illyusha?" 

"Oh, yes, Polya. Yes." The younger man squirmed across the thick cock,
helping Solo rub against the soft flesh between his legs. Illya reached
down and took the head of Solo's cock in his fist, pulling on the tender
skin, running his thumb across the slit. Napoleon gasped, biting Illya's
neck and sucking the white skin across his clavicle, lost in the wonderful
sensations. Solo released Illya's balls long enough to wrap one arm across
the narrow chest, snugging the slender body against him and pressing their
groins even closer together. Napoleon began a shallow thrusting, feeling
Illya's fingers tighten around his snub head with each upstroke. 

His hand was busy as well, pulling on the thick cock rhythmically,
listening to Illya's moans of ecstasy. As their passion rose Solo began
thrusting harder and pulling back further each time, his cock gliding
easily against Illya's sudsy skin. On one deep stroke, Solo's thick head
nudged Illya's opening and an electric current seemed to shudder through
the Russian. He cried aloud, arching back against his lover's body, hungry
for more. "Napoleon! Bozhe moy, da, da..." 

Napoleon thrust again, the soapy water allowing him to sink into Illya's
flesh easily, the flared head of his cock seeking contact as if it were
alive, desperate to find a home in the warm body. He didn't think, merely
let instinct guide his cock deeper into his lover as Illya thrashed in
pleasure above him. 

"Uh, un, Polya, yes, yes," was all Illya managed to eke out as Napoleon
rode him gently at first and then with mounting urgency. Illya placed his
hands against Solo's hip bones, using him for leverage to rise up and down
on the pistoning cock. Solo let him control the depth and the angle,
wanting the pleasure to build in his smaller partner as it was in his
loins. Illya was clenching down on his cock, causing shudders of delight
to ripple through the older man, tearing moans of joy from deep in his
throat. He was seconds from exploding and he wrapped his hand around
Illya's surging cock, conveying his desperation. 

The bite of the strong callused fingers around his taut flesh set Illya
off. He slammed down one last time onto Solo's hardness, and felt the
thick head nudge against his prostate. 

Illya cried aloud and Solo watched as thick streams of come shot out of
his lover, his cock spouting like a whale in the frothy water of the tub. 

Napoleon felt Illya's body clamp down on his, the orgasm spasming muscles
around him. He thrust into the tight channel and heard himself howl as his
release roared out of him. He watched Illya's cock still jetting strongly
and felt as if he were watching his own orgasm as he twitched with the
pulses of semen leaving his body to join his lover's. 

Illya sagged against him, utterly limp with contentment. Napoleon held the
heaving chest against his wildly beating heart and felt incredible joy
flow through him. He had never imagined their relationship moving this
fast and a sharp stab of guilt caused him to shudder. Illya felt it as
well, and turned slightly to see Solo's face. 

"What is it, lyubov?" He caressed the brunet's face gently with a warm
sudsy hand. 

"Illya, I didn't mean for things to... to get out of hand. Did I hurt you,
love?" He could feel himself softening and he wanted to slip from Illya as
gently as possible. He tried not to move at all. 

Illya smiled and answered, "Oh, no, my Polya. I have wanted you so very
much." Napoleon tightened his embrace and laid his head along the curve of
Illya's neck. He felt their bodies separate and couldn't stop the groan of
disappointment. Illya's slight hiss told him he was indeed sore at least. 

His lover made as if to get up and Solo stopped him. "Stay in the warm
water for a while. It will help with the discomfort." 

"You worry too much, Napoleon. I am fine." His blue eyes flashed and he
laughed. "I am more than fine." 

"Well, then, just humor me, all right?" He lay back against the tub and
pulled the slight body down with him. They snuggled together until the
water turned cool and their skin wrinkled like leather. 

Solo reached for the thick towels on the floor and Illya stood, water
sluicing off his fair skin like a dolphin's. Napoleon pulled the plug and
dried the dripping body of his lover. Illya returned the favor and they
kissed once more before dressing. The American pulled the sweet smelling
body close and nuzzled the ends of his wet hair. He felt himself growing
hard again and stepped back, grinning. 

"What are you smiling about?" Illya asked as he stepped off the wet rug. 

Solo took one of his hands and slid it slowly, sensually down his
towel-covered body until Illya felt the swelling of his passion beneath
his firm touch. Napoleon growled and pulled Illya to him once again. "What
is it about you that I can't get enough of?" 

Illya traced his fingers across Solo's manhood and caressed him gently. "I
hope you never figure it out, Polya." 

Solo dipped his tongue into his lover's mouth and explored hungrily. "A
puzzle wrapped in an enigma. It just may take a lifetime to figure you
out, my Illyushka." 

Kuryakin started at hearing the pet name and nearly gasped as he heard the
words and their meaning. He looked into the chocolate eyes and saw the
rest of their lives there. He pulled away and walked into the bedroom to
retrieve his clothes. Napoleon frowned and followed him. 

"Did I say something wrong, Illya? Am I coming on too strong for you? I'm
sorry...." 

Illya sat heavily and sighed quietly. "No, Napoleon. Quite the opposite. I
was unsure of how you felt about me and how our separation would affect
our relationship. Truly, I was sure you would find someone else in America
and forget all about me." 

Solo sat next to Illya, close but not touching. "Quite the opposite, my
fine Russian," Napoleon said as he reached for Illya's hand. "The time
I've spent without you has just shown me how much I miss you. And how much
I want you. Truthfully, I haven't even looked at anyone else since I've
been at school. Male or female. Whenever I'm out with a group or
socializing I'm always thinking how much better it would be if you were at
my side. Or if I were at yours." 

Illya pressed the hand he held against his cheek and closed his eyes. He
looked up and took Napoleon's face in his hands. "I love you, Napoleon." 

Napoleon leaned forward and took Illya's lips in a gentle kiss. "I love
you, too." They sat, foreheads touching, lost in the emotion of their
admissions. Illya stirred first and stood, pulling Solo up with him. 

"Come on, get dressed. I have a surprise waiting for you." 

Solo leered at him and said, "Again?" 

Illya punched his shoulder and said, "No, not that kind of surprise. At
least, not yet." 

Solo finished dressing and gathered his things. Illya took the lead and
led the way down the stairs, stopping at reception. The concierge
disappeared for a moment and then returned with a wicker picnic basket on
one arm. "Here you are, sir." Illya thanked him and left a generous tip. 

"What are you up to, Illya?" Solo's eyes danced as he thought of what he
might do to the Russian on a picnic blanket. 

Illya tried not to blush and motioned to the front door. They exited the
hotel and walked into the blazing sunshine. Illya walked down toward the
river, Solo hard at his heels. He handed the basket to Solo and walked
over to a funny looking canoe chained to a concrete retaining wall. There
were several moored there and they all had brightly painted names on the
sides. Solo read some of them. "Little Pig, Hat Trick, Blind Mouse."
Illya's boat was named "Menage." It took him a minute but then he grinned
at his friend. "All threes?" 

Illya grinned back. "Very good, Napoleon. Since I am at Trinity...." He
unlocked the boat and drew out a long pole and motioned Solo over. They
placed the basket in the middle and Solo had a moment's trouble getting in
the slab-bottomed boat. He got his balance and settled in as Illya began
by pushing off the bank. 

"Menage? Are you hoping someone else will float by?" His eyebrows waggled
and this time Illya did blush. 

"'A loaf of bread, a jug of wine, and thou,' is all the threesome I need,
Napoleon." He skillfully began polling them along, carefully timing his
dips and retrievals. 

Napoleon had the best seat to watch the artful maneuvering needed to keep
the boat moving. Illya's strong arm muscles bunched and released with each
push and his blond hair shone in the dappling light. They moved from
bright light to shadows and back again, and Solo leaned back and enjoyed
the show. He sighed with pleasure and Illya looked back, his blue eyes
eclipsed by the black of his pupils in the gloom of the overhanging trees.
Solo caught his breath at his beauty and Illya looked into his eyes
solemnly. They understood each other perfectly in the clarity of that one
suspended moment. 

Back to reality, Illya pointed out one of the sights they were punting
past. "There's a nudist colony just here if you really want to audition
for a third." He winked at Napoleon's feigned shocked expression. The
greenery on both sides of the Cam was a pleasant diversion and they took
advantage of the quiet and just drifted along. About an hour into the trip
the river emptied into a marshy area. 

"This is where we have to work a bit. The river changes depth and we have
to negotiate the rollers here to get past the weir. We'll have to see if
we can get a strong lad or two to help us over and back in." Illya smiled
broadly. "Don't worry, Napoleon, I'm sure we can find a big dumb
rugger-bugger to help." 

Illya scanned the small grassy area near the pub and whistled loudly at a
group of young men sitting in the garden there drinking a pint. "Oy,
fellows, a little help?" 

Two of the largest lads set down their glasses and trudged down the
embankment. Illya shook hands and together the four of them managed the
punt out of the river, across the concrete path and down the rollers. 

This close, Napoleon could see what the rollers were, and understood. Rows
of cylinders allowed the boat to slide over them and get to the lower part
of the river. 

Illya panted over to Napoleon and grinned. "Now comes the tricky part." 

"Great. I thought the rollers was the tricky part...." Solo looked
forlornly at his wet shoes. 

"Well, you won't melt at any rate." He winked at Napoleon and then took
the pole and holding it aloft, jumped into the punt as his impetus pushed
it hard into the river and toward the trees close on the other side. He
bobbled a bit and then got his balance and said, "Get ready," to Solo as
he came up quickly against the other side. The punt lurched and Illya went
with the motion, hunkering down until he was steady enough to use his pole
again. He pushed off the trees and sent the boat off toward Napoleon
again. Grinning like a March Hare, he was in his element and Solo returned
the smile, tickled that Illya was having so much fun. Solo squelched his
way into the punt again, giving up on keeping his shoes dry. They waved
thanks to the lads and promised them a pint if they ran into them later. 

They continued on, Illya keeping up a running commentary on the history of
the area as the scenery rolled past. He pointed out Silver Street Bridge,
the only structure that allowed vehicular traffic. Napoleon lounged and
let Illya ramble on. An odd structure loomed and Illya announced, "Ah, the
famous Mathematical Bridge. It's rumored to have been originally
constructed by Sir Isaac Newton without benefit of any nails. Of course,
some Fellows here just had to take it apart and see how it worked.
Unfortunately, they couldn't put it back together without using nails...."


They floated past Kings Bridge, Illya taking care of the pole as they
neared. "It's traditional for lads to try to grab the poles as the punts
go by," he explained. 

"Is it also traditional to get out and beat the crap out of them if they
do?" Napoleon asked, deadpan. 

"I can see you might have a problem with the legacy and customs of this
place, Napoleon." Illya shook his head at his impetuous American friend.
"Although legend says that it's still legal to fight a sword duel on
King's Bridge if you get permission from the Proctor. So I suppose you
could assuage your pride if some brigand took your punt pole." 

Napoleon laughed and savored the moment. Illya was being downright chatty
today and Napoleon was only too eager to accommodate him. The cares of the
world and the lives they would have to return to melted away into the
swirling waters of the Cam. Solo merely nodded and encouraged Illya's
tourist prattle as they neared Trinity College. 

Deftly directing the punt to shore, Illya jumped out and pulled it to
ground as Napoleon secured the basket and came ashore as well. Kuryakin
returned the lock and key to the punt attendant there and they headed off
on the footpath to a grassy area for their picnic. Illya's shirt clung to
his body with a mixture of sweat and river water. His pants were wet on
one side from the pole and he looked a bit worse for wear. "I'd like to
get you out of those wet things, Illya," Solo whispered to him as they
walked along the Backs. 

Illya looked down and gave him a sideways smile. "I think we can find a
bit of privacy. But, right now I'm starving." 

"Think we both worked up an appetite," Napoleon said as he briefly stroked
the wet flesh underneath Illya's trousers. 

Illya gasped, secretly pleased that Napoleon couldn't seem to keep his
hands off him. He knew of some secluded areas nearby that would be
deserted now that the students had gone for the summer. 

They spanned Trinity Bridge and headed down the Avenue. Crossing the
Queen's Road, Illya headed them toward Fellow's Garden, where the trees
were dense and they would have all the privacy they wanted. The ten
minutes of brisk walking had Illya's clothing nearly dry and Solo's
soaking wet from sweat. Illya detoured into some thick trees and was
pleased to see the little glen he'd discovered was empty. He shook out a
plaid blanket and began to set their impromptu table. He pulled a bottle
of red wine out first; bread, cheese and a tin of meat followed. Napoleon
poured the wine as Illya readied two plates piled high with the simple
fare. They ate quietly, enjoying each other's company and the solitude. 

Half the bottle gone, Illya stretched out on the blanket and rolled toward
Solo. "So what do you think of my corner of the world?" 

Napoleon looked at the flushed cheeks of his companion and replied, "I
think it's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen." He reclined as well
and moved the remnants of their feast aside. Inching toward Illya, he
gently draped himself over the smaller man and drew him close in his arms.
He tasted Illya's lips and the residue of the sweet wine left there.
Moving on to his neck, Solo trailed his tongue over the salty skin,
savoring the unique Illya flavor he was just now growing accustomed to. 

Throaty groans spurred him on as he unbuttoned Illya's shirt and worked
his way across the heaving chest, paying attention to the pink buds of
nipple. Illya's strong fingers buried themselves in his dark hair as he
worked Illya up with his talented tongue. Illya grabbed Napoleon's hand
and directed it to his straining erection, begging him to touch him. Solo
smiled against his mouthful of nipple and gently swept across the
prominent bulge between Illya's legs. 

Illya moaned and thrust upwards, grabbing Napoleon's head and kissing him
with near brutal force, his tongue slithering in and out of his lover's
mouth. Returning the assault, Napoleon gasped as they grappled with one
another, lost in a haze of burning need. While Illya was distracted, Solo
opened the fly of his trousers and grasped the hot flesh in his strong
fingers. He pulled at the foreskin, rubbing the tender head with his
thumb, and watched the effect on his beautiful lover. Illya's head arched
back, his neck elongating, giving Solo a new and delicious target. He
latched on the pale flesh and sucked hard, hearing the mewling sounds deep
in Illya's curving neck. 

Before the Russian could come to his senses, Solo snaked down the sweaty
body and tugged the pants and underwear down in one impatient tangle.
Illya's hard cock sprang up, red and weeping for Napoleon's touch. He
rubbed his face against the hard rod, reveling in the feel and smell of
Illya's musk. His own cock was begging for release but he continued on,
driving Illya out of his mind. Diving onto the jutting cock, he swallowed
the head, pulling the foreskin back with his lips and greedily searching
for the velvety-smooth skin surrounding Illya's slit. 

He jabbed his tongue into the tiny aperture and Illya nearly screamed, his
hips straining upwards, pushing as much of his cock as he could into
Solo's willing mouth. His lover swallowed, moving up and down on the
shaft, needing more than anything to please Illya, to hear him call his
name, to empty himself into his mouth. 

Illya stiffened, looked down to see his cock disappearing in Napoleon's
mouth, and then his eyes rolled back, and he had to stifle the scream that
wanted to erupt. He whimpered with the strain, feeling the suction on his
cock increase and then he was jetting strongly into Napoleon's hungry
mouth. He felt the tightness around him constrict even more as Napoleon
swallowed him over and over, increasing the intensity of the already
mind-blowing orgasm. A deep-throated groan escaped him as he felt the
release all the way down to his toes. He felt himself pulse two, three
more times and then he went utterly limp, his cock still seated in
Napoleon's wicked mouth. 

He vaguely felt Napoleon cleaning him with his tongue, pulling up his
clothes and tucking him back into his pants, but he had no strength to
help. He panted, his heart racing and he felt Solo's body drape over his.
After a moment he opened his eyes and saw the American's very smug and
satisfied face above his own. He pulled Napoleon to him and kissed him
gratefully, tasting his own semen. He grinned and suddenly wanted to taste
Napoleon in the worst way. 

Solo straddled him, sitting lightly on his pelvis. He unbuckled his belt
slowly, Illya's tongue snaking out to lick his lips in anticipation.
Napoleon felt a jolt of desire seeing that and his hands shook slightly as
he undid the snap. He let his hands fall away from his fly and watched the
desire mount on Illya's beautiful face, watched Illya's hands reach to
undo the zip. 

Napoleon shook his head and pushed Illya's hands away gently. He arched
his back, letting Illya see the thick bulge under the fly, straining to
find release. His head stretched back and he teased Illya by running his
hand across his crotch, his erection nearly painful now. 

Solo finally took pity on his lover and yanked down the zipper and tugged
his jeans and briefs down in one motion. Illya gasped at the sight of the
dark red cock, the head so heavy with need it bobbed up and down over his
stomach. As much as Solo loved Illya's foreskin, Illya was enthralled with
the circumcised head and thought Solo's member was just like the man.
Powerful, deeply masculine and worthy of respect. He couldn't wait to
taste him. 

Illya meant to get up and move to Napoleon, but Solo pushed him flat on
his back again. His brown eyes were shining with lust and he wanted to be
in control. Illya lay back quietly and let him have his way. 

Napoleon took his cock and pumped it a few times, feeling it harden even
more with the pressure. He gasped and then slowly advanced on Illya,
crawling on his knees until his thighs straddled Illya's head. His weeping
cock swayed inches from the blond's expectant mouth. Illya grasped
Napoleon's ass in his hands and tugged him closer. Solo kept his own hand
on his cock, directing it into Illya's hot mouth. Illya's hands were
urging him on, and he wanted nothing more than to thrust into the wet
warmth. He held back, fearful of gagging Illya. But the Russian pulled at
his fevered flesh, trying to draw more of him into his throat. He suckled
him strongly, telling Napoleon he wanted more. 

Solo growled, nearly incoherent with desire and began pumping his hips,
thrusting his cock deeply into the cavern of flesh surrounding him.
Illya's grasp tightened even more, his hands digging into the white flesh
of Solo's ass. Panting with the exertion, Napoleon fed inch after inch of
his thick cock into the grasping mouth, marveling that his lover was able
to take him all. He started fucking Illya's mouth, faster and stronger,
losing himself in the rhythm until nothing else mattered but coming. 

He was nearing the point of no return when he felt Illya's fingers delve
into the crease of his ass and then one strong blunt finger buried itself
into his opening. Napoleon did scream then, his entire being flashing into
a white heat of release, his cock blasting come deeply into Illya's
throat, his hips pistoning even faster as his semen pulsed over and over
into the waiting opening. He felt the smooth throat of his lover working
him deep, swallowing every drop that spasmed from him. Illya's finger was
doing wondrous things to him as well, and he finally stopped pumping,
collapsing weakly onto his arms, still covering Illya's head in a push-up
position. His arms trembled with the strain and he feared he would fall on
top of his lover. Reluctantly, he pulled out of Illya's mouth, feeling the
quick tongue rasping his sensitive head on the way out. He hissed and
collapsed to the side, pulling Illya over with him. He held onto the wiry
body, burrowing into the sweet-smelling Illya scent and waiting for his
heart to stop hammering. 

Gentle hands rearranged his clothing and he helped Illya tuck everything
back into place. They were in a public area. Napoleon's hands sifted
through the gold of Illya's hair, feeling the silk of it run across his
fingers. "I can't seem to get enough of you, love." 

Illya smiled and Solo felt his heart jolt. He was happier than he had ever
been in his life. He pulled the blond head down over his heart and Illya
lay still, listening to it beat. "You hear that, Illyusha? You make it
beat harder than anyone I've ever known." 

The Russian sighed against him and reveled in the feel of the strong arms
surrounding him. They would have such a short time together; he wanted to
make every minute count. He tightened his grip on Solo's shirt, and
Napoleon felt the change. "What is it, love?" 

Illya didn't answer at first. He didn't want to spoil the moment. Napoleon
sat up slowly and held Illya loosely, turning him in his lap. "Don't think
too much. We have right now. And that's all that counts." He bent to
Illya's lips and kissed him slowly and tenderly. The tension drained out
of the younger man's body with the kiss and Solo took his time, hands
caressing the fine hair and roaming across the hard body. 

Illya melted against his lover and, when they parted, simply laid his head
on the strong chest and drowsed, listening to the birds singing and
feeling the sun warm his back. They stayed that way for a good while,
needing nothing but each other's company. 

 

Napoleon looked down at the small pillow he hugged to his chest, wishing
it were Illya he held instead. He was somewhere over the Atlantic,
cruising home in a 707 to the U.S. and his temporary home, Kansas State.
Home, he mused. Hardly that without Illya. 

He tried not to remember the look on his lover's face as they parted at
Heathrow. Napoleon was naturally gregarious. He would search out
companionship at school when he returned. Illya, on the other hand, would
retreat into his studies and his lonely staircase. 

Solo was glad of one thing: Illya had a housekeeper who took care of his
wing of staircases. He'd introduced Millicent to Napoleon when they'd
vacated the hotel and gone to Cambridge. She'd had the look of a mother
hen about her and dutifully clucked around until Illya gently shooed her
away. Millicent had winked at Solo as she left, with an, "I'll keep an eye
out for this one" in her eyes that only Napoleon had seen. He'd winked
back to her delight. 

Even as the plane flew further away, Napoleon began to feel some of his
heaviness abate. Illya was tough. He would stick it out, and they would be
together in a year, two at the most. One more year and Solo would be sent
to Survival School and then Waverly had promised him a New York posting if
his scores held up. Which they will, he thought arrogantly. Solo would not
allow anything to get in the way of his plans. 

Positioning the pillow under his head, Solo stretched out as much as he
could and tried to sleep. His thoughts wandered to the future, when he and
Illya would be partners, plowing their way through the bad guys and
wreaking havoc on the evil-doers. He fell asleep with a smug smile on his
lips. 

 
Manhattan, KansasApril, 1953 

This was just the ticket, Napoleon thought as he raced around the oval
track for the tenth time. He'd been hitting the books hard lately,
studying for his senior finals, and the stress needed an outlet. He'd
cruised the first two and a half miles but now quickened his pace, wanting
the conditioning that only sprinting obtained. 

It was warm for early spring, and his sweat pants and t-shirt were
clinging to his supple body, a fact not lost on the coeds watching from
the stadium seating. They would coo and giggle when he ran past, elbowing
each other and making comments. Napoleon smiled as he passed them,
wondering what they'd do if they knew the truth about his inclinations. He
had a gorgeous blond on his mind, but not one like his current crowd of
admirers. The thought of Illya in sweat pants running just ahead of him
made him pick up the pace, racing as if he trailed the Russian even now.
He wondered what Illya was doing at this exact moment. 

Two more laps, he told his straining lungs and tired thighs. He felt the
exertion begin to tax him but held the fast pace more out of pride than
anything else. He did have an audience, after all. Rounding the second
turn on the next-to-last circuit, Solo noticed additional hangers-on in
the stands. He didn't have the time or the energy to do more than glance
as he went by, but he saw a flash of yellow hair shining in the Midwestern
sun. 

Napoleon smiled as he thought of Illya so far away, probably studying or
getting ready for bed. Alone. A shiver crept across Solo's spine as he
devoutly wished to be sharing that particular bed. 

One last lap, he told himself, panting with the effort to keep the speed
constant. He passed his coterie and saluted them as they stood and cheered
for him while he swept by. Around another turn, he asked his aching body
for one last burst of speed and turned on his kick. He barreled down the
backstretch, eyes looking for his lone blonde admirer and not really
disappointed when she was gone. He spared none of his waning energy on the
puzzle. Chest heaving, legs burning, Solo saw the finish line looming and
dove for an imaginary tape. 

Sweat poured off him as he slowed and placed his hands on his hips, trying
to pull in enough oxygen to stay upright. Forcing himself to keep moving,
he walked another half a lap before he got control of his laboring lungs
and began to cool down properly. His track coach had imprinted the correct
way to train for the sport, and even though the season was well over, Solo
still followed his rules. He slowed again, breathing deeply and beginning
to lose the stitch in his side at last. 

Leaning against a convenient rail, Napoleon stretched his strained calf
muscles and shook out his tired thigh muscles. He wanted to stay in peak
shape for Survival School. He really didn't know what to expect but had an
idea it would be much harder than basic training. Solo remembered his army
buddies and wondered if they'd ever thought of him. Sarge had been killed
at Porkchop Hill, defending a fallen comrade. He'd gotten the Medal of
Honor posthumously. Evans was sent home with a bad hip injury, but he'd
gotten out alive. Jackson and Watkins were killed when their helicopter
was shot down over Panmunjon. Napoleon had kept in contact with Evans for
a year or so, but they had drifted apart, like most army buddies do when
returned to the real world. The American remembered how young they had
been and how scared. And he remembered the unusual way Illya'd entered his
life. He'd never thought of the enemy as a nameless, faceless entity
since. He hoped the lives of the men they had touched had been changed as
well. 

Getting a whiff of himself, Solo wrinkled his nose and headed for the
showers. He tossed his bag on one of the empty locker room benches.
Grabbing towel and toiletries, he stripped out of the sodden sweats and
took the spigot furthest from the door. After getting the temperature just
right, Solo eased under the water and groaned at the relief the pulses
gave to his abused body. He soaped quickly but allowed himself the luxury
of a leisurely shower. Halfway through his shampoo he heard another spigot
turn on and leaned into the spray to rinse. 

Turning, Solo cleared the water from his lashes and flicked his dark
dripping head. He shook like a dog after a rain and his muscles rippled,
the water cascading from his slickened skin in a riot of disorderly drips
and drops. He heard a sharp intake of breath. 

Looking across the tiled floor, it was Solo's turn to gasp. He blinked his
eyes again and rubbed them, disbelieving what they told him. A naked, wet
and thoroughly pleased Illya Kuryakin stood no more than ten or twelve
feet from him. 

The pouty lips were upraised in a smirk as he said, "Aren't you going to
'lather, rinse, repeat,' Napoleon?" 

Shock kept Solo rooted to the floor, his mouth forming a surprised, 'O.' 

Illya took a long, leisurely appraisal of the nude form so near. He
lingered on the strong chest and licked his lips as his gaze worked down
the beautiful body. 

Solo finally spoke. "Illya? How... where...." 

Kuryakin closed the distance and stroked Solo's face with his fingertips.
Napoleon closed his eyes and leaned into the welcome touch. His eyes flew
open as he realized how public their reunion was likely to become if they
weren't careful. 

"Relax, miili moy. I booby-trapped the outer door. We'll hear anyone
coming." The Russian moved closer, running his warm hands across the newly
heaving chest of his lover. 

Solo groaned and pulled the slim body flush against him, latching on to
the wet skin of Illya's neck and suckling like a newborn. Water beat
against his back as he nuzzled and licked his way across Illya's body,
renewing his familiarity with it. Illya stretched back, allowing full
access. His busy hands were remembering Solo territory as well. 

"Illya. Illya...." Napoleon was intoxicated by the smell and taste of his
lover and licked the water droplets from his chest. Kuryakin took hold of
the thick hair on Solo's head and pulled his mouth up to his. His tongue
rasped across the full, swollen lips and then delved inside the heated
depths. 

Matching breath to quickened breath, Napoleon realized his earlier workout
hadn't even blunted his ardor. Illya's alluring presence was enough to rev
him to full wakefulness, his body responding in quick delight. He couldn't
bear to leave the haven of Illya's welcoming mouth, and settled for
pulling him tightly against his wet and slippery skin. Illya's response
was easily registered, and Solo thrust his hips against him, once, hard.
The resulting moan of desire from his Russian was the sweetest sound
Solo'd heard in a long time. He felt Illya push back, the jabbing erection
insistent on release. 

Napoleon sucked Illya's tongue into his mouth and fellated it with his
lips. Kuryakin let go of his hair and slid his soapy hands down across
Napoleon's fevered skin to cup his ass, crushing them more tightly
together and giving their erections direct contact. 

Both men groaned and began thrusting, lost in the erotic and loving act. 

Breaking contact only long enough to suck in air, neither man wanted to
relinquish the other's lips, needing to taste and remember the other's
essence. 

Rhythmically, they began a point-counterpoint that had all the finesse of
a freight train. Shallow thrusts became surges and surges became pounding.
Neither could withstand the onslaught of pure pleasure. All too soon,
Napoleon slid across Illya's lips and gasped against the corner of his
mouth. "Illya...." 

Kuryakin buried his fingers in his lover's crease and felt him stiffen. He
shoved hard up against the tight abdomen and felt himself spurting
strongly against the soft skin there. 

Napoleon felt the warm pulses hit him and cried out, his voice ringing and
echoing in the tiled room. His orgasm roared out, hot fluid joining with
his lover's to splatter against them both. 

The embrace was all that kept them on their feet. Both bodies sagged with
release and used the strength of the other to stay upright. Their gasps
filled the small room like steam. 

Illya looked down at the mess between them and smiled ruefully. "Good
thing we're in the shower." He backed Solo up until they were sharing the
spray and cleaned them both. Solo grabbed one shoulder and pulled Illya to
him in a needy embrace. He held tightly and Kuryakin allowed the
indulgence, smiling at Napoleon's emotional display. The Russian leaned
into one flushed ear and whispered, "I've missed you, too, lyubov." 

 

Once over the shock, Napoleon took Illya on a tour of the campus. They
started with the quad, sitting quietly on a convenient bench and talking
about nothing and everything. As they watched the ebb and flow of students
mill around them, Napoleon sank into the seat and just soaked up Illya's
presence. After a long companionable silence, Solo spoke very softly. "Not
that I'm complaining mind you, but just what the hell are you doing here?"


His broad smile let Illya know he was on safe shores. "Oh, I've always
wanted to see Kansas. You know, Land of Oz, home of Dorothy and Tojo."
Kuryakin looked straight ahead, and Solo couldn't see his expression. 

Solo snorted loudly. "It's 'Toto' you mad Socialist, and you know it." He
added quietly, "Land of Oz, my ass...." 

Illya leaned very close and sighed into his ear, "Ah, now you know the
real reason." Solo promptly turned bright crimson, and Illya laughed out
loud. "Don't ask the question if you don't want to hear the answer,
Napoleon." 

Solo leaned back and listened to Illya talk. The British accent still
intrigued him. He could pick up the Russianness when he paid attention. It
was endearing. Grinning happily, he nodded at the appropriate places. 

Illya stopped and studied his friend's face. "Sorry. I've been nattering
along, haven't I?" 

"Don't apologize. I'm just happy you're here." Napoleon wanted to hug him
but settled for elbowing him in the side. 

"I decided that Easter Break wouldn't be any kind of holiday at all alone.
I'd saved up enough to come to your graduation, but now I have exams that
week. This is the only time I could get away." His face fell as he said,
"I'm sorry I won't be here when you get your degree." 

Napoleon nudged closer and said, "It's okay, Illya. I just can't believe
you're here now." 

Quietly, they sat together and enjoyed the moment. The spring sky was a
glorious blue and the clouds were perfectly white. Oz, indeed, thought
Solo. He cleared his throat and caught Illya's eye. "Are you hungry? We
can eat here or go off campus." 

"I'm famished. Haven't eaten since England." His stomach rumbled to prove
the point. 

Napoleon stood and pulled Illya up with him. "I know just the place.
Burgers and fries. A staple here in Oz." 

Illya gave him the lopsided smile that made his heart ache. "As long as
it's not fish and chips, you're on." 

 

Settled in a booth, they happily munched on greasy diner food. Illya loved
the food and the décor. He goggled at the roller-skating waitresses and
tried three different hamburgers and side orders. The heavily made-up
girls flirted with him as they skated his mound of food over. Their poodle
skirts swirled around their hips as they flounced away. 

Solo smiled at the plethora of potato surrounding his lover. He'd gotten a
chili-dog and onion rings. Illya reached over to snag one of his rings and
he swatted the quick hand away. "This is my food, Illya." 

Sighing in mock regret, Illya began to pack the food away. Never a picky
eater, he had found British food a bit on the bland side, and rejoiced in
the spicy barbeque and mustard sauces in a tray before him. 

He tried every combination possible while Solo looked on with amused
tolerance. 

Illya loved the Coke and quickly ordered a refill. The redhead who
delivered it batted her eyes at him and pouted when he didn't notice her.
Napoleon almost felt sorry for the girl. 

Illya stopped eating long enough to speak. "Should I get a hotel room? Do
they have guest beds here?" 

Solo finished his dog and dumped the last of the rings on Illya's plate.
He beamed with gratitude. "You can stay in my room. My roommate went home
for the weekend to be with his girlfriend. And to do his laundry at mommy
and daddy's." 

"What's he like?" Illya seemed curious, not jealous. 

"Drew? He's all right. He's a junior. Spends most of his time thinking
about his girlfriend. He's got it bad." 

Illya smiled. "Which is good for us, anyway." He waggled his eyebrows.
"Privacy." 

Napoleon's eyes smoldered at his beautiful lover's words. He shifted in
his red plastic chair, hoping Illya would finish soon. He had plans for
the afternoon that did not involve touring. 

Illya noticed the change and the look in Solo's eyes. He dropped his
napkin on the table and drained the last of the Coke. "I think I'd like to
see your dormitory next, Napoleon. If you don't mind." 

Solo grinned, dropping a generous tip for the poor redhead. 

 

They walked off part of the meal on the way back to campus. It was a fine
afternoon, and Solo did his best to point out anything Illya would like.
They looked in the windows, and had to stop at a candy shop. The Russian
was amazed at the variety and color of the candy. He went from one display
to another, dazzled by the selections. He laughed out loud at the wax Coke
bottles. "Napoleon, I have to have some of these." He pulled out some
bills, dismayed that they were British pounds. The disappointment on his
face vanished when Solo waved a five-dollar bill at him. 

"Have at it, Captain Cavity." 

Illya placed the bill on the counter as the clerk handed him an empty bag.
"How much will this get me?" he asked. 

The clerk looked at Napoleon and then back at Illya. "More than you can
carry out of here." 

"Don't bet on it...." Solo replied. 

The clerk set another bigger bag on the counter. 

Napoleon leaned back against the counter and watched Illya prowl around
the store, stopping every few feet to put something else in the bag. Solo
noticed his Russian accent became more pronounced the further into the
goods he went. Seeing Illya having so much fun delighted the American.
Even though he studied in England, Solo knew Illya led a sheltered life at
school, the officials and U.N.C.L.E. keeping him cloistered on the
grounds. Neither wanted him to run afoul of his former countrymen. 

Solo shook his head, chasing the darker thoughts away, and merely watched
Kuryakin. He took Pez dispensers, Red Hots, Milk Duds, Slo Pokes, and, of
course, a handful of Nik-L-Nip wax bottles. His head came up and the blue
eyes fixed on Solo. 

"Napoleon, what is a 'Moon Pie?'" 

Solo looked at the clerk and shrugged his shoulders. "It's... ah... well.
Just get one and try it." 

Kuryakin grinned and put two in the bag. He placed his sack on the counter
and watched the clerk total it up. Illya took one of the wax bottles and
put it aside as the rest went back in the bag. 

"A dollar forty-two." 

Illya's eyebrows rose and he looked at Napoleon. "It's all right," the
older man replied. He paid the clerk and handed Solo the change. 

"I think I've created a monster." 

The clerk smiled at them and said, "Bring him back any time, sir." 

"Not likely...." 

Illya took the wax bottle and held it up to Solo. "What do I...." 

"Just bite off the top and drink the liquid. Some people chew on the wax,
but I don't." 

Illya nipped the wax neck and upended the brown fluid. He looked puzzled. 

"What?" 

"It doesn't taste like the Coke I had in the diner." 

"It's not supposed to." 

"Oh." 

They walked slowly down the street as Illya dug through his candy and
sampled a bit of everything. He saved the Moon Pies. 

Solo groaned watching him. "How can you eat so much?" 

"They asked me the same thing at Hall at Cambridge." He was quiet for a
few strides. "I guess it just comes from not knowing when my next meal
would be when I was growing up." 

Napoleon sighed and put his hand on Illya's shoulder. "Geez, I'm sorry,
Illya. I didn't mean to hurt your feelings." 

Kuryakin waved it off. "You didn't. You just asked a question." 

Napoleon resolved to be more diplomatic in the future. He steered Illya
across the street and pointed out the squat, red brick building. "The
Emerald City awaits." 

"It's red." 

"It's a joke." 

"I don't get it." 

Napoleon rolled his eyes skyward and pushed Illya along. They went inside
and Solo pointed out the plaque on the wall. "Gibson House." 

"Who's Gibson?" 

"Someone with a lot of money." 

Solo indicated the stairway and they climbed up three flights. The house
was nearly deserted, most of the residents away or out partying. One of
the doors at the far end of the hall had a hanger on the knob. Solo
waggled his eyebrows. "I see I'm not the only one who has company
tonight." 

He opened the door with his key and ushered Illya inside. Once the door
was shut and relocked, Solo pulled the slender Russian to him and kissed
him hungrily. Illya tossed the bag of candy on the bed, the Moon Pies
forgotten. 

"I've missed you so much, Illya." Solo began slowly stripping the clothes
from his lover. He stopped to lavish kisses on each body part as it was
revealed. Illya allowed the attention, reveling in it. Kuryakin kicked off
his shoes, but left the rest to Solo. 

His buttons undone, Illya squirmed as warm hands ghosted across his chest,
pausing to tickle the fine hair in the middle. A callused thumb tweaked
his nipple and he groaned at the contact. Solo tried to swallow the sound
with his tongue down Illya's throat. The white shirt was pulled free of
Kuryakin's trousers and then dropped to the floor. Solo started at Illya's
pale neck and slipped quietly across the goose-pebbled skin. His tongue
rasped against Illya's Adam's apple, and Solo felt him swallow
impatiently. 

Napoleon slowly knelt in front of his lover and trailed kisses down the
center of his body. Illya slipped his hands into Solo's hair and then
placed them on his strong shoulders. Napoleon nuzzled Illya through the
fly of his trousers, causing the younger man to jump at the contact. He
slipped his hands around Illya's ass, holding him in place. 

Illya looked down his body at the wet line of saliva and shivered. Solo
looked up at him just as his teeth grazed the head of his erection through
the layers of cotton. Illya's eyes rolled up and he sagged into Solo's
body, groaning. Napoleon maneuvered them both onto one of the beds and
then worked the fly of Illya's pants open. He left the clothing more or
less in place, teasing and working his busy tongue into the opening of
both pants and briefs. 

Illya bucked up and cried out, "Napoleon!" Solo reached one hand up and
covered Kuryakin's mouth. He felt the Russian's tongue licking against his
palm and tried not to moan himself. His lover got the message, however,
and kept quiet. 

Only when Illya's erection worked free of its restraints did Solo finish
stripping him. He positioned Illya at the edge of the bed and then took
the hard cock fully into his mouth. Both men groaned quietly, unable to
keep silent. Solo worked the foreskin back and forth, making Illya squirm
and ball his fists into the bedclothes. The smaller man panted and
thrashed beneath him. Napoleon used his free hand to tuck under Illya's
balls, rolling and warming them gently. 

Illya's hands shot out and grasped Solo's head. His fingers entwined in
the thick black hair, but he did not pull or hurt his lover. He had to
touch Napoleon, be a part of the lovemaking since he couldn't talk. When
Solo sucked deep, Illya's fingers tightened. When he backed off, Illya
relaxed, massaging the scalp. He wanted Solo to feel what he was doing to
him as well. 

Now, Solo thought. I have to have him now. He pumped faster on the head
and rolled his tongue against the flared crown. Illya's fingers clenched
and relaxed, clenched and relaxed. Solo swiped his tongue against the
uncovered slit and Illya spasmed, holding tightly to his head. Napoleon
reached back and stroked the soft skin behind Illya's sac and took him in,
swallowing the cock. That was all it took, as Illya mewled softly and
spurted into his mouth as Solo milked him again and again. 

Slowly, Illya's body calmed and he sank into the mattress with an
exhausted and pleased sigh. Napoleon draped his larger body over the
slender form and nuzzled into Kuryakin's sweaty neck. Gradually Illya
became coherent and caressed the still-hard cock of his lover. Solo had to
bury his face in Illya's shoulder to muffle the needy cry. "I want you,
Illya." 

"I want you, too, lyubov." Illya glanced around the small dorm room. "Do
you have anything...." 

Solo thought and came up empty. "No. Not here. In my gym bag, but we left
that in the locker. Damn...." He was eager for his lover, but wouldn't
risk hurting him. "Wait a minute." 

He moved off the bed and opened Drew's closet. He cried, "Aha!" and
produced a small bottle of corn oil. Illya looked puzzled until Solo said,
"He uses it to make popcorn on a hotplate. We're not supposed to, but...."


Illya shivered as Napoleon came back to bed and opened the bottle,
dribbling some on his hands. He spooned behind Illya, easing one leg
forward. "Are you sure?" Illya shoved back against his erection, trying to
speed things along. "All right, all right. Calm down, love." Napoleon
gently eased a finger into Illya, caressing him internally. He did groan
then, at the tightness and the wonderful heat surrounding him. It had been
so long. "Illya, I don't want to hurt you, but I want you so badly." 

"Then take me, my Polya." 

"Not yet." He slipped another digit inside, biting his lip at what it did
to his fraying self-control. Illya pushed back onto his slippery hand and
Solo couldn't wait any longer. He coated his cock and replaced his fingers
with the head of his erection. One gentle push buried the head deeply and
Illya sighed in completion. 

"Am I hurting you?" He felt Illya contract his muscles around him and
groaned between clenched teeth, "I'll take that as a 'no,' then?" He did
it a second time and Solo growled deep in his throat and slid deeper into
Illya. 

The Russian whimpered and thrust backwards. Napoleon pushed forward; Illya
pushed back. Pulling him up, Solo came behind Illya and used his strength
to snug him against his straining thighs. He draped across the strong back
and began thrusting deeply. Laying his head along Illya's sweaty flank,
Solo felt the shivers that raced through his body. Solo changed his grip
and felt the angle of his penetration change. Illya jolted as if struck by
an electric charge. Napoleon pulled nearly clear and then seated himself
fully. Illya shuddered and gasped. 

Reaching around his hip, Solo bumped across Illya's straining cock, fully
hard with the hammering of his prostate. He stroked along the length,
keeping time with his rhythm. Illya rose up to meet him, Napoleon's lips
right at his pink ear. "Come, Illya. Come for me, please. I want to feel
you." 

The feel of the hard cock sliding through his hand as he slid in and out
of his lover made Solo feel connected to Illya as never before. Nearly
sobbing, Solo thrust faster, pounding into Illya now as they raced to the
finish together. Illya stiffened, pushed against Solo one last time and
erupted all over the helping hand. 

The feel of the hot semen covering his hand took Solo over as well. He
pushed into Illya two more times and then felt himself come in a rush,
shooting deeply into his lover's body. The spasming pulses nearly made him
scream, and he bit Illya's soft shoulder to keep from crying out. His
entire body joined in the release and he felt every muscle contract. 

His quivering body gradually stilled, and Solo sagged across Illya's back.
The labored breathing of the two spent men filled the small room. They
came down slowly, hearts and lungs calming, bodies cooling. Solo could
feel his sweat dripping down his side to land on Illya. His softened cock
slipped free of his lover's body and they both sighed with regret.
Napoleon moved off to the side, pulling Illya to him, spooning once again.


He grabbed a t-shirt and cleaned them both, then snuggled against the lax
body. Illya was drowsing, the time change and jet lag catching up to him.
Napoleon felt utterly content. 

He was nearly asleep when he felt Illya stir slightly. Lifting his tired
blond head, he said, "Hey, we never got to the Moon Pies...." 

Solo hit him with his pillow and drifted off. 

 

Now it was Illya's turn to miss Napoleon and think about him on the long
flight back to England. The American would graduate in June and then go
immediately to New York headquarters to spend some time under Mr.
Waverly's tutelage. Solo was scheduled for Survival School in July. The
two spy hopefuls had talked about "The Island" and Jules Cutter and how
bad it really might be. Napoleon had seemed a bit nervous, but confidant
that he would get through just fine. Illya had his own doubts about
finishing, having heard rumors about how Cutter would take to having a
Russian Communist in his camp. Stubborn as he was, he wouldn't tell
Napoleon of his fears, knowing the older man would feel responsible for
alleviating them. 

Illya sighed as he mentally ticked off the days until they would see each
other again. Solo had been promised time off after Survival School and
before his posting to NY-HQ. He'd made Illya promise to come visit him in
New York. The Russian tried not to project too far into the future, but it
was difficult not to fantasize about being partnered with Napoleon on and
off the job. He knew better than most that they'd have to be circumspect
and discreet to the extreme, but the benefits of the relationship would
far outweigh the disadvantages. 

Kuryakin settled against the seatback and decided not to think too much.
Soon enough he'd be back at school and busy with his own plans. The future
would be here in its own time. He was fast asleep before the stewardess
finished her safety speech. 

 
1954 

The year passed quickly for both men. Solo finished Survival School with
the highest scores ever recorded for a trainee. Although Jules Cutter
wouldn't come out and say so, the hard-bitten instructor had been
impressed with the young man named Napoleon Solo. Whatever Alexander
Waverly had seen in him earlier had come to fruition under the auspices of
the Command. Cutter held final approval of Solo's assignment to the New
York office, and he okayed the paperwork with a handwritten addendum at
the bottom for Waverly's eyes only. 

Keep an eye on this one, Alex. He's got great instincts, and a flexible
mind. He's cocky, maybe too much so, but being in the field will shake
that loose from him. If he lives through his first year, he'll be a top
agent. 

Napoleon Solo stood on the tarmac awaiting his transportation. He was on
the last leg of his journey. A private plane was coming to whisk him away
to NY-HQ. He was leaner, meaner, and much more serious than the man who
had arrived at the training island. Cutter had seen to that. Survival
School melted away the civilization along with the pounds. Solo had been
exposed to hardships that even combat hadn't prepared him for. He'd met
all the challenges and overcome them, but he knew he had changed as a
result. 

One thing Survival School had taught him was that he didn't know
everything: far from it. His weaknesses had been pointed out to him with
great frequency and decibels. Solo discovered he wasn't very good with
languages or mechanics. He'd received passing marks, but had excelled in
marksmanship, diplomacy, seduction, and leadership skills. Napoleon was
pragmatic about his deficiencies. All the students had them; he'd work
hard to eliminate his. 

While he waited for the plane to fuel, his thoughts turned toward Illya.
He was in his last year at Cambridge, and they were planning a reunion
after graduation. Waverly was pleased with Illya's hard work and his
stunning marks, and wanted him to continue his schooling with a doctorate
from the Sorbonne in quantum mechanics. 

Solo sighed. Illya was doing as well in his field as Solo. Their
competence only seemed to drive them further apart. It might be longer
than they'd first thought before they'd be together. The impatience of
youth screamed at him that they were wasting valuable time, but the newer
more mature Solo knew they'd both be better men for it. He just hoped they
each liked the new, improved versions of each other. 

 

Illya Kuryakin tried to concentrate on his studies. He was supposed to be
memorizing electro-magnetic radiation and the effects of the differing
wavelengths. His professor had his back to him, scribbling on the
blackboard. Illya wondered what Napoleon was doing just then. He is
probably on his way to New York by now, he thought. Solo's letters had
been few and far between, with Survival School keeping him hopping. Illya
had understood, but it was hard to be so far removed from his best friend
and lover. 

They had a rendezvous planned at the end of this term, and Illya's
graduation. Solo had gotten a bonus from U.N.C.L.E. for graduating at the
top of his class, and Napoleon chose to send the cash to Illya for his
trip to New York. Now it was a mere five months away and Illya found the
wait harder to endure. 

It was nearing Christmas, and Illya's classmates had their holidays all
planned. Most would go home to be with their families, but Illya had
nowhere to be and planned to stay on campus. Napoleon promised to call him
on Christmas Day from his Aunt Amy's penthouse. It gave the lonely Russian
something to look forward to. 

Illya shook his head and dispelled the gloomy thoughts. It did no good to
moon over Solo's absence. Kuryakin was doing splendidly in school with
nothing to distract him from his studies. So well, in fact, that Waverly
had promptly arranged for him to go directly to the Sorbonne for his
advanced degree. Illya could not have refused the offer without good
reason. He had accepted graciously and gratefully, but had asked to be
allowed a short vacation between the two terms. Waverly had asked if
Kuryakin would consider spending the summer break in New York, giving him
the opportunity to learn the ropes at headquarters. 

Grinning now at the thought of U.N.C.L.E. footing the bill for his reunion
with Napoleon, Illya wondered if Mr. Waverly knew their true relationship.
He suspected he did. An apartment waited for Solo, compliments of the
Command, but Illya knew he dared not stay there. The Russian noticed that
England was freer with her countrymen's sexual liberties, but he had been
raised in Communist environs, and knew well enough to hide his true
nature. 

Illya would stay in bachelor quarters within the building proper, and
whatever time he would find with Solo would be enough. After more than a
year apart, a day together would seem like a banquet. And Illya Kuryakin
was starving.... 

 
New YorkJune, 1955 

Napoleon Solo, officially Number Eleven, Section Two, drummed his
manicured fingers on the top of the circular desk. Mr. Waverly had
summoned him a few moments ago, but had not arrived himself. Solo's suit
coat was exquisitely tailored, Aunt Amy seeing to it that he was
well-turned out, but he shot the cuffs anyway, trying to make the jacket
hang properly. He gazed around the room for the umpteenth time, amazed at
all the circuitry and gadgets that Waverly used with aplomb. The Old Man
expected Solo to be a quick study and clucked disapprovingly when his
favorite student forgot the use of one or two of the buttons. 

The thought of his boss caused him to sit straighter in his chair and he
heard the door whoosh open behind him. He stood automatically, staring
straight ahead, waiting for the tweedy form of his mentor to appear and
take his customary chair. Solo's nose registered the pungent aroma of
Waverly's pipe before his eyes tracked the stocky figure as he sat. A
second later, his ears informed him that the doorway had not closed, just
as Waverly waved someone in with a, "Come in, sit down, sit down." 

Solo turned, and almost sat again in his chair in surprise. Illya Kuryakin
stood in the doorway, smiling the shy smile he was famous for. 

"Yes, sir," Kuryakin replied, and crossed the room to sit next to his
friend. Illya smiled wider and held out his hand. "Napoleon," he said
quietly, and felt a shiver run through him as Solo returned the handshake
firmly. 

Mr. Waverly cut through Solo's shock with a curt, "Are you going to stand
there all morning, Mr. Solo?" 

The American agent looked from Waverly to Kuryakin and back again. He
carefully lowered himself into the chair. "No, sir." Illya laughed under
his breath and Napoleon shot a look at him. But his brown eyes twinkled at
the sight of his lover. 

Waverly cleared his throat and set his pipe in the ashtray. "Mr. Kuryakin
has joined us for the summer until his studies begin at the Sorbonne." The
elder man watched the interplay between the two agents carefully. Solo
recovered from his shock quickly enough, and stared straight ahead.
Kuryakin seemed to be amused for some reason but remained silent. 

Their boss continued, "I am pleased with the progress you both have made
under U.N.C.L.E.'s auspices. I expect that trend to continue. You have a
great deal to learn about this organization and how it functions. I
realize Mr. Kuryakin is not a field agent, but he will benefit from your
experience, Mr. Solo. He will be tutored in French by Miss Adcock in
Languages for the time being, and I want you to show him around the
office. He has an apartment he needs to be settled in as well. See to it."


Solo had been around Waverly long enough to know a dismissal when he heard
one. He stood and inclined his head in Waverly's direction. "Yes, sir." 

Illya rose as well, and followed Napoleon out the door. Once in the
hallway, he took Solo's arm in a gesture of brotherhood and said,
"Congratulations on becoming an enforcement agent, Napoleon." 

Solo returned the compliment and said, "And to you for graduating summa
cum laude." 

They walked down the hall, trying not to show the excitement they felt.
Napoleon pointed out the various departments as they passed, and Illya
pretended to see them. "Are you hungry? Do you want to go to the
cafeteria?" Solo asked politely. 

Illya shook his shaggy head. "Actually, I would like to see my apartment.
I had my things sent down there already." 

Solo's pulse sped up immediately. He took a deep breath and replied
evenly, "Of course." 

They took the nearest elevator and waited inside, watching the numbers go
by. The guest level lit up and Solo ushered Illya into the hall and down
to his apartment. Kuryakin used the code he'd been given that morning, and
the door slid open at his command. 

Solo stepped in first, and waited for Illya to come inside. The door shut
and they were finally alone. They looked at each other, a few feet
separating them. Illya swallowed, Solo's proximity all but crumbling the
reserve he'd built up today. 

Napoleon was sweating, rivulets of perspiration running down his temple to
drip onto his too-tight collar. He closed his eyes and whispered,
"Illya...." 

Kuryakin started, the pull of that voice nearly impossible to resist. He
took one step toward Solo before he managed to speak. "Security?" 

Napoleon was puzzled for half a beat until he realized Kuryakin's intent.
"Ah, these are agents' quarters, Illya. No intrusive devices allowed." 

Kuryakin relaxed visibly and loosened his tie. The jacket was shucked and
thrown over a convenient chair. His white shirt was sticky with sweat and
plastered to his thin frame. Solo gulped when he saw the outline of
Illya's stiff nipples jutting through the fabric. 

"You've... you've gained weight, finally, Illya. Filled out. Nicely." Solo
took a heaving breath as Illya drew closer. He had put on bulk, rowing and
weight training in preparation for Survival School. 

"And you have lost weight, Napoleone mio. Such sleekness...." His hand
slipped across Solo's waistline, approving of the taut lines under the
tailored jacket and the firm buttocks in the finely-cut slacks. Solo
groaned and Illya pulled him closer and let his hands roam over the
chiseled body. Solo was like a panther, honed and defined in a powerfully
dangerous way. 

Illya undid the tie and pulled the jacket down, trapping Solo's arms
against his waist. He slipped down each button and exposed the sweaty
chest, kissing and licking the perspiration away. Once the shirt hung open
he pulled it from the slacks and yanked both garments away with one
motion. Napoleon was bare from the waist up, but that wasn't good enough.
It was, however, a start, and Illya resisted the urge to continue the
disrobing long enough to run his warm palms across Solo's chest, making
the nipples pull into hard nubs. Solo hissed and watched with lidded eyes
as Illya bent down to suck one taut point into his eager mouth. 

The Russian's mouth worked magic on Solo's body as he threw his head back
in delight. The tailored slacks were tented, Solo's interest apparent.
Illya drew shaking hands across the swollen front and caressed gently. He
went down on his knees and slipped one hand inside the waistband, pulling
Solo ever closer. The other hand drew down the zipper and disappeared into
the white cotton beneath. 

Napoleon's knees nearly buckled when Illya grasped his hardening penis,
and he lurched toward the couch. Kuryakin went with him, refusing to
release his long-sought-after prize. After removing the pants and
underclothes, he lay on top of Solo and worked back up his chest, kissing
and licking every tanned inch of skin. Once his tongue felt the cleft of
his lover's chin, Illya groaned, the first sound he had made. He targeted
Napoleon's mouth, wasting no time on delicate forays. He thrust his tongue
insistently into the open lips, his tongue dueling with Solo's, and his
hand continuing to caress and stroke. Illya's thumb passed over the
weeping slit and Solo jerked in response. 

Solo growled, taking Illya by surprise, and flipped him over to land on
top of the smaller frame. They nearly fell onto the carpeted floor, but a
last-minute save had them righted again. Napoleon thrust his pelvis
against Kuryakin's clothed body and sat up, eyes blazing. 

He grabbed Illya's shirtfront and yanked hard, watching in satisfaction as
the buttons pinged off in every direction. Illya leaned into him for
another hard kiss, and he used the motion to remove the ruined shirt. The
pale white skin of his lover was dewed with sweat and Solo whispered as he
bent over him, "Mine, all mine...." 

It was the last coherent thought he had as he swept over the body beneath
him, suckling and laving every inch of skin presented. He bit one nipple
hard enough to make it bleed and then apologized by kissing the offended
part over and over. Illya moaned and sobbed beneath him, arching his
pelvis and begging Solo to continue. Napoleon crawled up the slick body,
nibbling behind each ear in turn and latching hot lips on the smooth neck.
Illya tensed, trying to get Solo's attention lower, but the American would
not be distracted. He grabbed Illya's thick hair and pulled the vulnerable
neck back, applying enough pressure to get Kuryakin's attention. He
stilled immediately, allowing Solo free rein. 

Napoleon rumbled against the exposed throat, knowing the trust his lover
had in him. He rewarded Illya by loosening his grip and plundering the
delicious mouth once again. Taking Illya's wrists, Solo pulled the muscled
arms back and above the blond head. He delved into the soft hair of his
armpits, inhaling the sweet smell of Illya-sweat. He encouraged the
Russian to grasp the arm of the couch and then started down a sensual
journey across the jumping muscles of Illya's chest and abdomen. 

Napoleon smiled when Illya seemed ticklish around his navel. He spent time
there, turning Illya into a physical wreck. Only when his lover bucked
hard enough to nearly unseat him did Solo continue south to the annoying
trousers still more or less in place. 

Nearly bursting with his own need, Solo had a difficult time keeping his
hands from yanking the clothes off his lover's gleaming body. He took deep
breaths and watched Illya's face as he ran a large hand across the
cloth-covered bulge. Kuryakin closed his eyes and groaned from the depth
of his soul. "Pazhalusta, Polya...." 

Solo bent level with Illya's crotch and teased him with his lips and
tongue, rubbing against the hard cock beneath. Illya tensed upward, but
did not release his grip on the couch. Solo approved of his tenuous
restraint and took pity on the younger man. He tried to control the
tremors in his hands as he loosed the last barrier of cloth between their
rigid bodies. Pulling the pants and briefs down and off took far too much
time, and the impatient Russian growled as Solo snaked down his body to
pull off the restraining shoes and socks as well. When Solo's head went
past his erection, Illya tried to thrust against it, blind with lust from
Solo's slow assault. 

Napoleon laughed softly and decided poor Illya had had enough for one
session. On his way back up the hard-muscled thighs, Solo kissed and
teased the softly-downed legs, licking aggressively at the crease where
hip and thigh met. Illya cried out and finally lost control, letting go of
the arm of the couch and grabbing Solo's head with his blunt fingers. 

"Take me in your mouth, Polya. I'm dying...." 

Solo looked into the brilliant blue eyes. "Not yet, you're not, caro mio."


He kept eye contact as his lips captured the weeping head of Illya's
erection and pulled it into his mouth. Kuryakin wanted nothing more than
to watch, but he was so close he had to close his eyes or come from the
sight. 

Napoleon used his tongue on the rim to push the foreskin back and forth.
Illya thrashed and squirmed beneath him, trying to push deeper into the
incredible moist heat. Solo thrust his own heated cock against Illya's
hard thigh, trying to get purchase for his own desire. 

Illya felt the needy pressure and groaned deeply, pulling Solo up to his
lips by the thick dark hair. He kissed Napoleon again and again and felt
him nestle his erection against his perineum, trapping Illya's cock
between their rock-hard abdomens. "Yes, Napoleon. Now, now!" 

His lover began to thrust, each backward and forward motion creating an
incredible friction. Illya pushed against the sweaty skin of Solo's
stomach and cried out at the sensation. 

Illya's needy cry touched Solo and he lost all control. "Illya, Illya, I
can't wait any longer...." He buried his face in the hollow between
Illya's neck and shoulder and thrust once, twice, three times against the
exquisitely tender skin. "Illyusha!" he cried as his orgasm roared
outward, his cock jerking in the close quarters. 

The strong warm spurts hit Illya's sensitive skin and he groaned as well,
pulling Solo hard against him as he pushed into the body on top of him.
Illya came hard, panting and going rigid with the release. His fluid
coated both of their stomachs, joining with the pool of sweat already
there. Napoleon collapsed, his weight bearing Illya deeper into the couch,
his dark head dropping onto the pale shoulder. 

Both men gasped for breath, trying to recover some sense of self. Solo
tried to lift his head, and dropped back weakly. Illya's arms went around
the heaving chest, and he kissed the crown of the brunet head. After a few
minutes, Solo stirred and took some of his weight off by sliding across
the slick body beneath him. Illya turned and spooned up against his lover.
Solo gathered him in his arms and they rested together. 

When he could speak, Solo bent to the small ear and whispered, "Welcome to
New York, Illya Nickovetch." 

Illya laughed and tightened his grip of Solo's forearm. "I must remember
to send a thank you note to the welcoming committee...." 

Solo glanced down at their sticky bodies. "Ah, Illya? Message received." 

Both men chuckled and settled against the other's body contentedly. Illya
sighed deeply and wondered what the next three months would bring. It
wouldn't matter; he would be with Napoleon, where he longed to be. 

"It will be difficult to leave here for the Sorbonne in the fall." 

Solo tightened his embrace. "Here?" he gestured to the apartment, and
U.N.C.L.E. "Or here?" he asked as he caressed the smooth hairless skin of
Illya's inner arm. 

"You know what I meant." 

"I know, caro." Napoleon kissed the side of Illya's neck. "But we're
getting closer. Finish your degree, tackle Survival School and then we'll
be together again." 

"You will wait for me? You promise, dushka?" 

"I promise. I love you, Illya." 

"I love you also, Napoleon." 

They were silent for a while, thinking about what they meant to each
other, and the long winding road that had led them here to this place and
this time. 

Illya had nearly nodded off when Solo shook him gently. "Illya?" 

"Hmm?" Kuryakin murmured sleepily. 

"What does 'dushka' mean?" 

The Russian stirred, trying to translate the endearment into American.
"It, uhm, means 'soul.'" 

Napoleon's heart constricted to know that Illya called him that. "I
thought all good Russians were atheists, my Illyusha." 

Illya smiled and kissed Solo's hand. "You have much to learn about
Russians, milli moy." 

Napoleon kissed him back. "Well, isn't it fortunate that I happen to be in
love with a Russian?" Solo rolled Illya onto his back and covered the
smaller frame with his body. 

"Extremely." 

"And that we have the rest of our lives for lessons?" 

Illya smiled broadly and pulled Solo to him. "Now you are beginning to
think like a Russian." 

"Da, da, da." Napoleon fervently hoped he would become fluent in Illya.  


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