The entrance to U.N.C.L.E. New Orleans headquarters was situated on the first floor of a haunted house. That was Napoleon's analysis, anyway--there was no way a mansion that old and elegant in the French Quarter of the Big Easy wasn't haunted.

The branch CEA met them in the foyer. Between a hangover, sleep deprivation, and speculation, Napoleon had forgotten whom he should be expecting until the girl from Hani's photograph stepped forward, hand extended, considerably smaller than life. Her brother's photo had been a studio bust, and therefore hadn't communicated the fact that she was just under five feet tall. She was exceedingly pretty, with hair that fell all the way down her back in a thick, chestnut braid, and looked very businesslike in a black pantsuit, but Napoleon's overwhelming urge on sight was to pick her up and hug her. It was the thought of her parents' special insurance that kept his face neutral as he shook her hand. "Napoleon Solo, CEA New York," he said.

She had a strong handshake and a confident smile as she tilted her head in acknowledgement without breaking eye contact. "Shafa El-Issa," she said. "Pleased to make your acquaintance at last." She had a different accent from her brother--it sounded a lot like Illya's. She and Illya introduced themselves cordially, then she clapped her hands together. "Gentlemen, you will forgive me if I proceed straight to business. Mr. Kuryakin, if you will take your and Mr. Solo's belongings upstairs to the second and third rooms on the fourth floor, then enter headquarters and ask to be conducted to Section 2, my Number 2 will brief you on your role in the Tantalus Affair. In the meanwhile, I must speak to your CEA confidentially."

Napoleon and Illya turned to catch each other's eyes. Illya masked his surprise quickly. Napoleon hesitated a moment, then grinned and handed him his suitcase. "You heard the CEA, Number 2."

Illya gave him a lift of the eyebrows that promised creative retribution at an unspecified juncture, took the suitcases and headed for the sweeping staircase.

"Come," Shafa said to Napoleon. She led him through the secret passage in the library that opened when you pulled the book on sewage management from 1750 to 1781, Napoleon got his visitor's badge, and they marched through a headquarters that looked almost precisely like every other U.N.C.L.E. base worldwide. Napoleon suspected they had only wanted to pay the architect for one set of plans. She greeted people in the halls, but said nothing to him until they reached her office. It looked a lot like the one Napoleon shared with Illya in New York, only there was no second desk.

"Sit down," she said, when she had closed the door.

Napoleon sat in the comfortable roll-back chair in front of her desk. That brought them eye to eye, and she did not sit down, merely clasped her hands behind her back and stood with her spine straight and her feet apart.

"You're the one I have to thank for that rescue in Casablanca," Napoleon said.

"No, Hani is the one you should thank," she said. "I am the one to whom you should apologize. I had a devil of a time explaining to U.N.C.L.E. Rabat why I'd called out a manhunt on someone who used to work at their office, who was in the country on business for another branch of U.N.C.L.E."

"Uh... yes," Napoleon said. "I'm sorry about that."

"And that was your sister, was it?"

Napoleon loosened his collar and looked around the room. "If you tell Illya, you'll be as good as a party to murder."

She smiled grimly. "I won't tell him. I want you alive and able to work together for the duration of the affair, at least." She watched him for a moment while Napoleon avoided her eyes. "I can see why you felt you could not be frank," she said at length, "but if I say so myself, Hani is only old-fashioned where it is charming to be so. He is quite forward-thinking in most areas. He would still like to have that drink with you, the next time you are in Beirut."

"That's not quite--" Napoleon cleared his throat. "I mean, it isn't what you think. It's-- I--" He sighed. "I'd like to have that drink with him, too."

She nodded curtly, then launched into an explanation of THRUSH operations in a nearby pleasure den, the undercover surveillance she wanted Napoleon and Illya to perform, and the training of her own agents in which she wanted them to assist.

It was a long day. Napoleon and Illya met a great many New Orleans agents, consulted on plans and strategies, sat in on training sessions, and disguised themselves to accompany Shafa on an initial casing of the casino/cabaret/house of ill-repute named the Tantalus. When they returned to the mansion, Illya was the first up the stairs, pulling off his tie as he went, muttering something incoherent about roulette or rhubarb.

Napoleon felt Shafa looking at him and turned at the foot of the staircase.

"It isn't you who want him," she said. "It's the reverse." Napoleon looked up where Illya had gone, but heard only the creak of the second flight of stairs, overhead. He looked back at Shafa. She nodded once to herself, mouth pursed in thought. "And yet you seek to sequester him from the advances of other men."

"Look--"

"If you're going to say it isn't my business, it became so when you got Hani to help you escape from hospital, and when I ended up releasing the hounds on Paul Westcott."

"I'm sorry--"

"Don't be sorry; remedy the situation. If you won't have him yourself, as he wants, then release him. Who are you to be rampaging across continents to upset his happiness with someone else, if you don't want him?"

"I want him to be happy!" Napoleon hissed with another desperate glance up the stairs. He stepped closer to her in hopes of lowering her volume. "Westcott is... I think he's bad for anyone. Maybe I'm wrong, but I thought he could hurt Illya, one way or another, and I'd cross more than continents to stop that. Whether he'll admit he needs me, or not. He'd do the same for me."

Shafa looked up at him through narrowed eyes, then seized his collar and the knot of his tie and gave a sharp yank that brought him to his knees. She pulled him forward by his tie and kissed him hard. Napoleon hadn't the time to regain his balance before she released him and stepped back. Napoleon was looking at her through a veil of brightly colored spots from a considerably lower vantage point before he registered movement on either of their parts. He raised a hand to his jaw and felt his pulse through his fingertips. Shafa considered her knuckles, then met Napoleon's shocked gaze coolly.

"Now," she said, "who was the first person who sprang to mind to whom you had to speak about this crazy woman's behavior?"

Napoleon grimaced and rubbed his jaw, which was already swelling. "He's my best friend. I know that part."

"But will he always be as available to speak with you, about just anything, any time you want him, if you allow someone else to occupy that place in his life?"

"I... don't know," Napoleon said. She gave a flick of the eyebrows that he could tell stood in for something a great deal ruder. He frowned. "That's going a bit far for someone you don't know, isn't it?"

"I don't like it when people lie to my brother," she said. "Good night, Mr. Solo."

Napoleon's room in the mansion was large, three times the size of the king size four-poster bed that squatted near one wall. There were a pair of armchairs either side of a coffee table, and a hulking oak dresser with a huge mirror above it, none of which looked like they'd been dusted since the Louisiana Purchase. Two paintings of dour old people--men or women, he couldn't tell--glowered at the room from opposing walls. Their eyes looked like someone was peering through holes cut in the canvas until he got close enough to poke them, which he did. Napoleon found his suitcase in a cavernous closet whose corners were invisible by the light of the three antique lamps in the room, changed into his pajamas, and spent the next two hours staring at the dusty cloth canopy overhead, listening to noises that bore no relation he could perceive to the house settling. Then he rolled out of bed and went next door.

Illya answered his knock with a cocked pistol in one hand, rubbing his eye with the heel of the other. "What is it?" he asked fuzzily, lowering the gun. There was no light but what leaked out from Napoleon's door, but Illya's bleary annoyance was clear enough.

"Can I stay with you?"

Illya frowned as though he were still asleep, troubled by incomprehensible dreams. He stifled a yawn. "Go to sleep, Napoleon," he said and tried to shut the door.

Napoleon braced his shoulder against it. "I can't sleep."

Illya gave a sleepy groan that ended in something akin to a whine as he continued pushing without achieving much. "I'm tired," he moaned.

"So am I," Napoleon said. "I can't sleep."

"Count sheep."

"That doesn't work."

"Count women."

"That won't help me sleep."

Illya finally woke up enough to push at the right angle against the door and Napoleon was propelled into the hallway as it slammed shut. He banged both fists against the door and leaned his head against it. "Illyaaaa."

"Stop trying to share your misery and let me sleep!"

"I'll let you sleep if you let me in."

"No."

"My room is haunted."

"If yours is, then so is mine."

"So we can sleep in shifts."

"I was sleeping just fine. Anyhow, they're not ghosts--probably just exceptionally large roaches. And rats. Maybe an alligator."

"Illyaaaa."

"Why don't you go ask Ms. El-Issa to protect you? She's been watching you all day."

"She's more dangerous than the wildlife. Illya, if you don't let me in, I'm going to come back with a lock pick as soon as you're in bed."

Illya growled and a light shone from under the door. "Damn it, Napoleon, it's your fault I've been awake for nearly sixty hours straight--" The door opened, spilling Napoleon inside. "--What happened to your face?"

Napoleon straightened his back. "I, ah, ran into Ms. El-Issa's fist."

"Why?"

"It was so dainty, I couldn't resist."

Illya looked on the verge of further inquiry; then shook his head and ran his hand wearily over his face. "May I go back to sleep, now?"

Napoleon looked around the room. It was almost identical to his, except that the curtains and bed linens were in bottom of the ocean blue rather than depths of the forest green, and there were something like a dozen portraits, instead of two, all with eyes that followed you. "Your room looks even more haunted. Come to mine."

"Napoleon," Illya growled.

"Then I'll be quiet!"

"Fine," Illya sighed. "Anything for that." He followed Napoleon without stopping to turn out his lights and preceded him into his room. He climbed into the huge bed without preamble, slid his gun under one pile of pillows, and put his head down.

"That's my--"

"What?"

"Nothing." Napoleon closed the door and padded over to the other side of the bed.

"Turn out the lights," Illya commanded, eyes already closed. When Napoleon hesitated, he said, "If you tell me you actually are afraid of ghosts, I'll apply for a new partner."

"This is New Orleans, Illya, we saw three ghosts sitting on front porches on the drive from the airport, in broad daylight."

"Turn. The--"

"All right," Napoleon said, pulling the chain on his night stand lamp. He shuffled through the thick carpet to extinguish the last, plunging them into complete darkness. He found his way back to the bed by memory and the dent the bedpost made in his shin. The frame moaned as he climbed in. "Tell me that's normal," Napoleon whispered.

Illya groaned into his pillow.

"All right, all right," Napoleon said. He shifted a few times under the sheet to get comfortable, careful not to overdo it and pull the covers off his partner. The bed was large enough that there was room for another person between them, no fear of accidentally touching one another, but he could smell Illya--a familiar scent that was a combination of his shampoo and shaving cream. As Napoleon's eyes adjusted to the dark, he could make out the barest outline of him under the covers. Napoleon exhaled, somehow satisfied, and felt a tension he hadn't quite been aware of bleed out of him.

He meant to think further, possibly to say something, but the gentle hush of Illya's breathing made all the other noises fade, and before he could decide quite what it was he needed to think about, Napoleon was asleep.

The next day was exhausting, one long series of meetings, with blueprints and slide-shows of New Orleans' usual suspects in dark rooms. Illya was engaged, proposing strategies and calling on people for information as if he'd always been in command here. Napoleon contributed, but let his partner take the lead.

It was a good thing he was tired, too, because it slowed his reflexes when Shafa's Number 2, a man named Pierre LeBrun who was a head taller than Napoleon, stepped in too close to explain something to Illya. Napoleon twitched and his right hand tensed, wanting to close into a fist, but he hadn't quite completed it when LeBrun stepped away, avoiding the punch in the jaw Napoleon's brain had been attempting to command his exhausted body to perform. Napoleon watched him walk back around the conference table, eyebrows creeping slowly for his hairline.

That night, he trudged back to his room to find a blond head already on the pillows. Illya turned onto his side to regard him. "About time. How long can one man take in the shower? Turn out the lights."

Napoleon did, climbed into the creaking bed, and forgot what he was going to ask about LeBrun.

The next evening, they were back in their room--Illya had moved his suitcase without comment--getting into evening dress for a shot at the high-rollers' room at the Tantalus. Napoleon straightened the bow-tie of his tuxedo in front of the mirror and grinned at his reflection. He turned around. "Oh, really," he chided. "Is that how they taught you to tie a tie in the Soviet Navy?"

Illya looked up from the selection of concealable weapons and tools in his suitcase. "What?"

Napoleon pointed. "It looks ridiculous."

"Don't be so fussy." Illya slipped a cigarette case full of miniature smoke bombs into the inside pocket of his jacket. He was wearing a black three-piece suit which was extremely well-tailored for him, but the knot of his tie was askew, and the end of it protruded from beneath his vest. "I'm meant to be a profligate young plantation heir, anyhow."

"Not one who doesn't know how to dress himself." Napoleon strode over, took Illya's shoulder and straightened him up. "Let me see."

Illya backed up a step and swatted his hand away. "It's fine." Napoleon followed and Illya retreated until his back hit the wall, right under one of the glowering portraits. He frowned up at his partner. "Napoleon, I can do it myself."

"No, you made a pig's ear of it, now let me. You should be drummed out of U.N.C.L.E., looking like this." He took hold of Illya's vest and Illya went still. An odd shiver moved through Napoleon. He kept his eyes on the buttons as he undid them; it was harder than it should have been to keep his hands steady. It seemed to take a long time just to get to the bottom. He had to lift his gaze, then; he caught Illya's eyes for a split second before Illya looked aside. Napoleon turned up his collar and carefully unknotted his tie. "There, you see?" He pulled the ends out and adjusted them for the proper amount of tail. He couldn't ignore the sound of Illya's breathing: shallow as though he were trying not to be heard. As he pulled the knot closed, Napoleon's fingers rested briefly against Illya's collarbone and he could feel his pulse, racing. Napoleon looked up, still holding the tie, and Illya's eyes met his, round and questioning, a light flush in his cheeks, and suddenly, Napoleon knew how this went. He would turn that full mouth up to his, pull off those carefully chosen clothes, push his partner onto that wide bed, and--

Illya broke eye contact and pushed away from the wall. "They're waiting," he said, and left the room.

Napoleon leaned against the wall and breathed for a moment, willing the heat to leave his body. Then he picked a few gadgets he knew Illya would want from his suitcase and hurried after him.

Napoleon had an uncomfortable feeling Illya would go back to the other room that night, but when he returned from the bathroom at the end of the hall, with its claw-footed tub and pull-chain commode, Illya was sitting up in the bed, his glasses on, reading a sheaf of papers.

Napoleon closed the door behind him with a surge of relief. "Good?" he asked.

Illya glanced up. "Reports from the other agents on site and those monitoring the bugs we planted."

Napoleon spread himself belly-down across the mattress and plucked the papers out of his hands. "You're not coordinating agent on this, tovarisch. Give it a rest." Illya raised an eyebrow at him. "You can't coddle the local agents too much. Let them do their jobs, and we'll do ours."

"Coming from anyone else, I'd call that laziness."

"I just don't want to see my comrade taking on more than his fair division of labor," Napoleon said.

"Now that is new." Napoleon pouted and Illya smiled. "Shall we turn in, then?"

Napoleon looked up at his friend; the soft light behind him, the hideous glasses, the pajamas buttoned all the way up, the warm smile on his face. Napoleon could do without this--did often, for days at a time, even weeks--but it was always with the confidence that this easy camaraderie was waiting for him, just a phone call away. No matter how he grumbled, Illya almost never refused to come when he called. When Napoleon was too tired to be suave and debonair, when he was too world-weary to be alone with his thoughts, Illya came--not without complaint, but he came.

Napoleon had never stopped to think why that was, thought it was merely the nature of their friendship. He could stand the thought of Illya sleeping with someone else; he was happy whenever he saw Illya go off with a girl. But it had always been with the knowledge that an urgent call from Napoleon would bring Illya straight from her arms to his side. The thought of someone else being here, in his place, being the one to whom Illya spoke without reserve, at whom he smiled or growled without hesitation, the one with whom he felt comfortable--no, that, Napoleon did not want to share. Unworthy though he knew the thought was, he had to acknowledge it. The idea that someone could truly replace him here, that this place at Illya's side could be permanently closed to him, hurt so acutely he was momentarily unable to speak.

"Napoleon?"

"How do you think of me?" Napoleon asked.

"Eh?"

"I mean, romantically. What kind of... What do I do? What would you want me to do?"

Illya gave him a long look. "I am not having this conversation," he said.

"No, listen," said Napoleon. "I just--I'm curious."

Illya sighed and reached for the lamp chain. "Don't be curious."

Napoleon rose to his hands and knees and reached over him to put the reports on the night stand. Illya sat back against the pillows. He sank further back when Napoleon leaned over him, resting his arm on the pillows beside him. "I can't help it," Napoleon said. "There's something you've been wanting from me all this time, and I never knew. Why didn't you say?"

"I have been," Illya said, with an amused half-smile. "I realize you usually don't let it end at subtleties in such matters, Napoleon, but I do."

"Why?"

Illya's smile faded. "I don't like lost causes. Napoleon, you're making me uncomfortable. Move."

Napoleon didn't. "You know you're my best friend. You know how deeply I value that, don't you?"

"Yes, I know." There was a minute waver in the next breath Illya took. No one else could have discerned the tension in him, even at this distance.

"But it isn't enough," said Napoleon, "is it?"

Illya's brow wrinkled. "Of course it's enough, Napoleon. When have I ever asked you to change?"

"But you wouldn't ask." Napoleon leaned down, closing the distance between their mouths. They were so close when Illya spoke that his breath caressed Napoleon's lips.

"When I imagine this," he said softly, "you are as involved as I am. You kiss me because you want to. You touch me because you can't help yourself."

Napoleon pulled back and flinched at the look in his eyes. He hadn't seen such sadness there since Neptune. "Illya," he said.

"I'm tired." Illya pushed him away and turned off the lamp.

Napoleon retreated to his side of the bed, but between one thing and particularly another, he had a hell of a time getting to sleep.

Illya's luck at the blackjack table--or card-counting, if Napoleon's suspicions were founded--had earned him an invitation to the high-rollers' room, while Napoleon's inquiries had gotten him asked to the racier floor show held in the basement. The show depressed him. The girls were young--not quite young enough that they could have police storm the place immediately, but too young to be in a place like that. He didn't identify anyone as a THRUSH of relevant rank, so he made his way back to the mansion in something of a funk.

Illya was in front of the dresser, pulling off his tie.

"What are you looking so smug about?" Napoleon asked, dropping into an armchair which exhaled a cloud of dust. Illya smiled widely and produced a roll of bills from his vest pocket. "How much is that?" Napoleon asked, eyes widening.

Illya shrugged and set it on the dresser. "A thousand-some."

"You do card-count, don't you?"

"You think too much of my mathematical ability."

"No, I don't."

"Well, at any rate, it's money taken from an organization that exploits the working classes, and probably funds THRUSH, and it will go instead to fund U.N.C.L.E."

"Straight? You could get yourself a steak and lobster dinner, first."

Illya looked pensive. "Maybe." He tossed his tie, then his vest on the bed, and began unbuttoning his cuffs. "Have fun at the floor show?"

"No. The girls were too young." Illya looked at him and he sighed. "Not that young. Just old enough not to warrant saving."

"Sorry," Illya said.

Napoleon shook his head. "You said 'probably.' So you didn't find any big THRUSHies, either?"

"Not yet, but I think tomorrow will prove more fruitful. There's another room where the limits are even higher. I have an invitation."

"I'm glad one of us had a productive eve...ning." Napoleon's sentence finished almost inaudibly on a dry throat. Illya's shirt had slipped down over his shoulders, revealing the smooth, white line from his nape, down his upper back.

"Eh?" said Illya, turning around.

Napoleon caught his breath. Illya's half-buttoned shirt had slid down to his elbows. His open cuffs fell low over his hands so only his fingers protruded, occupied with the next button. The sweeping lines of his neck, shoulders and chest flowed into the V of the shirt. His hair had fallen across his forehead as he bent to concentrate on the buttons; it shone like burnished gold in the lamplight which caught his eyes as he looked up at Napoleon and turned them the most piercing shade of blue.

"Napoleon?" Illya said.

Napoleon remembered to breathe, but couldn't tear his eyes away from his partner.

Illya frowned. "Are you all right?"

"Fine," said Napoleon, in a failed attempt at an airy tone. He swallowed.

"Are you hurt?" Illya took a step towards him, concern wrinkling his brow.

Napoleon crossed his legs and cringed back in the armchair. "No! Hey, why don't you go use the shower, first?"

"I still have a few things to--"

"You'd better go, before Avery uses all the hot water."

Illya gave him a puzzled, almost alarmed look while Napoleon attempted to appear nonchalant. Then he shrugged and finished removing his shirt, which Napoleon tried in vain not to watch, emptied his trouser pockets, and went off down the hall.

As soon as Napoleon heard the bathroom door close, he jumped up and ran down to the third floor to use theirs.

Illya was already in bed with all but the lamp on Napoleon's side off when he returned. Grateful for the cover of obscurity to hide his agitation, Napoleon slipped under the covers and extinguished the last lamp.

There was a rustle of sheets and the mattress shifted as Illya turned towards him. "Napoleon, are you sure you're feeling well?"

"Yes," said Napoleon. "Just tired." He swallowed, staring at the patch of darkness whence his partner's voice emanated, hoping Illya's eyes weren't adjusting any faster than his.

Illya hummed dubiously. "You haven't got a second appendix to go on you, but you will say if you're on the verge of liver failure, or something, won't you?"

"Of the two of us," Napoleon said, "you'll be the first to claim that honor."

Illya gave a short laugh. "No one in my family died of cirrhosis, and most of them drank more than I do."

"Yes, well, that must be the hardy Russian constitution," Napoleon said. He was embarrassed at himself, but he had nothing better. "So, ah, good night."

He could imagine the perplexed look on Illya's face as he hesitated a moment before saying, "Good night, Napoleon." Illya turned over, and the sheets rustled a while as he got comfortable.

The source of Napoleon's earlier discomfort returned with a vengeance, and he lay there remembering the things Illya had whispered in his ear in the clinic two weeks before, the heat of his body hovering over him, the touch of his lips and hand. Napoleon had far too vivid of an imagination for it to stop there; his mind rolled on, closing the distance between them in bed, adding detail after detail of what could happen next.

Lack of sleep for the second night running started Napoleon off in a bad mood the next morning. Shafa wouldn't let him switch to the gambling rooms from the floor show, which made it worse. In the afternoon, Pierre LeBrun passed Napoleon reaching for a file from an overhead shelf and retrieved it for him, shifting his mood to foul before they even approached the Tantalus.

He returned from there with a bruise on the other side of his jaw to match the one Shafa had given him, and several others in various places including his behind, upon which he had eventually been ejected. He trudged back to the mansion for want of anything else to do. No one else from the operation had returned, yet. He showered, and dressed again in deference to the early hour and agents still in the field, but he nodded off in an armchair over the reports from the previous night.

"Thrush Central."

Napoleon jolted awake. Illya had a hand on his shoulder and a grin on his face. "There's a man from THRUSH Central. I trailed him to his home tonight. We should have everything we need on him inside two days."

"Uh, good," Napoleon said, blinking sleep from his eyes.

Illya narrowed his eyes slightly. "Let me put something on that."

"On what?"

"That," said Illya. His fingers brushed the underside of Napoleon's jaw, just enough to graze the light stubble there, not enough to bother the forming bruise. Napoleon sat up straight, awake. Illya moved away to retrieve a first aid kit from his suitcase. When he came back, there was that subtle lift to all his features and glow in his eyes he always got when he was hot on the trail of someone nefarious, and the lamplight was directly behind him, haloing his face.

"You're doing it on purpose," Napoleon said. He blinked to see if the effect would fade. It didn't.

"Doing what?" Illya asked. He sat down on the coffee table and set the kit beside him.

"Nothing," Napoleon sighed.

Illya gave him an odd look. "Here, look up." Napoleon complied. "What did you do, Napoleon? Try to card the dancers?" Napoleon grumbled in answer and Illya chuckled. He dabbed iodine over the small split in the skin, then swabbed the new bruise with arnica. "It's all right," he said, "we'll have the whole place, soon. You can cause a disturbance in the lobby for the next couple nights, or at the door, if they won't let you back in."

"I know how to salvage my cover," Napoleon muttered. At this angle, he could only see the smile in Illya's eyes as he taped a thin gauze pad over the mess on his jaw.

"Excuse me, my wise senior agent." Illya patted his cheek lightly. "There you are." Napoleon lowered his head to meet his eyes. "I like that your honor still gets the better of your common sense, sometimes," Illya said. "More on the days it doesn't get me hit over the head, of course."

Napoleon caught his wrist as he moved to put away the tape, leaned forward and kissed him. Illya's arm tensed, but he didn't pull it away. A small huff of breath escaped him as his lips parted, allowing Napoleon in. He leaned forward, kissing back with a careful, almost formal gentleness. His blue eyes were unfocused for a second when they parted, then they met Napoleon's. "Feel better?" he asked.

Napoleon smiled. "I'm starting to."

Illya pulled his wrist from Napoleon's loose grip and made to stand. Napoleon caught his arm. "Wait, Illya--"

"Let go," Illya said softly. Napoleon did and Illya went to put away the kit. Napoleon followed. He took Illya's shoulders to turn him around.

"Illya, let me. Let me touch you."

"You're touching me, now," said Illya, the beginnings of a crease in his brow.

"Let me kiss you. Let me... Sleep with me."

The crease completed itself. "No."

"Why not?"

"I've told you why." He closed his suitcase and swung it to the floor. He frowned harder when Napoleon blocked his move away and turned around to face him.

"But I want to," said Napoleon.

Illya's mouth twisted unhappily. "I can't, Napoleon. I can't do it to satisfy your curiosity. I won't be your experiment."

"What was that in the clinic in Casablanca, then?"

Illya flinched. "Er... it was..." He drew himself up and sniffed. "An experiment."

"Aha!"

"A stunning failure of one!" Illya said. "Damn it, Napoleon, if you couldn't drum up any genuine interest in me then--"

"I am interested--"

"No, you're curious, and I will not satisfy that."

"Oh, so it's all right with Westcott. I may not be as tall, but--"

"Westcott?" Illya scowled. "Is that it?" He shoved Napoleon aside and snatched his communicator off the dresser.

"Who are you calling?" Napoleon asked, coming up behind him as he twisted it open.

"Channel D, please," said Illya. "Mr. Waverly," he snapped. "I'm requesting a change of partners."

"Channel D is open."

Napoleon plucked the pen out of his hand. "Close channel," he said. "You are not!"

Illya snatched it back. "I am! Have you heard of a worse reason to sleep with someone? Westcott, indeed! I'll go find Paul as soon as this affair's over and propose marriage! Open Channel D!"

"Close channel!" Napoleon grabbed the communicator and hunched over it to shield it from Illya's reach. "Marry Westcott! Ha!"

Illya growled and tackled him, knocking him flat on his face on the carpet. The communicator flew out of Napoleon's hand and landed a yard away, by the foot of the armchair. Illya climbed over him after it. Napoleon threw his arms around his legs. They both fell flat on their stomachs, but Illya reached the pen. "Open Channel D!"

"Close channel!" Napoleon shouted.

"Um..." said the voice from the communicator. "Are you in need of assistance?"

"No!" they chorused in unison.

"Get me Mister--"

"Close channel!" Napoleon threw himself over Illya, wrested the pen from his hand, and lobbed it across the room into the open closet. Illya growled and tried to throw Napoleon off, but his lesser weight only allowed him to turn onto his side beneath him. He swung his arms up, got hold of Napoleon's jacket and hauled, slamming Napoleon onto his side. Napoleon winced and Illya hesitated, concern flashing through his eyes. Napoleon took advantage, seized Illya's lapels, and flipped him onto his back. Illya flipped them again, and they rolled like that till Napoleon's back thumped into the wall and they both landed on their sides, hands fisted in each other's clothes, snarling.

"Why him?" Napoleon demanded.

"You moron," Illya hissed through clenched teeth. "You harebrained twit. Blockheaded, numbskulled nitwit."

Napoleon had rarely seen such fury in his eyes, and never directed at him. It hurt enough that it made him angrier. "Why would you let him, and not me?"

Illya's eyes flashed, and their move towards each other was simultaneous. There was nothing hesitant or gentle about the kiss--it was urgent and ravenous. Illya seized Napoleon under the shoulders and pulled him close. Napoleon's hands were roving, touching whatever he could: Illya's back, arms, side, waist, thigh. Illya's body was a hard arc of pure heat against him. His hands were in Napoleon's hair, then stroking his face as he devoured his mouth.

They were both panting when they parted.

This is what it feels like, Napoleon thought dazedly. This is what it feels like.

Illya stared straight into his eyes. The anger was still there, but there was pain behind it that made Napoleon's chest constrict. "Illya," Napoleon said, not caring that his name came out breathy, "what do you want from me?"

"Nothing." Illya's mouth tightened and his eyes narrowed. "Nothing--" There had been more to the sentence, but his teeth clicked shut over it. He released his grip on Napoleon, and his partner's hands fell as he rolled away and stood. He left without another word.

Napoleon remained where he was for a minute, trying to return his body and mind to something approaching equilibrium. Then he pushed himself upright, rather less fluidly than had Illya, and went to root around in the closet for the communicator, which was whining about being ignored.

He had just gotten into bed when the door opened and Illya came in. Napoleon watched him, mystified, as he came round and slid into his side of the bed. He mimicked Illya when he turned out his bedside lamp, then lay back on his pillows.

"I don't understand," he said finally. "If you're that angry with me, why are you still here?" It wasn't a demand or an accusation--he was simply flummoxed.

Illya sighed. "Napoleon, I don't know how I can spell it out for you in letters any larger."

Napoleon lay and listened for a long time, but by the time he himself at last fell asleep, Illya's breathing still hadn't evened.

Part II, Act III: That Inevitable Night

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The Man from U.N.C.L.E. Fanfiction
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