It was uncanny how accurate Illya's time predictions were turning out to be, lately. Napoleon dutifully made a nuisance of himself in the front lobby of the Tantalus the following night, and at the doors the next. After being carried away for the second time that evening and thrown unceremoniously into a body of water he was fairly sure contained alligators, he climbed out and found a safe vantage from which to watch, wait, and wring out his jacket.

Several hours passed, but given the humidity, he was still damp when he heard a light footstep a little ways behind him. Shafa moved alongside him and looked out across the strip of unused land gone to seed that separated them from the pleasure den. "We have them," she said. "The THRUSH agents involved, and everything we need to know about their operation."

Napoleon nodded.

"Now," she said, "we could call in local law enforcement to do the rest. Or," she looked up at him with the slit-eyed smile of a cat who's just worked out the latch on the canary's cage, "shall we tear it to the ground, ourselves?"

A grin spread slowly across Napoleon's face. "After you, Number 1."

"With me, Number 1."

Napoleon was just as jubilant as the local agents when they made their way back to the mansion, toting their THRUSH prisoners and cases of confiscated champagne and whiskey. The feeling faded, however, as Illya toasted with this agent and that, staying well across the huge ballroom from where Napoleon sat with Shafa. He was accepting a refill from Pierre LeBrun when Napoleon excused himself to his fellow CEA and went out onto the veranda.

The porch ran the entire length of the back wall. It had once had a complete railing, but its remnants only clung on at the corners of the house. Napoleon walked down away from the noise of the ballroom, and sat on the edge of the wooden planks, legs dangling over.

The garden looked precisely as you'd expect of a haunted mansion of this caliber. There were massive, spreading oaks at the back, which was a football field away. They created a darkness from which anything might emerge, or into which anything might disappear. The grass from the foot of the porch to their monumental roots was as tall as Napoleon in places and thick enough to conceal any wildlife short of an elephant, but several New Orleans agents were out there in it, either unafraid of being eaten by alligators or having too much fun with each other to care. The moon lurked near the tops of the trees at the end of the garden, round and yellow, completing the eeriness of the scene.

Yep, Napoleon thought, there was a reason I hadn't been back to New Orleans HQ in so long. He approved of the local agents' joie de vivre, the way they let protocol slide, now and then, and he liked the sense of camaraderie, almost family, that existed here, unlike almost any other branch of U.N.C.L.E., with many of the agents living under one roof. It was the roof in question that was the problem. He'd be happy to put the mansion in his rearview mirror.

A door off to his right rattled and slid jerkily open. Napoleon looked up to find Illya walking towards him. Even his catlike tread couldn't help setting off a chorus of groans from the ancient floorboards. He stopped next to Napoleon and held out a bottle of champagne, touching its cool, sweating surface to Napoleon's forehead. In the warm night, it felt delicious. "You haven't drunk nearly enough."

"Were you keeping track?"

"Yes."

Napoleon smiled.

Illya said, "May I sit?"

"Of course." Napoleon accepted the bottle and Illya sat gracefully beside him. He swung his legs out once, seemingly just because he could, then handed Napoleon one of the two champagne flutes he'd had in his right hand.

"You do the honors," he said.

Napoleon made quick work of it. The cork arced out over the long grass and disappeared. Napoleon poured into Illya's extended glass, then his own, and set the bottle aside.

"To the end of an affair, and honor satisfied," said Illya.

"Hear, hear."

They drank. The grass rustled, stirred by wind, U.N.C.L.E. agents, and ghosts. "I'm sorry I was an ass," Napoleon said.

"You've always been a bit of one," said Illya. "I like you, anyhow. I'm sorry I was rough with you so soon after your surgery."

"It had nothing to do with the surgery--that was just you."

"Sorry."

"It's all right, I asked for it."

"You did, rather."

Napoleon rolled the half-full flute between his palms. "I've been thinking..."

"Oh, dear."

"Yes, well." Napoleon drained the flute and resumed twirling it. "It's not that it was Westcott," he said, focusing his gaze on the trees rustling in the distance. "Although you may have stumbled on the man I like least in U.N.C.L.E., it's not a question of rivalry with him. It's not that he's taller--although that smarts, a bit. It's not that it was Westcott, because anyone else would bother me just as much."

"You've seen me with women, before," Illya said, his tone neutral.

"I've never heard you sound so familiar or seen you look so at ease with a woman," Napoleon said. "Not with anyone... except me." He paused, but Illya remained silent, waiting. Napoleon didn't glance to the side, but he was sure Illya was looking out over the garden, as he was. "I'm jealous of him knowing a side of you I don't. It's juvenile, and I'm sorry, but I hate the thought of someone stepping in where it's always been just you and me. I hate the idea of losing you to someone who can be the friend to you I am and the lover I'm not. You've been the most important person in my little world for a long time, now."

"It's not so little," Illya said softly.

"It feels that way, sometimes, when I can count the people who really matter to me on the fingers of one hand. Illya, you are far above them all." Napoleon tried not to analyze the breath Illya took, and went on. "I'm afraid you won't believe me when I tell you I just didn't consider the possibility of us being anything other than friends, but now I can't look at you without thinking about it. And I think..." He swallowed. "I think it would be spectacular." He turned to Illya and threw open his hands, fingers spread wide. "Epoch-making. A romance to change the course of nations. To write itself in letters a thousand feet tall on the mountains of this world's history. To pull planets out of alignment. To--"

Illya burst out laughing. He tossed his glass over his shoulder to shatter on the porch. "I love you," he laughed. He put his arms around Napoleon's neck. "I love you. I love you." His kiss knocked Napoleon flat on his back. "Let's go upstairs."

What do you know? Napoleon thought. I got it right.

The champagne was left forgotten. They threaded their way through the ballroom, hardly acknowledging any greetings or congratulations from the other agents. Napoleon let Illya forge the path, following in his wake with warmth flooding through him, gradually intensifying.

There were agents scattered over the main staircase, some embracing, some drinking, but the second flight of stairs was empty. Illya waited for him, then took his arm and kissed him. For the next two floors they were bumping shoulders, elbows and hips, kissing and touching as they climbed blind.

They stumbled into their room locked together and someone's flailing arm slammed the door, plunging them into darkness. Illya's fingers grazed Napoleon's throat as he tugged at his tie; Napoleon undid the buttons of Illya's vest and slid his hands into his waistband to untuck his shirt. Illya pulled off Napoleon's tie and kissed him, pressing closer as Napoleon's knuckles stroked along his stomach.

Together they staggered towards the bed. The back of Napoleon's knees hit the footboard and he fell backwards, taking Illya with him. Illya tugged his shirt out of his belt as they slid on their sides towards the pillows; Napoleon ran his hand further up under Illya's shirt, hungry for the smooth, warm skin beneath and the sounds Illya made when he touched him.

They reached the pillows and Illya wrapped his arms around Napoleon, kissed him as Napoleon's hands smoothed down his back, clutched down below his belt. They broke, and by some unspoken signal, each reached for a lamp chain. The room lit soft yellow. They looked back at each other, and mirroring smiles appeared on their faces.

Napoleon took Illya's shoulders and rolled him onto his back. His hands and Illya's were furiously busy with buttons as they kissed, then Napoleon pulled back to watch as he pushed off Illya's shirt, watched the clean lines of him emerge from the cloth, his skin, bronzed by the light, so appealing Napoleon had to kiss it. First the hollow between Illya's collarbones, as his hands stroked down over Illya's chest, then lower. Illya sighed and his hands fisted in the back of Napoleon's open shirt, seemingly caught between pulling it off and using it to bring Napoleon closer. When Napoleon kissed his nipple, Illya shuddered; then he gasped as Napoleon's tongue flickered over it, arching his back.

Napoleon's eyes narrowed. That voice. That voice... He dragged his fingers down Illya's chest, then stroked back up, teasing his other nipple as he drew the first between his lips. Illya arched against him once more and Napoleon caught him about the waist, pressing them together.

The sounds Illya made, the way Napoleon could feel the tension building in his body... His Illya, his partner, who faced death without so much as a twitch, was moaning under him, shivering at his touch. Napoleon was dizzy.

Illya's hands trailed up his back as Napoleon left off and moved lower. He mapped Illya's abdomen with his tongue, his hands busy with Illya's belt.

"Ah--Napoleon." Illya's fingers curved under Napoleon's chin, gently pulling his face up. Illya sat, urging Napoleon with his hands to do the same, then kissed him, cradling Napoleon's face in both hands.

Napoleon had never been kissed as Illya kissed him, as though he were the most important thing in the world, worth patience, worth careful handling. He held Illya's waist and kissed back as best he could while Illya's lips and tongue held him captive, hardly able to move for arousal, and for something more that transfixed and transported him.

"Illya," Napoleon breathed, when his partner drew back.

Illya's pupils were dilated, his eyes locked on Napoleon's. His smile pulled something tight in Napoleon's stomach. "Yes, Napoleon?"

Napoleon shivered, kissed Illya's throat. Illya made a soft noise, tilted his head away to allow Napoleon better access even as he pulled Napoleon's shirt down and tossed it away. His hands traveled over Napoleon's chest as though committing it to sense memory. Then he unbuckled Napoleon's belt and unzipped his trousers. "Undress," he murmured, somewhere between a request and a command. Napoleon rose to his knees, then sat again as Illya helped him off with the last of his clothes. Napoleon moved forward, but Illya caught his shoulders, held him at arm's length.

Napoleon looked at him, questioning, and met such an intense look of longing that he flushed. Napoleon knew what it was to be wanted, had been gazed at by many a pretty pair of eyes, but it had never been like this. Illya's gaze traveled over him like he was the first Raphael he'd ever seen, as though overcome by the mere sight of him.

"Illya," Napoleon said, and kissed his partner, pushed him down into the pillows. He was desperate, suddenly, and he fumbled the clasp of Illya's trousers twice before conquering it, but then it was open and his trousers were gone, and Illya was gasping, his head thrown back, as Napoleon tasted his inner thigh.

When he'd thought it through before, Napoleon had worried that it might take some doing, that this territory might be strange enough that he would need to push past mental blocks. There were none. He felt Illya trembling under his hands and the next step and the next flowed as naturally as the waltz he'd first learned at eleven, as fluidly and harmoniously.

Illya's face when Napoleon entered him, eyes closed, mouth open in a wordless inhalation, stopped Napoleon's breath.

They froze as they were for a moment. Illya's eyes opened, the look in them hazy and beautiful. "Napoleon," he breathed. He tilted his chin up. "I can't... reach you."

Napoleon pressed closer to kiss him, and they both groaned as the movement shifted him inside of Illya. Illya held onto Napoleon's lower lip a moment when he drew back. Then his brow creased and he lifted both hands to Napoleon's face. He brushed back Napoleon's hair and looked into his eyes. "Are you all right?" he asked.

Napoleon gave a surprised laugh. "Yes. Of course."

Illya stroked his cheek. "You're trembling."

"I thought that was you."

Illya smiled. "Never."

"Must be me, then." Napoleon turned his head to kiss the inside of Illya's wrist. He felt the racing heartbeat through his lips and inside where they were joined.

"Napoleon," Illya said. "Please." He rolled his hips, setting off sparks all up Napoleon's spine.

Napoleon began to move. He watched Illya's face, first to make sure he didn't hurt him, then because he couldn't tear his eyes away. Illya's brow pursed, his mouth tightening in an expression of bereavement each time Napoleon pulled away. Then as Napoleon pushed into him again, his eyes narrowed, mouth opening in a sigh of satisfaction. "Illya," Napoleon whispered, and felt the reaction run through his partner's entire body.

"Yes," Illya whispered. "Napoleon, say my name again."

"Illya." Napoleon surged forward, sealing their lips together.

The sound Illya made was almost a whimper. There was a sharp edge of urgency to his voice when they parted. "Oh, Napoleon-- Napoleon--"

"Yes," Napoleon answered, "I know."

As Illya fell back against the pillows, his eyes barely open but fixed on Napoleon, his cheeks flushed, lips parted to take a ragged breath, Napoleon thought, I was wrong. This is what it feels like.

Deeper, deeper inside--he seemed to fall farther into Illya each time, but it only made him want more, pulled the cord of desire in him tighter till it was maddening. "Not close enough," he mumbled. He lifted Illya off the pillows into his lap. Illya's eyes flew wide and a sharp sound escaped him. Then he wrapped his arms around Napoleon's neck and clung tight.

"More, Napoleon," he whispered shakily. "More--Oh--!"

Coherent thought fled as Illya locked his ankles behind Napoleon's back and rocked down against him. Then it was all heat and movement, and sweetly torturous pressure, and the sound of his name like an incantation, and all that passed Napoleon's lips was, "Illya, Illya, Illya."

They slumped to the pillows on their sides. Illya was panting, making small, overwhelmed sounds as Napoleon kissed him everywhere he could reach. "Oh, Napoleon," he managed. "Oh. That was... that was..."

Napoleon didn't quite manage an even tone, himself, but it didn't trouble him. "Spectacular?"

"Mmm."

"Earth-shaking?"

"Mmm."

"Planet re-aligning?"

Illya raised an eyebrow. "I wouldn't quite go that far."

"You wouldn't? Well, stand by, then."

"What?"

Napoleon blinked at him innocently. "You're not finished, are you?"

Illya gave him a narrow look. "I'm not if you're not, but you can't possibly--" He sputtered something they would have frowned on even in the Soviet Navy. "Napoleon, I thought you--I'm sure you--"

Napoleon propped his cheek on one hand and looked at his partner through his lashes, smiling beatifically. "My dear Illya, I thought you'd heard the rumors."

Morning peeked in at the foot of the thick velvet curtains, but it was still night in the rest of the room. Napoleon turned out his bedside lamp and leaned over Illya to extinguish the other. He returned to lie on his side. Illya was sprawled next to him, half on his side, half on his stomach, one arm tucked under his pillows. His hair was in a mess around his head, his face slack and unguarded in sleep. Napoleon was exhausted, ready to join his partner in unconsciousness, but unable to forgo at least a moment's unobserved contemplation of him.

"Napoleon."

The way Illya had breathed his name at the last moment. Remembering it sent a belated thrill through him at the same time something tightened painfully in his chest. He'd thought the trust between them was complete before, but this was new; one additional and crucial piece of each other they now both carried. He trusted Illya for his part; it was himself he worried about.

I'll be careful, he thought, watching Illya's back rise and fall with each breath. Even if you claim you don't need it, I'll be careful.

When Napoleon moved closer and pulled Illya into his arms, Illya's arm flopped over him in turn and his forehead nestled against Napoleon's shoulder.

Since the symptoms of appendicitis had set in two months earlier, it was the best and longest Napoleon had slept.

Shafa drove them to the airport with Pierre LeBrun in the passenger seat. While the Number Twos were off checking the luggage, Shafa looked up at Napoleon and raised her eyebrows. "Problem solved, then."

Napoleon started, then flushed. "How did you know?"

"I saw you leave the celebration together, and both of your body language today indicates relaxation... but mostly, Pierre's room was directly under yours."

"Oh," Napoleon said. He tugged at his collar.

"It won't go any further," said Shafa. "Providing you don't embarrass me, again."

"Right," said Napoleon. Illya waved at him from the gate. "Well, uh..."

Shafa smiled. "Congratulations," she said in Arabic. "I'll give your best to my brother, shall I?"

"Yes," Napoleon said, "please."

They were both asleep when Illya's communicator sounded over Pennsylvania. He opened it. "Kuryakin here."

"Hello, Illya," said Westcott's voice. "How's the Big Easy?"

"Making social calls on official channels?" said Napoleon.

"Oh, hello, Solo."

Illya gave Napoleon a look and leaned away from him in his seat. "Hello, Paul. We're on our way back from there, now. Mission complete."

"Your partner survived this one, too, eh?"

"I had an eye on him."

"He probably needed it."

"We'll see you in New York."

There was a pause. "There's something final in the way you say 'we,'" said Westcott.

Illya's eyebrows and lips flickered minutely. "Mm."

The second pause was longer. "See you at headquarters, Illya."

Illya closed the pen, stowed it, and sat back, looking at the blank, gray movie screen at the front of the cabin.

Napoleon smiled. "Everyone wants my partner, but they're all out of luck."

Illya raised an eyebrow and turned to look at him. "Oh, really."

Napoleon blinked. "Well, I, uh--"

Illya turned forward again and folded his hands over his stomach. He closed his eyes. "As far as Paul Westcott, or anyone else is concerned, Napoleon, I'll quit when you do."

To all appearances, he went back to sleep, but Napoleon was wide awake till they landed at JFK.

Napoleon trailed behind Illya through the bustling airport to baggage claim, his mind working in unhappy circles. He'd been an idiot to think it was all sorted. The problem had more twists and turns and hidden parts--of course it wasn't solved.

On the curb outside, Illya glanced toward the taxi stand.

"Illya," Napoleon said, "you're coming home with me, aren't you?"

Illya turned, and his smile lit up the grey New York City street around him. "Of course," he said.

Napoleon tried not to sigh in relief. He slung an arm around Illya's shoulders and steered him in the opposite direction. "The chariot awaits."

Details were details. What was between them was simple.

Part II, Act IV: Particulars

The Man from U.N.C.L.E. Fanfiction
East of Sanity