Down Time

May. 29th, 2017 11:27 am
yumyumpm: Napoleon and Illya (Man from UNCLE)
 Down Time

By YumYumPM

What do two agents do when they have a little down time?


“Well, gentlemen, that will be all,” Mr. Waverly ended the briefing with a sigh. “As there is nothing urgent, you may both have the weekend off.”


“Thank you, sir,” came the duo reply, not daring to look at each other for fear he would change his mind.


Fortunately Alexander Waverly had already turned back to the other files on his desk, not paying any attention as his two top agents left the room.


The two wandered down the hall toward the elevator, Illya pondering what he would do with this rare bit of time off.  “I suppose you already have plans for this weekend,” he asked absentmindedly.


Napoleon pushed the elevator button, pausing to think about it before answering, “Actually, no.  Are you free for dinner?”


Illya stepped into the elevator somewhat surprised at Napoleon's response.  True they had just gotten back from a mission, but Napoleon always managed to find someone in his little black book more than willing to occupy his free time.  “Just how free is this dinner?”


Napoleon chuckled, a sound that had been missing lately.  “My treat.”


Never one to pass up a free meal, Illya response was easy, “Sure.”


The two men parted ways after making arrangements to meet later that evening.




Napoleon Solo went back to his apartment, feeling discontented.  Having dinner with Illya was one way to pass the time they had off, but he couldn't help wondering what he could do to fill in the rest of his weekend.   As he showered, shaved, and dressed a inkling of an idea entered his head.  Something new, something different, something unusual.  As he donned his jacket, adjusting its fit, a satisfied smile lit his face.



Illya stood outside his apartment building, dressed in his usual basic black.  He remembered the first time his partner had picked him up in front of the brownstone he called home, Napoleon had frowned and warned him that this was not a safe neighborhood to stand outside alone in.


Amused he had reminded his American partner that he was an U.N.C.L.E. agent, after all, and that had been that.  Illya was no fool.  The area might not be as safe as the area around Napoleon’s apartment building, but it wasn’t as bad as some people thought.  There were many things he could be thinking about as he waited, why he was in America and his reasons for leaving the country of his birth, but it would serve no purpose.  The past was the past, the future not worth thinking about.  There was only the here and now.


When the convertible pulled up in front of him, Illya was surprised to find his friend dressed more casually than normal.  He slid into the front passenger seat having assumed that Napoleon would want to go out on the town and that he would follow in his wake.


He glanced sideways at his partner, debating whether to ask what he had planned, or just let the evening unfold.


Napoleon, his eyes on the side view mirror, pulled away from the curb. “I hope you don’t mind, but I thought we might try something different.”


Illya’s brows drew up into his blond fringe, but he shrugged. “I have no objections.”


Napoleon flashed his charismatic smile. “Good.”


They drove past many of their usual haunts until Napoleon eventually pulled over and the two men got out of the car and walked down the sidewalk half a block. They turned, descended down a flight of dimly lit stairs to enter a dimly lit restaurant.


“Napoleone!”  Much to Illya’s surprise, a thin dark man, with a sweeping mustache, rushed forward and grabbed his partner in a vast hug.  “So good to see you again.  It has been much too long.  And you have brought a friend.  Good.”  his words spoken in Italian and almost too fast for Illya to catch.


“Alphonse, it’s good to see you too.  This is my associate, Illya Kuryakin,”  Napoleon replied in fluent Italian. 


Alphonse turned his attention to the smaller blond man standing next to his favorite customer.


 “It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance,”  he said in stilted English as he gripped the younger man’s arm, shaking it profusely.  “Come.  We have a table waiting.”


Illya looked around, the restaurant was full and had an old world charm to it.  He watched as the Alphonse went to a table with a young couple just finishing their meal and evicted them calling for a waiter to clean the table off.  When it was done, he ushered the two agents over.  “Allow me to order for you both, yes?”  Alphonse asked.  “It will be magnificent, no?” he said kissing his fingers and gesturing.


“Please,”  Napoleon responded, as he flicked his napkin to his lap.


Illya cocked an eyebrow.  “You come here often?”


“Not often enough,”  Napoleon admitted.  “Alphonse has lived in New York for thirty years, yet you would never know it.  He always sounds as if he just stepped off the boat having arrived from the old country.”


Illya chuckled as a wine waiter arrived with a bottle of Chianti, displaying the label for Napoleon's approval.  Following Napoleon's nod, he poured two glasses, leaving the bottle behind.   Another waiter arrived with a basket of freshly baked bread and he too faded into the background. 


Sipping the wine, nodding his approval, Illya considered the implications of what Alphonse had said.  He helped himself to some bread, evidently this was some place special and Napoleon did not often bring a guest.


The waiter returned with Bruschetta to start, followed by two plates of crisp green salads that was almost too colorfully beautiful to eat.  Illya watched in amazement as Napoleon dug into both with gusto.  The two men talked of inconsequential things as the meal progress to delectable pasta and finally a sherbet and coffee.  This was a side of Solo his partner had never seen before.  As the meal moved to a close, Illya felt a twinge of regret that the evening was about to end.


Something must have shown on his face, because Napoleon put his cup down and said, “I’ve been thinking.  Instead of the usual bar hopping, why don’t we do something really different?” Napoleon looked intently at the Russian.  “Have you ever been to the top of the empire state building?”


Illya was speechless, what a strange question.  It really didn’t matter, Illya was enjoying himself and if Napoleon wanted to go to the empire state building, Illya laughed thinking that Napoleon was possibly joking.  He changed his mind after seeing the disappointment in Napoleon's eyes and decided that he was willing to go along.  “Not recently.”


Napoleon flashed a sincere smile and waved the waiter over asking for the bill.  After paying and extending profuse complements the two friends left.


The two men stood at the top of the empire state building.  Napoleon, the wind blowing through his hair, rested his arms on the rampart.  Looking down on the lights of the city as the shone.  His city…and Illya’s as well.


Illya stood to the side of him, reading statistics aloud from the guide book. 

"The Empire State Building is a 102-story landmark skyscraper and American cultural icon in New York City at the intersection of Fifth Avenue and West 34th Street. It has a roof height of 1,250 feet (381 meters), and with its antenna spire included, it stands a total of 1,454 ft (443.2 m) high.  Its name is derived from the nickname for New York, the Empire State. It stood as the world's tallest building for 40 years, from its completion in 1931.

The Empire State Building is designed in the distinctive Art Deco style, and has been named by the American Society of Civil Engineers as one of the Seven Wonders of the Modern World. The building and its street floor interior are designated landmarks of the New York City Landmarks Preservation Commission, and confirmed by the New York City Board of Estimate. "  

When he finished he focused his gaze on his partner and friend.  Napoleon, his dark hair in disarray was looking down on the city, his eyes bright with anticipation.  Anticipation of what the Russian didn’t know.  Tonight was different, his partner was different.


"You are a fountain of information."  Napoleon informed Illya with a smile, then  turned around, his back to the view. “Feel like going to the Statue of Liberty?”


Illya shrugged, he checked his watch.  "Is the Ferry even running at this time of night?"


Napoleon checked his watch and sighed.  The night had flown by.  "What about tomorrow."


Illya wondered what Napoleon was really up to.  He debated going to the library with accompanying Napoleon to visit the Statue of Liberty.  He smiled and with  his hands crossed in front of him holding the guide book agreed. “Sure, why not.”




Illya was just adjusting his jacket on his shoulders when the knock sounded at his door.   


"Napoleon?" Illya checked his watch.  "It's only eight o'clock."


"Weekends off are rare.  I don't want to lose a moment of ours."


"I was thinking on wasting it by sleeping in," Illya grumbled.


"Illya, Illya. "  Napoleon tried placating his partner.  "We work together and I thought it would be interesting if we played together."


Illya grunted, not too sure this was such a great idea. 


It was a beautiful morning and they were among the first to board the ferry to Ellis Island.  It wasn't long before Napoleon found an attractive tourist  to flirt with.    Illya shook his head and looked across the water at the statue the French government had presented to the American people in 1886.   The statue that had welcomed him when he'd moved from London to New York.


"Did you know that the statue was intended as a huge lighthouse?"  Illya asked.


"Hmmm."  Napoleon was smiling at the blonde who was shyly smiling back.


That was normal for Napoleon.  Leaving Illya one his own while he paired off with a beautiful bird.   Illya could cope with that, he had it the past.  The ferry was pulling up to the dock and Illya found he was actually looking forward to his change to join a tour and explore the beautiful lady of the harbor. 


Before he could get into the line leaving a loud shriek of "Mommy, mommy" caught his ear and he looked back just in time to see a small tyke wrap herself around Napoleon's target.  He fought hard to hide his smirk as Napoleon slunk across the deck to his side.


"You win some, you lose some,"  Napoleon waxed philosophically and the two ended up grinning at each other.


"You know I don't think I've ever seen the Lady when someone wasn't shooting at us,"  Illya observed as they followed the crowd to the liberty flag pole where they will meet a guide.


The tour begins with the usual information. 

"The Statue of Liberty (Liberty Enlightening the World; French: La Liberté éclairant le monde) is a colossal neoclassical sculpture on Liberty Island in New York Harbor, designed by Frédéric Bartholdi and dedicated on October 28, 1886. The statue, a gift to the United States from the people of France, is of a robed female figure representing Libertas, the Roman goddess of freedom, who bears a torch and a tabula ansata (a tablet evoking the law) upon which is inscribed the date of the American Declaration of Independence, July 4, 1776. A broken chain lies at her feet. The statue has become an icon of freedom and of the United States.

Bartholdi was inspired by French law professor and politician Édouard René de Laboulaye, who commented in 1865 that any monument raised to American independence would properly be a joint project of the French and American peoples. Due to the troubled political situation in France, work on the statue did not commence until the early 1870s. In 1875, Laboulaye proposed that the French finance the statue and the Americans provide the pedestal and the site. Bartholdi completed the head and the torch-bearing arm before the statue was fully designed, and these pieces were exhibited for publicity at international expositions. The arm was displayed at the Centennial Exposition in 1876 and in New York's Madison Square Park from 1876 to 1882. Fundraising proved difficult, especially for the Americans, and by 1885 work on the pedestal was threatened due to lack of funds. Publisher Joseph Pulitzer of the World started a drive for donations to complete the project that attracted more than 120,000 contributors, most of whom gave less than a dollar. The statue was constructed in France, shipped overseas in crates, and assembled on the completed pedestal on what was then called Bedloe's Island. The statue's completion was marked by New York's first ticker-tape parade and a dedication ceremony presided over by President Grover Cleveland.

The statue was administered by the United States Lighthouse Board until 1901 and then by the Department of War; since 1933 it has been maintained by the National Park Service. The statue was closed for renovation for much of 1938. Public access to the balcony surrounding the torch has been barred for safety reasons since 1916."

When everyone looks suitably impressed she continues.  Talking about the copper that was used in constructing the stature and delving more into the symbolism of the objects surrounding the lady.  The torch she carries, held high, the crown on her head, the tablet in her arm, the chains at her feet.   Children in the group begin to get restless and they are led into the museum in the base of the statue.  Everything you would want to know is in there.  Documents, plans, illustrations, and the original molds and tools used.

Finally they are lead to the crown, where the city could be seen stretched across the panorama.  It was a beautiful sight.  The two agents stood silently side by side taking it all in.

Napoleon finally broke the silence.  "This is why we do what we do." 

Illya could only nod his agreement.


yumyumpm: YumYumTales (Default)
Déjà vu. 
By YumYumPM





Once again, we are sharing a hotel room and a bed.  While I can understand why Mr. Waverly feels we do not need separate accommodations, since most rooms come with two double beds, what he doesn’t know are the feelings I’ve been harboring inside me for months now.  Perhaps it is better that he does not.  It’s not as if I woke up one morning and decided I was sexually attracted to my partner.   


I can’t even blame you, after all it is not your fault I’ve developed a sudden desire for your body.  These feelings of lust are a very recent development.  Usually I am not the type to lust after women, much less my very male partner.  But there it is.  Don’t get me wrong.  I enjoy women as much as the next man.  Just not quite as much as you seem to do.


You are, of course, readying yourself for a night of entertainment.  Entertainment that does not include me.   Fresh out of the shower, your body tempts me.  Drops of water filter down your broad shoulders, down through the light covering of hair upon your chest as you dry yourself never once suspecting.


“You could come along if you want,” you point out.


Come along and do what.  I do not enjoy watching you play your games.  At least this time you have not asked me to vacate the room so you can bring ‘her’, whoever she may be, back here. 


Melancholy sigh. 


How strange, it would appear that I have fallen in love.  Unrequited love at that.  I don’t believe I have ever been in love before.  Never knew what love really was.  So strange, this longing to touch and be touched.  To caress and be caressed.  To…bah, this is getting me nowhere.  These thoughts …one hopes that they will not get in the way of my doing my job.  More important I hope you never find out.  That is my one fear.


I hear the door shut and I am all alone, yet again.  I open the window.  Strains of music filter from below.  The band is playing something simperingly romantic.  I stand there listening, I don’t know for how long.




It is said hesitantly.  How odd, I had not heard you return.  I turn and you are standing there, your hand, palm up, stretched out toward me.  For some reason I do not understand, I reach out for that hand.  You take it and pull me to you. I cannot believe it.  I am in your arms and we are moving to the music.  Your arms are around me holding me close.  My arms are around you as well.


“I’m sorry,” you whisper softly, so softly I just barely hear it.


I want to ask what you are sorry about?  Why are you here?  Why are you holding me like this?  But I dare not.  I close my eyes and rest my head on your shoulder as we slowly move together around the bed in the small room.  The music surrounds us.  Dancing is something I would never have dreamed of doing.


Your lips are at the side of my throat, they nibble my earlobe, move and claim my mouth.  Your hands remove my shirt, sliding it from my shoulders all the while your lips never leave mine.  Your fingers undo my pants, pushing them to the floor.  I’m falling backwards, the mattress catching me.  My legs are lifted as you remove pants, shoes and socks in one swift movement.

Leaning over me your eyes smolder with lust as you stroke me. I can feel the pressure in my nether region mounting.   My breathing becomes harsh as I look up and see you smiling wickedly down at me.  The pleasure becomes too much and I come explosively.


I jolt back to the present.   I’m still standing by the window, the music filtering up from below.  I glance down at myself to find that I’m still fully dressed.  My heartbeat slows as I realize it was nothing more than a dream.


The sound of a key in the lock startled me, I glance at my watch.  Only ten minutes have passed since Napoleon walked out that door.  Much too early for him to return.  I reach for my gun, just in case, only to remember that it is across the room on the bed side table.


Napoleon enters, pocketing his keys.


“Forget something?”  I ask.


He tilts his head to one side; an understanding smile softens his features. 


“Yes.  You.”


He stretches out his hand as he had in the dream and without thinking I take it.  The next think I know I’m in his arms and we are moving to the music.  Déjà vu.


yumyumpm: YumYumTales (Default)

Death’s Door

Formerly ‘Angelique Said What!?’

By YumYum

Originally written in 2005 revised 2009


Special thanks go to Donna for all her help


Act 1:  Dying Thoughts.


He knew he was dying and if he had only one real regret, it was that Illya was unaware of how much he’d come to mean to him.  It had snuck up on him over the years and he had Angelique to thank for the revelation.  Illya would hate that, he thought and he smiled as his world suddenly went black.


The assignment had seemed simple enough on the surface.  Illya would retrieve the plans, while he caused a distraction.  Well, he’d done that all right.  The only problem had been how to get rid of the Thrush guards once he had their attention.  He’d thought he’d lost them, only to find someone waiting ahead of him.  His shot hit its mark, but not before the answering shot entered his chest.  Somehow he managed to retreat to a small, enclosed space and hoped they wouldn’t find him.


His first thought had been, as he glanced down at his suit, that Mr. Waverly was going to kill him for ruining yet another suit.  The next thought was that he was glad Illya wasn’t there to see him.  He had considered contacting his partner and decided against it.  Illya’s part in this wretched assignment was most crucial and the last thing he needed was for his blasted pen to go off.


Although shaky and still bleeding, he painfully regained consciousness.  He didn’t believe in the afterlife, but if he did, he thought he’d like to come back as a stunning brunet and steal his partner’s heart away.  Thinking that turned out to be a big mistake as it caused him to chuckle and blood spurted from his mouth.


Reflecting on death, his mind turned to his funeral and who might attend.  He hoped there would be quite a few women.  To help pass the time and take his mind off the pain he decided to try and mentally remember all the women he had known in alphabetical order.  Abigail, red hair, body that didn’t quit; Alicia, Amy, Angelique…  There his thoughts paused.  Angelique, so cool, so deadly, with blonde hair and blue eyes.  That thought brought his mind to another blond with blue eyes - his partner. The world went dark again as he shifted and the pain in his chest deepened.


Slowly as consciousness dawned he heard a voice he recognized saying, “-poleon.” 


Illya was crouched next to him softly calling his name and that couldn’t possibly be Angelique standing behind him, he must be hallucinating.


 “Go… away, I’m…I’m… dying,” he gasped.


“How bad is it?”  Illya asked as he pulled away Solo’s jacket to examine the wound.


“What part… of …I’m dying… did you not… understand?”  Napoleon wheezed as he pushed Illya’s hands away.  Since this was his hallucination he decided he could do as he wished, so he reached for and grabbed Illya’s tie pulling him forward for a kiss.


Illya pulled back, his eyes wide, and asked, “Why?”


Napoleon was amazed at how real his hallucination felt.   “Because I … never… chance,” he whispered before the lights went out again.



Act 2- Medical


Voices filtered into his awareness.  “It was touch and go there for awhile, but it looks like he’ll make it.”


Opening his eyes, he realized he was in medical, and he wasn’t dead.  Sadly enough he was somewhat disappointed.  It had seemed a perfect solution to the dilemma he was now facing.


“How are you feeling, Mr. Solo?”  Mr. Waverly looked down at him with concern.


“I- ah,” was all he could manage to get out.


“He’ll not be coherent for quite a while yet,” this from a man in a white coat.


He glared at the nurse as she turned him so she could give him a shot in his butt.   He noticed his partner, with a smirk on his face, standing at the foot of bed just before he went back to an involuntary sleep.


He was walking down the hallway of U.N.C.L.E. headquarters.  It was quiet and there was no sign of anyone else.  Suddenly, Illya appeared at the end of hall dressed in black.  Not his usual turtleneck and slacks though, a black silk shirt and dress trousers.  His blue eyes were smoldering.  Slowly he started unbuttoning the silk shirt, leaving it gaping open invitingly.  Next Illya’s hands went to his zipper and soon the trousers were pooled down on the floor.  Napoleon stood there, his mouth dry, deliberating what had possessed his partner to do a strip tease in the hallways of headquarters. 


Waking up and taking in his surroundings in medical, he thought disappointedly it was only a dream


Being more out than in lately, he wasn’t sure what day it was.  A nurse would come in whenever he was awake and give him a shot, knocking him out again.  He felt somewhat lightheaded, and assumed it was from the pain medication that he had been given.  He’d had enough of U.N.C.L.E. care and felt that it was time to get out of there.  Getting up was a little difficult since the room seemed to tilt, but he didn’t plan on spending another minute in this room.


Act. 3 Home is where the heart is.


Somehow he managed to get dressed and make it back to his apartment.   It hadn’t been as easy as it should have been, so he was worn out by the time he got there.   Closing the door and leaning against it, his last conscious thought as he slid down the door to the floor, was that he was grateful to be home.


While Napoleon had been recuperating, Illya was sent out on another assignment.  Upon his return he wasn’t surprised to learn that his partner had gone missing.  He was amazed in fact they had managed to contain him for as long as they had.  It amused him to think that with all the intelligence agents at their disposal, no one had thought to check Napoleon’s apartment, but then perhaps they had and he hadn’t been there.


He was sure his partner was there, because it is what he himself would have done - gone home.  He arrived at Napoleon’s apartment and used his key, only to find the doorway blocked.  Pushing through the doorway forcefully, he entered to find Napoleon napping on the floor.  Crouching down, he gently shook his partner. “Napoleon, wake up.” 


Napoleon opened his eyes and looked into the concerned blue ones of his partner.  Closing his eyes again, he muttered, “Go away.”


Illya let out a chuckle. “I had a rather interesting conversation with Angelique.”


Napoleon groaned. “Damn Angelique.”


“She seems to be under the impression that you fancy me.  Do you fancy me, Napoleon?”  Illya tilted his head to one side as he ran a finger up the inside of Napoleon’s thigh.


Angelique said what? Napoleon thought as he opened his eyes with great willpower and said.  “What I fancy right now is a shower.”  Leveraging himself up from the floor and with as much dignity as a bulge in his pants would allow him, he made his way to the bathroom and locked the door.


Illya remained crouched there for a moment longer, an amused smile on his face, before turning to watch his partner’s painfully slow retreat.


Rising from the floor, Illya walked over to the bathroom door; amused that Napoleon could possible think a locked door capable of keeping him out.  Retrieving his lock pick from its customary location, he bent down to unlocked the door, then carefully replacing the pick when he was finished.  Silently he opened the door.


Napoleon stood in front of the full-length mirror next to the shower.  He had managed to remove his shirt, revealing the bandages covering most of his chest area, and was in the process of taking off his pants when he spotted the Russian’s reflection in the mirror.  He froze as he watched his partner come closer. “Look I don’t know what Angelique told you….”


“Really, Napoleon, she probably told me the same thing she told you.”


“And you believed her?”  Napoleon asked in surprise.


“She can be very convincing when she wants to be…besides she had tapes,” Illya said as he came even closer until he was right behind the hurt man.


Illya, glancing into the mirror at his partner’s reflected body, saw his straining erection, whispered into his partner’s ear. “Perhaps if you thought of girls, Napoleon?”  He reached around to wrap his hand around Napoleon’s straining cock and began working it.  “Can I give you a hand?”  he teased, his voice filled with amusement.


Napoleon did his best not to moan with pleasure at the feelings the competent hands working him evoked.  He closed his eyes. The next thing he knew he was sitting on the toilet, while Illya turned on the water to the shower.  He watched as Illya disrobed, something he’d witness dozens of times before, only this time it seemed… different. 


Illya pulled him up and helped him finish undressing before pulling him into the shower.  “I would hate for you to die having any regrets,” he said as he soaped his partner down, managing to keep his touch impersonal.


“Would you have any regrets?”  Napoleon asked hesitantly, wanting to know.


“Regrets are unproductive, Napoleon.”


Napoleon reached up to get the shampoo when the recent lingering pain sharpened.  He gasped as he dropped the shampoo then felt Illya’s arms tighten around him, supporting him. After a few minutes the pain receded and he felt Illya let go long enough to pick up the shampoo and apply it to his hair.  Napoleon let out moans of pleasure as Illya massaged the shampoo into his hair. During this process, he found himself leaning against Illya and could not help but notice that his partner’s body also seemed effected by their closeness.  “Is there anything I can do for you?” he asked as he turned his head and looked down.


“Oh, you will, Napoleon.”  Illya let out a chuckle. “You will.”


Napoleon shivered, whether in anticipation or because he was cold was a matter for debate.


Illya slung on a robe he found hanging behind the door, then saw to it that Napoleon was thoroughly dried and re-bandaged.  He helped him into a terrycloth robe and led him into the bedroom making him comfortable in the bed.  It had been a long day for Napoleon.  Illya knew he was too tired for anything strenuous.  As he turned to leave, his erection in sore need of attention, he felt Napoleon’s hand gripping the robe he was wearing.


“Napoleon, you are not in any condition…”


“You let me be the judge of that,” Napoleon said softly.


“Are you sure?”


“You’ll be doing all the work…I’ll just lie here and enjoy it,” Napoleon said with a twinkle in his eye as he turned his back to his partner.


Illya slid onto the bed behind his partner and gently lifted the robe to expose a bare bottom. Unable to resist he located a tube of cream, using it to gently prepare the American before smoothly entering him.  After the first gasp of pain, Napoleon’s moans of pleasure sent him over the edge in short order.   He fell asleep holding Napoleon closely.


Napoleon woke up in bed alone, wondering if he had hallucinated all of last night.  Only the slight soreness proved to him he had not.  Listening he heard movement in the kitchen, and stiffly got up to check it out.  Illya had evidently gotten dressed, gone out to get bagels and was now making tea and coffee. 


“Good morning,” Napoleon said with a smile.


Illya looked at his partner who was leaning against the doorway.  “Shouldn’t you still be in bed?”


“I wanted to make sure I hadn’t dreamed it all.”


After eating a leisurely breakfast they retired to the living room where Napoleon reclined on the sofa in companionable silence, listening to music.  He watched as Illya got up to look out the window, standing there in his black turtleneck and slacks.


Illya turned his head and smiled as his partner got off the sofa and drew nearer.  “What are you thinking?” he asked.


Napoleon was so close they were almost touching.  “Do you know how sexy you look in black?”  Getting closer still and whispering in Illya’s ear as his hands roamed his body, “Suppose we were on a stakeout, in a dark alley with you dressed as you are now?  And suppose I pushed you up against a wall …” Napoleon demonstrated as he talked, pulling up the black turtleneck to run his hands over Illya’s chest, causing him to moan.  Leaning in closer for a tender kiss, that quickly turned urgent, he let his hands go up the inside of Illya’s pants leg, feeling the bulge of arousal.  He brought his hands over to the buckle of Illya’s belt before letting the zipper down.  Sliding the pants lower, Napoleon went down on his knees to take the aroused cock into his mouth.


Illya looked down at the dark head, marveling at the expert mouth action he was receiving.  He couldn’t help closing his eyes as he thrust into the mouth that was currently siphoning the life out of him.  It was a good thing his back was against a wall, he wasn’t sure he’d be able to remain upright otherwise.


Though it had been awhile since Napoleon had done this particular act, he took delight in the vocal sounds that his partner was making.  He continued to suck and swallow until there was nothing left to take in.  He looked up into the flushed face of the Russian and gave him a saucy wink before trying to stand up, planning on ravishing the pouty mouth of his partner.  He never made it as a sharp pain to his chest area caused him to gasp.


Illya hurriedly pulled up his pants before squatting down to hold his partner close, trying to, wanting to, absorb some of the pain.  “Do you have any pain pills?” he asked and wasn’t really surprised when Napoleon shook his head indicating he didn’t.


He waited until the body he held stopped shaking and with a sigh gently pulled Napoleon up and guided him into the bedroom and onto the bed.  “What am I going to do with you?” he chided.


Napoleon looked up at the blond Russian and tilted his head to one side.  Trying in vain not to smile he said, “You do know they say turnabout is fair play.” 


Somehow he managed to get Illya’s pants back off and used the cream to prepare him so he could return the favor. It was a good thing Illya was more than willing, since he could only lie there as the Russian straddled him, their lips meeting in intense desire.  Napoleon was more than ready, just looking at the man with a leg on each side of him made him hard.  He reached for Illya’s hips and pulled him down on his hardened cock, causing a hiss to escape from Illya’s lips.  Napoleon froze and looked up questioning, noting that Illya was biting his lip as he adjusted to the hard, thick, shaft inside him.  The thickness was a factor that Napoleon realized he’d forgotten to take into account. 


Nodding, Illya slowly rose up before gently going down again, trying his hardest not to cause pain either to himself or his partner.  Soon it became apparent that gentleness would not suffice as Napoleon’s grip on his hips caused him to come down even harder and more urgent unable to control himself.


Too soon Napoleon shuddered as he thrust one last time into the body of his partner.  He wanted to hold Illya in place, wanting to keep him there forever.  Illya, however, had other ideas and rolled off him, his eyes filled with concern.  Napoleon gave him a wane smile before closing his eyes and going to sleep.


Act 4 Doctors Orders


The doorbell rang and Illya went to answer it.  There stood Dr. Hurtz from medical, his medical bag in hand. 


“You could have saved us a lot of trouble if you’d just called when you located him,” he said gruffly. ”Where is he?”


Illya merely pointed to the bedroom, where Napoleon lay tired out by the morning’s exertions.  The doctor headed for the bedroom, sniffing as he went.  The bedroom reeked of sex.


“Okay, Solo, let’s see that chest.”  As Napoleon sat up he carefully unwound the bandage.  Examining the wound, he nodded to himself before making a note in his pad.  “Now turn over.”


Napoleon exchanged glances with Illya. “Is that really necessary?”


“You can either turn over here …or … we can go back to the medical section at headquarters.” 


After examining Napoleon and making more notes, he turned to Illya.  “Now it’s your turn.”


Realizing there was no getting around it, Illya reluctantly pulled down his slacks.  Hurtz looked around the room and pointed toward the dresser indicating that it would be suitable for the Russian to bend over.


Illya felt the position would be a little awkward, but it would be better than stretching out on the bed.  Placing his hands wide for support and spreading his legs, he dropped his head and closed his eyes distancing himself from this invasion of not only his privacy but his body.


The doctor hmmm’d, then pushed his glasses up on his nose and sighed.  “It’s a good thing Solo is in a weakened state, otherwise it could have been a lot worse.”


Napoleon blanched.  “Illya, I didn’t …?”  Had he damaged Illya?


Illya just waved Napoleon’s concern away. “I suppose you’ll tell Mr. Waverly?” he asked the doctor quietly.


The doctor was busy writing out two prescriptions, the first he handed to Napoleon.  “This is for some pain pills, take them three times a day or you’ll find yourself back in medical.  This one…” he handed the other prescription to Illya. “is for an antibiotic cream, also to be used three times a day.  Haven’t you guys ever heard it’s better to give then to receive?”


Both agents looked at him in open mouth amazement. “I’m not sure we understand…”  Napoleon started to say as he looked to his partner only to find an equally puzzled expression there.


Dr. Hurtz was packing up his medical bag.   “When two people work as closely together as you two do, this sort of thing is bound to happen.  You two aren’t the first, and without a doubt won’t be the last.  In fact I’m a bit surprised it’s taken you two as long to realize it as it did.”  Heading for the door, he stopped and pulled a card from his pocket.  “U.N.C.L.E. is fully aware that these sorts of things happen and they have safe havens, as it were, in various locations around the world.  It was deemed necessary when a couple of agents were caught with their pants down literally and killed.”


“Anyone we know?” asked Illya absently as he took the card.


“Patient client confidentiality prevents me from saying, the same that applies to any information about you two,” the doctor replied before leaving the apartment. “By the way, they are code named “Liebenest”


Napoleon took the card from Illya noting the address on it.  “Liebenest?”


Illya smiled at the joke. “Yes, love nest.”





Authors love feedback: YumYumPM

yumyumpm: Napoleon and Illya (Man from UNCLE)
 Dark Secrets

Originally written in 2004 revised 2009
(Everyone has secrets)

By YumYumPM


Napoleon Solo pulled up in front of Del Floria’s Tailor Shop with a feeling of unease.  He had stopped, as was his practice, to pick up his partner for the drive to work when he was in town.  This had been a regular routine for years ever since they had become permanent partners.  This morning Illya had not been waiting.  It wasn’t the first time, but Solo felt uneasy about it.


Napoleon wasn’t sure when it had all started.  When it was that he’d first became aware that he could tune into Illya’s mind.  Sometimes he could sense the Russian’s emotions; sometime he felt he could even pick up on his thoughts, though for the most part he was sure Illya was unaware of it. 


When they’d gotten back from their last assignment, Illya thoughts had been somehow …different.  Their parting that day had been somewhat strained.  Now alone at headquarters Napoleon was worried.  He closed his eyes and reached out with his mind, trying to establish the link he had with Illya.  Finally he managed to locate him, his mind seeing the location through his partner’s eyes and he wondered why his Russian partner was in such a dowdy and cheap motel.  Something was definitely wrong, Napoleon could feel the pang of loneliness radiating from Illya, the wanting of something he knew he couldn’t have and it pained him.  Suddenly it hit him, what Illya needed or thought he needed, causing Napoleon to rush to where Illya was at that moment, in the hopes of forestalling the inevitable.


Napoleon stood in the hallway of the dingy hotel knowing that something was intensely wrong.  Illya wasn’t just his partner, he was his friend.  After a minutes hesitation he knocked.


“How did you find me?”  Illya opened the door and asked in resignation; his eyes red from too much drink.  Napoleon knew he had come here to take care of his ‘problem’, his need for physical contact, but had turned to vodka instead.


“It’s what I do,” Napoleon responded lightly,  pushing the door open and slipping inside, then he looked around the small room, wrinkling his nose in distaste.  It certainly wasn’t the Ritz.


“Go away,” Illya growled and turned away as he plopped down on the creaky bed.


“Sure, I’ll go, as long as you come with me.” 


“It will do no good. You can not give me what I want.”  Illya closed his eyes wearily.


“Illya, what is it you want?” Napoleon’s heart skipped a beat and he decided to take a risk.  “Is it love or just sex?” he asked his curiosity getting the better of him.  He thought he knew but he wasn’t sure, couldn’t be sure until Illya confirmed it.


“Is there a difference?” Illya asked; his voice dull.


“Yes.  Sex is…. fleeting, merely a few minutes of pleasure. I should know.” Solo thought to himself with a sigh. He really hated seeing Illya like this.  “Love on the other hand… I’m not sure I know what love is. Maybe love is nothing more than pain.”


 “Perhaps sex is all I need,” Illya said moodily, his eyes hidden behind the one arm he’d thrown over his face.


“No…it’s not all you need,” Napoleon said as he knelt beside the bed.  “I may not be able to love – but I do care.”  Napoleon got up to walk to the window unable able to look at his partner.    I care enough that I don’t want to hurt you, physically or emotionally.  You are important to me, maybe too important.  Sometimes that scares me.”


“Napoleon, you don’t know what it is that I want, what I need.”


That wasn’t true.  Napoleon glanced at his partner, now he knew exactly what Illya wanted – needed.  He knew because he felt the same way.  Sometimes he yearned to cover Illya’ lips with his, to hold him in his arms, but he didn’t want to have to hide how he felt.


“Illya, this isn’t really what you want,” Napoleon responded sadly.  I could give in now.  I want to give in, to possess you, and have you possess me.  But it wouldn’t mean anything, not to you.  It would be fleeting at best.


“What if I do want it and want it now?”  Illya insisted as he got off the bed to confront his partner.


“Sometimes we shouldn’t have things just because we want them.”  Napoleon paused as he tried to think of a way to get his meaning across.  “My Mother used to make the best chocolate cake in the whole world.  So good I would want to eat the whole thing at one time.  But she knew I could get sick if I ate it all, so for my own good she wouldn’t let me.  This is the same, for your own good.”


“Perhaps you wouldn’t have gotten sick?”


“Oh, but I did.  Even though she said not to I ate the whole thing and she was right.” Napoleon laughed mirthlessly.  “I can’t stomach eating that cake now.”  He watched his partner, could feel the need eating away in him. He found he couldn’t take it anymore and he had to do something. 


Napoleon grabbed Illya and pushed him against the wall.  “Look I know this is just… a stop gap if you will,” he said hoarsely as he got down on his knees and rubbed the area that bulged through Illya’s pants.  As he pulled the hard erection out he paused to savor it before taking it into his mouth and sucking slowly, gradually increasing the suction until the stream of hot semen gushed into his mouth.  It has been so long and you feel so good he thought as he licked the now lax penis clean and put it back were it belonged.  Illya leaned against the wall that he’d been braced against barely able to stand as Napoleon got up and walked out the door without looking back.


Napoleon got home and leaned against the door trying to slow down his heart rate.  God it took everything I had to keep from turning Illya around and taking him …fucking him.  He felt guilty about just the thought and of how much he would have enjoyed doing exactly what Illya wanted.  He found he couldn’t sleep, so he went in search of a drink.  Sitting in his chair he drank and wondered. What do I do now?


There was a knock at the door; one glance at the clock told him that it was three in the morning.  He knew who it was without having to check.  Illya stood there disheveled and bleary eyed and he pushed past Napoleon to enter. 


“Who is it that hurt you so badly?”  Illya demanded.


Napoleon wasn’t about to tell him, he’d sworn to himself that he would never to tell.  Not even U.N.C.L.E. knew.  It was something he planned to carry to his grave.  He closed his eyes. In spite of all his promises to himself he heard himself say in a voice that sounded dreamy and far off, “Did I ever tell you I took tennis lessons when I was young?” 


Illya raised an eyebrow and shook his head.


“I started when I was six.” He smiled as he remembered. “My mother thought it would be good for me.  You know how mothers can be.    I wasn’t big enough for football and baseball scared her.  I wasn’t very good at it, but the coach kept telling my mother I had potential and that private lessons would help.”  He knew he shouldn’t tell the rest, but for some reason he couldn’t stop, after all it had been bottled up inside him for so long.  “I was ten the first time.”


“The first time?  Napoleon, I’m not sure I understand,” Illya said softly.


“The first time he touched me… that way.”  He closed his eyes. “The worst part is not that he…touched me.”  His voice went down to a whisper.  “The worst part was that I enjoyed it.” 


Illya came closer offering his nearness as support.


“He made me promise not to tell.”  Napoleons voice got stronger. “He said my mother would hate me if I told.”


“He was wrong.”  Illya’s chin had come up defiantly.


Napoleon refused to turn and look into Illya’s eyes. “No, he was right ….because , you see when I was fourteen, I gathered up my courage and told.” He laughed and paused to wipe away a tear that threatened to fall.  “You know what, he was right.  No one believed me.”  Clearing his throat he continued, “I always felt it was my fault.  That I could have stopped it somehow; that I shouldn’t have enjoyed it so much.”


Illya pulled him close in a tight embrace.  “You are wrong,” he whispered into his friend’s ear.  “It was no more you’re fault…then my wanting you is mine.” 


Napoleon let himself be held.  The shame was still there, but somehow it didn’t hurt so much. 


Illya took him by the hand and led him into the bedroom, removing his clothing he got into the bed with his partner.  “You were right you know, about me.  But perhaps if we take this slowly, one step at a time, we can find satisfaction for both of us.”  He pulled Napoleon close.  “Tonight we sleep and tomorrow…who knows.”


The End.



yumyumpm: Napoleon and Illya (Man from UNCLE)
 Damn If I Know

By YumYumPM


(What if something happens to Illya while they are not on assignment?   How will Napoleon handle it?  Damn if I know.)

December 31, 1969


Normally Napoleon Solo enjoyed celebrating the New Year.  He nearly always starting it out with an enjoyable bang...providing THRUSH didn't try to do him in first.  This year the female staff of U.N.C.L.E. seemed intent on pestering him about his plans for New Years Eve.   What plans he had were now irrevocably changed.  And now it was New Years Eve.  


The day had proven to be the longest Napoleon could ever remember.  It was all he could do to keep his mind on year-end reports.   Eventually Solo arrived at the reception area, anxious to leave. 


“Na-pooo-leon?” a sultry female voice sang as he started to exit through the changing room into Del Floria’s.


Solo closed his eyes and silently counted to ten before snapping.  “No.  I don’t want to join anyone.  I don’t want to celebrate.  I just want to be left alone.” 


“Really, Napoleon,” Mark Slate's voice rang out indignantly.  “That is no way to talk to my partner.”


Napoleon opened his eyes to look at the woebegone face of April Dancer.  His voice softened.  “I’m sorry April.  I thought you were someone else.”


“It was my fault.  I should have realized,” April apologized.  “Mark and I are having a quiet evening at my apartment.  Why don't you join us?”


“No,”  Napoleon refused, his voice sharp.   He took a deep breath, then softened his refusal.  April did not deserve the anger that he had directed at her.  “Thanks for the offer, but I don’t think I’d be very good company.”


“Look, old man,” Mark offered.  “If you should change your mind…”


Napoleon sadly shook his head, not trusting his voice enough to thank them for the thought.  He just wanted to leave U.N.C.L.E. and everyone in it behind. 


The sounds of happiness cut through him like a knife as he made his way to his apartment building.  Once inside he automatically locked his door and set the alarm.  He pulled out the envelope, with his name written across the front in his partner's scrawl, that the Legal Department had handed him before his departure and stared at it.  For the first time since the events on Christmas Eve Napoleon, finally alone in his apartment, broke down.




On this particular Christmas Eve all the section two agents that were in town had adjourned to the commissary to help decorate a Christmas tree.  Egg nog had been passed around and there was Christmas music playing softly in the background.   The decorations were either handmade and edible ornaments,  or castoffs from previous Christmas'.  Even his stoic Russian partner had been there, a rare occurrence.    Napoleon remembered Illya moving toward him to take an ornament that he held out in his hand, a pleased smile lighting the Russian’s face happened. 


He remembered the shocked look on Illya’s face as a shot rang out and the bullet struck the Russian agent in the back.  That moment was forever burned into Napoleon’s mind. He would forever remember the light leaving the blue eyes as death claimed his partner and friend.   In the background  Napoleon barely heard the shrieks from the clerical staff, nor noticed the medical personnel’s quick arrival, as he held his partner in his arms.  All to no avail.  Illya was gone.


In spite of being frozen inside he had managed to snap out of it, becoming all business, doing what had to be done.  Ordering that no one move, that everyone stay in place.  Only the medical staff and the Russian’s lifeless body had been allowed to leave the room.  Everyone was a suspect and a special team had to be called in to investigate.  Finding the gun had been easy.  Finding the person who had pulled the trigger had not.  After an intensive investigation, they had found the culprit.  The worst of it was not finding out that someone he had known had pulled the trigger.  The worst of it was that Illya had not been the intended target.  He had.


He had even managed to hold it together, although he felt like an actor in a bad movie playing a part as he attended the funeral, saying a final goodbye.  Remarks had been made that he was cold and unfeeling toward his partner’s death, but he couldn’t help it.  It was his job.  And it wasn’t true; a part of him had died that day along with his partner.


How he had managed to get through the past week he never knew.  He only knew that he had no desire to see the New Year in.  Not without his partner.  Alone in his apartment he gave himself permission to finally grieve, then he made himself a drink and withdrew his gun from his holster and laid it on the counter. 


Only then did he open the envelope.   He started laughing and was unable to stop.  The sheets of paper were entirely blank. Tears were running down his cheeks, of course they were blank.  The Russian with his warped sense of humor had probably used invisible ink.


Napoleon downed his drink in one shot, and brought the barrel of the gun to his head.




Outside Napoleon’s apartment Mark tried to pull April back.  “April, we shouldn’t be here.  Napoleon needs some time alone.”


“Mark, I just have this terrible feeling,” April protested as she started to knock at the door.  The report from a gun cut off anything further April might have been planning to say.


“Oh, shit,” Mark cursed as he threw his shoulder against the door.




A specter dressed in black watched from the corner of the room.  It had been strange watching his lifeless body being carted away, but oddly liberating.  He’d approved of Napoleon’s professional handling of the incident.  He had been following Napoleon around not knowing what else to do.  For some reason, there had been no white light to take him to a better place.  Fortunately there had been no fire and brimstone waiting for him either.


He had tried many ways to get the American’s attention, but nothing worked.  He had even stood at his side, at the gravesite.   He had not mistaken his partner’s reticence for not caring, as had others.  He knew the dark-haired agent better than that.  He would have left Napoleon alone if he could have.


He knew that Napoleon was deeply upset at his loss.  So much so that he was near to taking his own life.  If only there were something he could do.  He just needed time to figure out how to stop this travesty.  Unfortunately, time had no meaning for him and it was fast running out for Napoleon.  It was one moment until the clock struck midnight.


He moved closer to the despondent agent and did something he had never done before.  He prayed.  Miraculously his prayer was answered.




January 1, 1970 


Napoleon Solo squinted, his eyes partially open.  Where was he?  He tried to move his arms, but they were strapped down.  He looked down at his body and found himself clad in a hospital gown.  A hospital?  Is that where he was?  Why was it that hospital personnel always refused to turn out the lights? 


A dark form loomed to one side.  His eyes focused as the silhouette assumed the shape of his partner.


“You’re dead,” Napoleon croaked.


Illya nodded.  Must Napoleon state the obvious?  Death still felt unreal.  He existed, yet he didn’t.  He was neither hot nor cold.  He just was.  He could still feel the fear that ran through him as Napoleon brought the gun to his head, and he realized there was nothing he could do.  In his present state of nothingness, he could not connect.  Somehow, by accident, he managed to slide inside Napoleon, becoming a part of him.  That and the knocking at the door were the only things that managed to avert the tragedy that was about to happen.


“I’m not dead,” Napoleon stated, sounding disappointed.


“Be thankful that you are not.  It is not something I would wish upon anyone,” Illya replied solemnly, surprised when Napoleon turned to the sound of his voice.  He hadn’t been sure he could be heard.   


Napoleon dropped his head back onto the thin pillow.  “I’ve really screwed up this time.”


“No more than usual.” 


“What would you call waking up finding yourself strapped to a bed and talking to someone who isn’t there?”


“A typical assignment?”


“You’re dead,” Napoleon repeated emphatically.


“Obviously,”  Illya observed dryly.


Their discussion was cut short by the sound of a key turning in the lock and the door opened to admit the doctor.  Seeing his patient awake Dr. Samuel Reins said with fake joviality.  “Well, Mr. Solo, how are we feeling today?”  At the sight of Napoleon’s fierce glare, the doctor cleared his throat before continuing. “Yes, well.  Let’s get started then shall we?”


“First, could you do something about this?” Napoleon asked, pulling against the restraints that held him down.


“All in good time,” the doctor stated as he pulled up a chair next to the bed and flipped through his chart, his pen poised to write.  “Tell me what you remember.”


Illya read the chart over the doctor’s shoulder.  There were a lot of conjectures, no real facts.  “Tell him you don’t remember.” 


Napoleon lifted his head, the lines in his forehead creased, to look at the image of his partner.  “Um…about what?” he asked the doctor.


“Hmmm,” Dr. Reins said, tapping the pen on the chart.  “What is the last thing you remember?”


Illya was pacing.  “Whatever you do, do not tell him you tried to kill yourself.  Tell him the last thing you remember is decorating the tree in the commissary.”


Napoleon frowned.  “Being in the commissary decorating the Christmas Tree.”


“And your partner?”  queried Dr. Reins.


“Illya?  He was there too.”  Napoleon kept the pain he felt from showing on his face.  “What’s going on?  Why am I here?”


Dr. Reins looked intensely at Solo for a few minutes before slowly closing the metal covering of the chart.  “Tell you what, why don’t you just rest for a while and I’ll get right back to you.”


As the doctor rose from his chair and made for the door, Napoleon demanded, “Hey, let me loose first.”




“You need to sleep.”


“No.  What if I wake up and you're gone.”  Napoleon stretched out a hand.


Illya had no answer for that.  He didn’t know if he would be there longer or not.   Illya reached for the outstretched hand, his own, sadly, slipped through.  Unable to connect in an ordinary fashion, Illya once again slid through taking possession of Napoleon’s body.  He had no idea how he managed it, he just did.


He could feel Napoleon’s body shudder in reaction.  Then the laughter that filtered from his mouth.  “When I thought of you being inside me, this was not how I pictured it.”


Illya rose halfway out of Napoleon’s body, staring in astonishment at the recumbent form.  “You’ve thought about me that way?”


The dark brown eyes crinkled with amusement.  “Not often, but yes.” 


It was shocking in a way.  Napoleon was handling this very well.  Much better then he was himself.  “You don’t think I’m a figment of your imagination?”


“If you are, I wish never to be sane again,” Napoleon said with feeling.


Illya lowered himself again, finding shape and substance.  He experimentally raised a free arm, surprised that he could do so.  He touched the face, feeling the cleft chin, the distinctive mole.  He ran the fingers through dark hair. 


He willed the eyes to close and they did.  Shortly after he felt Napoleon slip into sleep, and he lay within him keeping watch.  He was debating on doing something he had never done before, exploring Napoleon’s body with Napoleon’s hands when the door to the room opened admitting a nurse.


She checked Napoleon's vital signs, then brushed an errant strand of hair back, before leaning forward to plant a chaste kiss on Napoleon’s forehead.  Illya decided it would be best to leave the exploration of Napoleon’s body to another time and place, when there could be no embarrassing interruptions.


He lay there and surprisingly enough his consciousness faded too.




A feeling of panic engulfed Napoleon as he opened his eyes the next morning.  'Please don’t let last night be a dream' he thought sincerely.  He fought to regain control of his breathing as he looked inward, and managed to breath easier when he felt the stirring of his partner’s presence.


The doctor entered, his eyes upon the medical chart in his hand, and cheerfully started remarking on the state of Napoleon’s health.  Napoleon had to press his lips tightly together as Illya murmured droll comments that were interspersed with the doctor’s.  Comments only he could hear.


After making some notes, and consulting the chart yet again, the doctor decided that Napoleon could be sent on his way.   A much relieved Solo, hurriedly dress and left U.N.C.L.E. headquarters post haste.



Once Napoleon returned home he paced his apartment, going from one room to another.  His release had been too easy.  He was right to be worried.  In each and every room he found a hidden video camera.


Since the night before his discharge he hadn’t felt his partner’s presence.  Without Illya there to center him he felt bereft.   He stood in the middle of his living room trying to come to some sort of decision.  Should he disable the cameras?  Bad idea, they obviously didn’t trust him, after all why set up cameras?  Hell he didn’t trust himself.  Would they let him work in the field again?  Problematic. 


He closed his eyes and took a deep breath.  When he opened them, Illya, a wicked grin upon his face, was sitting on his sofa, his arms stretched out across the seat back and his feet, ankles crossed and clad in flip flops, propped on his coffee table. 


Napoleon did his best to keep his face blank and walked out the door of his apartment.  Illya was already in the hallway waiting for him.


“Where have you been?”  Napoleon asked and felt foolish doing so.


“Isn’t that my line?”  Illya blinked.


“They have cameras all over my fucking apartment,” Napoleon ranted.  He frowned.  “What’s with the weird footwear?”


“What?  They are no different from those stupid clogs you wear.  Calm down.”  Illya ordered.  “Do you trust me?”


Napoleon looked doubtful.  “Trust you?  I’m not sure that I trust me!”


“Trust me.”  Illya demanded and pointed to the door.


Going back inside, Napoleon held the door for Illya only to find that he was already in the apartment.


“I wonder if they’ve bugged the bathroom,” Napoleon muttered, he felt a headache coming on. 




From that day forward they had a new type of partnership.  One that U.N.C.L.E. was not aware of.  Napoleon became the best 'solo' agent U.N.C.L.E. had and that was because he wasn't alone.


"Owww!"  Napoleon moaned from the cot.  Having been caught and worked over he wondered what had happened to his early warning system.




Napoleon turned his head, finding Illya looking down at him through the bars of his cell.


"Where the fuck have you been?"  Napoleon groaned.


Illya shrugged.  "I'm not really sure. One moment I with sitting next to you in your car, the next I was...elsewhere."


Sitting up slowly and somewhat painfully, Napoleon asked.  "Can you get me out of here?"


Early on they had found that Illya could now manipulate things.  Locks, guns, lights.  And hands.  Napoleon was familiar with masturbation, but jerking off had taken on a new meaning with Illya. Strangely that talent had saved Napoleon's ass on more than one occasion.  It was an interesting way to keep Napoleon's mind distracted when things went wrong.  When things got rough on an assignment, Illya got horny.  Half the time it kept Napoleon  incapable of chasing after a pretty skirt, usually the wrong skirt, and landing in more trouble.


Normally Illya focused on the lock and within seconds there was a click.  Not this time.


"Ah, Napoleon." 


"What?"  Napoleon snapped.  He turned his head in time to see Illya fade from sight.


Five years later, on New Year's Eve, Napoleon limped down toward the banquet hall of a local hotel.  The limp had been a souvenir of his last official assignment as an agent and the last time he'd seen of his partner.  Tomorrow he would no longer be employed and he wasn’t sure how he would handle that fact.  All his friends were to be here to wish him a fond farewell.   He stopped in front of a full length mirror to check his attire.  Reflected in the mirror was a face he thought never to see again.  The man who had shot Illya all those years ago stood behind him aiming a gun at Napoleon's back, his face twisted into cruel snarl.  Napoleon had thought him still in jail.


Napoleon went to pull out his gun, debating on switching from sleep darts to real bullets when suddenly Illya appeared in behind him like an avenging angel just as the assailant's gun went off. 


“Noooo!” Napoleon cried out.  Not again, he can’t go through this again.  He couldn’t help but watch the refection in the mirror.  There was a look of surprise on Illya’s face, which quickly changed to anger.  His hand reached into his advisory’s chest and pulled out a beating heart.  Illya’s face took on a stunned look as the blood dripped through his fingers.


“Hell, Illya, just how am I supposed to explain that?”  Napoleon demanded as soon as he got his breath back. 


Illya threw him a devilish grin, the grin left his face as the heart slid from his hand when Napoleon slumped to the ground just as everyone came pouring out the banquet room.  Even the most hardnosed of them were sickened by the gruesome sight.  .  Lying splayed out in the middle of the marble floor was the one man that Napoleon would have thought had everything.  Stefan Valdar, the husband of the only woman that Napoleon Solo had truly loved.  His blue eyes wide open in horror, his bloody heart lying atop his chest.   On the floor in front of the mirror Napoleon's body lay crumbled.  Screams rang out from every side.


Though nobody notice, standing in his place was a much younger Napoleon then the one from that Christmas that had ended his life.  Napoleon moved closer so that he was standing next to Illya to stare down at the body


"I suppose I should never of had that curse put on him," Illya said pragmatically.


Napoleon looked up dumbfounded.  "What curse?  And why?"


"It was nothing, really.  You were hurting, even the gypsies could see it.  Sooo....when they offered..."  Illya shrugged.


Napoleon shook his head and stared at Illya with amazement.  "All this because of Clara Richards?  Do you have any idea of how guilty I've felt all these years?"


Illya just stood there, his head down.  The curse had given the man boils, caused his farm to decline, made him lose his hair.  But he had never lost the one thing that should have mattered most to him.  The love of his wife.  So, no, it was not because of Clara.  Not that Illya would ever say so.


"So what now.  Heaven or hell?"  Napoleon asked.  The past already forgotten.


"Damn if I know," Illya responded.


Napoleon slung his arm over Illya's shoulder and the two walked off toward whatever the future might hold.







yumyumpm: Napoleon and Illya (Man from UNCLE)
Courting Disaster

 By YumYumPM

(Illya decides he's had enough and Napoleon is given the job of wooing him back into the fold.  Could he be courting disaster?)

Originally published in Relative Secrecy 10





“I’m leaving.”


The brusque statement filtered through and brought Napoleon’s attention away from the dull monthly reports he was working on.  His mind quickly reviewed the current roster, searching for an assignment that his partner might have been needed for and coming up blank even as his mouth asked, “Where to?”


Illya plopped down in the nearest chair, one leg stretched out straight.  “I’ve had it.  I’m sick and tired of being used.”  He scowled.  “I want to go home.”


Napoleon looked at his watch.  “It’s almost five, you have my permission.”


Illya scowled deeper.  “That’s not what I meant.  I’m leaving U.N.C.L.E.” He paused for a moment as if considering.  “Perhaps I will return to my homeland.”


“You can’t do that,” Napoleon said in astonishment.


 “Watch me.”  Illya pulled himself up with difficulty and left while Napoleon just sat there, his mouth wide opened.


Illya must be in a really lousy mood. He’ll get over it.


Napoleon thought no more of it until he dropped into Alexander Waverly’s office with the completed reports.  In the act of setting them down on the table before sitting, he was caught by surprise when the table revolved and came to a stop in front of him.


"What do you know about this?"  Waverly demanded.


Napoleon picked up the paper and read it.  It was short and to the point.


I quit


Illya N. Kuryakin


The message slowly sank in as Napoleon lowered himself to his chair.  "He mentioned something about it this afternoon, but I didn't take it serious.  You're not accepting this I hope?"


"In spite of what you might think, this is still a free country," Waverly said dryly, doing his best to light his pipe.  His hand shook slightly showing his agitation as he tossed the match angrily into the ashtray.


It was slowly seeping in that Illya had indeed been serious about leaving U.N.C.L.E.  It didn't make any sense.  Their assignments of late had not been any more dangerous then usual.  Napoleon made a mental note to check up on Illya's last few missions, just to update his memory.  So engrossed was he with his thoughts that Napoleon only caught the last part of Waverly's speech.  "...seduce him."


"I beg your pardon, sir!"


"Mr. Solo, do please pay attention.  I repeat… Mr. Kuryakin is too valuable an operative to just let this go without taking steps to talk him out of it.  Surely there is someway you can charm him into staying with U.N.C.L.E.  Better health coverage, more money.  Something he wants or needs that you can use to seduce him.


Napoleon let out a sigh of relief.  For a moment there he'd thought Mr. Waverly was asking him to...   No, that was too far fetched.  He schooled his face to normalcy before promising that he'd do what he could and left for his office.




The door to his office slid open just as Napoleon hung up the phone, having requested the last few reports that his Russian partner had filed.  Illya limped over to his desk and slapped a file folder down on it.


"Ummm.  What's this?" Napoleon asked as he reached for it.


"It's the official form you requested, Sir."  The last was Illya at his most sarcastic.


"Why don't you have a seat?"  To the best of his knowledge Napoleon had made no such request.   His eyebrows drew upward as he studied the form, a formal request for dismissal.  More of Waverly's doings no doubt.


Illya hesitated before he ungraciously plopped down in one of the two chairs in front of Napoleon’s desk.


“Can we talk about this?”  Napoleon asked tapping the report.


“There is nothing to talk about.”  Illya scowled, scrunched down lower in his seat, and crossed his arms over his chest.


“I think there is.  How about over a meal?  My treat?”  Food was usually a good bet for enticing Illya.


Illya looked at him through the fringe of his bangs.  “Anywhere?”


Napoleon hesitated.  While he was more than willing to pay, his cash supply was somewhat limited at the moment and the last thing he wanted was to ask Illya for a loan. 


“How about we order take-out and eat at my place?” 


Illya looked up at the ceiling and sighed.  “Sure, why not?”


Napoleon was proud of his solution.  He had accounts with the local takeout places, plus it would afford them more privacy for a real heart-to-heart talk.


Watching Illya get up and head for the door, Napoleon decided he was going to look into how his Russian partner had gotten the limp. 




“You don’t believe in knocking?”  Napoleon asked, putting away his gun.


“What would be the point?  You knew I was coming.”  Illya shrugged and went directly to the refrigerator to put away the bottle of vodka he’d brought with him. 


“You needn’t have brought anything.  I have everything we need.”  Napoleon used a serving spoon to point to his freezer before going back to arranging their meal on plates. 


“Ah…and just how long have you been keeping this a secret?” 


Napoleon glanced up to see what the Russian was drooling over.  “Oh, that.  Picked it up the last time I was over there.” 


The casualness of his reply belied the truth of it.  The assignment would have gone much easier had Illya been along for the fun.  The price of the best vodka Russia offered had been steep, but Napoleon deemed it the least he could do to make Illya feel a little guilty.  After all he wasn’t above blackmail.


They ate their meal on the coffee table without chit chat.  In spite of all Napoleon’s encouragement, Illya was proving extremely uncommunicative.  Doing his best to curb his desire to rush things, Napoleon tried another tactic and began plying Illya with the vodka.  Illya’s tongue was loosened only after two-third of the bottle was gone.


“For what purpose is our job?”


Napoleon leaned back in his char and cocked an enquiring eyebrow.  He opened his mouth to answer, but Illya held up his hand. 


“I know, I know.  To make the world save, so everyone can have…relationships and be happy.  But what about us?  Don’t…don’t we deserve to be happy?”


“And you’re not?”  Napoleon asked quietly.  That Illya could possibly be unhappy had never occurred to him.  Illya rarely showed feelings one way or the other.


“No!”  Illya slammed his hand down on the coffee table, causing Napoleon as well as the dishes to jump.  “How can anyone have a…a relationship with someone, when at any time that relationship could be used against them?”


Napoleon couldn’t bring himself to look Illya in the eye.  He didn’t have an answer to that one. 


Illya dropped his head onto his hands and sighed.  “I’m sorry, Napoleon.  I didn’t mean to rant.  I’m just tired and have had too much to drink.”


Napoleon brightened.  “Then you’re not leaving?”


“No, I am,” Illya said firmly.  “There is nothing and no one to keep me here.  I think I will go back to my apartment now.” He swayed as he got to his feet.


“Damn it, Illya.  We’ve got to talk.”


“Don’t want to.”  Illya’s eyes were drowsy, defiant, and beseeching all at the same time and like a fool Napoleon acceded to their request.


“At least stay the night in the spare room,” he ordered gruffly.  “You’re in no condition to navigate.”


“Is that an order?”  Illya asked stiffly.


Napoleon noticed that Illya’s mouth twitched slightly, indicating that he wasn’t as angry as he sounded.  “Yeah.”


Napoleon guided his partner toward the spare room, cursing the fact the he found those blue eyes sexy.  Leaving Illya to make use of the bath, Napoleon retrieved a pair of pajamas, leaving them where Illya could find them, then returned to the living room to clear up the remains of their meal.  


Napoleon had never taken Illya’s small flirtations seriously, knowing there was nothing more to it than Illya’s penchant for teasing.  Now, listening to the water in the bath run and knowing that, if Illya did leave, he’d never know what might have been, Napoleon became more determined then ever to find some way to keep Illya with him. 


Turning out the lights, Napoleon asked himself a few questions.  It wasn’t that Napoleon didn’t commiserate with his partner about having someone special in his life, someone you didn’t have to play a part for.  He did.  It was just that the Russian had never expressed the desire before.  Why now?


Stopping at the doorway to the spare room, he watched as Illya slipped into the small bed, resisting the urge to tuck him in.   Though Illya was not that much shorter then he, the pajamas virtually hung on his lean frame, leaving the impression that he was much less competent than he actually was.  He looked so adorable tousled.  Napoleon turned away in disgust.  Why was he having such thoughts now?  He just had to find some way to keep the pesky little Russian around.




By morning Napoleon had formulated his strategy for keeping Illya in U.N.C.L.E.   Now all he needed to do was implement it. 


Phase One


“Napoleon, someone’s stolen my---” Illya stormed into Napoleon’s office, jerking to a stop when he caught Napoleon supervising the workmen shoving Illya’s desk into position. 


“Maintenance had to do some work on the office.  Since you are leaving soon and my office is big enough, I thought we’d just move you in here.  Is that going to be a problem?”


“No…  I suppose not,” Illya answered hesitantly.  “We never did talk about when I was leaving.”


“We can talk about that later,” Napoleon said absently, his attention was on the workmen.  He tilted his head and nodded his approval, before turning to Illya.  “Tell you what, let’s get something to eat.”


Perhaps it was time to move on to Phase Two, he thought with a smile.  It might be a little unorthodox, but he’d never know until he tried.  The next step was to get Illya out of the office. 


Phase Two


Napoleon was sitting at his desk, looking deliberately benign, when Illya walked back into the office.  Sitting in the middle of Illya’s desk was a crystal vase holding a dozen long stem roses. 


“Where did these come from?”  Illya asked suspiciously.


“Umm, they were here when I arrived.”  The lie rolled smoothly off Napoleon’s tongue. 


Illya examined the card: he turned it over, looking at the other side. “No name.” He sneezed, gathered the roses, and dumped them in his waste basket.


Napoleon’s phone rang.  He reached to pick it up, never taking his eyes off the expensive roses the little imp had just trashed.


“Mr. Solo.  Have you made any progress?”


Damn, Waverly would choose now for a progress report.


“Not yet, sir.”

“Then get with it.”


Waverly hung up with a loud click.  Napoleon put the headset down, a sigh of bitter disappointment caught in his lungs.  So much for Phase Two.


Phase Three


Chocolates were the key, Napoleon was sure.  His partner had a fondness for them, light chocolate, dark chocolate, it didn’t matter.  Napoleon had always found that chocolates had a way of sweetening the most reluctant female’s disposition.  It should work on one stubborn Russian. 


Early the next morning, Napoleon, with an eye for precision, set an enormous box, complete with bow on his partner’s desk.  Smiling with satisfaction, Napoleon decided that slipping off for a cup of coffee would probably be a wise move.  He didn’t want to be around to answer any awkward questions.


When Napoleon finally returned, he found his partner squatting on the floor, staring suspiciously at the box.  He stood dumb-founded and watched as Illya very gingerly undid one end of the package and then the other.


“What are you doing?”

“Some one left this on my desk,” Illya explained as he carefully pulled the box from the wrapper.  He cautiously picked up the top and peeked in.  “Chocolates!”




“They could be poisoned.  Remember Marion Raven?”  Illya picked up the box and held it at arms length.


“Poison?  Don’t be silly.  Who would possibly try to poison you in headquarters?”


“I’m not taking any chances.  I’m taking them to the lab to be analyzed.” 


Napoleon stood gaping as Illya walked out the room.  He rubbed his face in disgust.  How could something so simple have gone so horribly wrong? 




Later that day, Napoleon sat at his desk and scowled openly as he perused certain classified reports, while Illya sat at his desk going over his expense account after having returned with the verdict:  “Chocolates.”


According to the files, Illya’s last half-dozen assignments had been back-to-back.  Most had lacked rudimentary precautions such as backup and there had been almost no rest in between assignments.

What really bothered Napoleon was that while it was Waverly’s prerogative to assign his top enforcement agents to any mission at his whim, and though Napoleon wasn’t always notified of each and every assignment, he usually had some idea what Illya was up to.  It was no wonder that Illya was tired.  Not to mention limping.


It didn’t make sense, considering how badly Waverly seemed to want to keep Illya working for U.N.C.L.E. – why was he assigning him back-to-back missions?


“I’m going for some coffee.  You want some?”


Illya’s question cut through Napoleon’s concentration and he looked up to find Illya standing inside the doorway waiting for his answer.  A curt nod and he was back at his reading, growing more irritated as he read.


He heard the door swish open and shut, then shortly afterward swish open again.  He looked up, wondering why Illya was returning so soon, to find one of the secretaries placing a file on Illya’s desk.


“What’s that?”


“I believe it’s a new assignment.”  The secretary fluttered her eyelashes and gave him a bright smile, her hips swaying as she left the room.


Napoleon waited until the door swished closed behind her before moving to the other desk and picking up the folder.  He frowned as he leafed through the skimpy pages.  It seemed yet another assignment had bypassed his desk.  The two of them had received assignments with as little information, but this one didn’t even allow for backup.


He snapped the folder shut and slapped it against his palm.  Never before had he felt such rage.  Gripping the folder tightly, he set out to get an explanation one way or another.


It wasn’t long before he was sweeping past Lisa Rogers, ignoring her protests of, “Mr. Solo, you can’t go in there.”


Storming into the room, not waiting for Waverly to acknowledge his presence, he tossed the folder down on the table, sending it spinning until it landed in front of his boss.


Mr. Waverly narrowed his eyes and looked down at the folder, then up at his top enforcement agent.  “What’s the meaning of this?”


“Read it.”


Mr. Waverly shot Napoleon a glare, then opened the folder, examining the papers within as he puffed on his pipe.  When he was finished, he leaned back in his chair.  “According to this, Mr. Kuryakin is the best man for the job.”


“Of course he’s the best man for the job.  Illya is the best.”  Napoleon did his best to reign in his anger.  He leaned forward with both hands flat on the revolving table.  “Get someone else.”

“Mr. Solo, watch yourself!  You presume too much!”


Napoleon closed his eyes and took a deep breath.  He remembered the only time he’d gone up against Waverly.  At that time Illya and Pia Monteri were trapped on an island ear-marked to be blown to smithereens.  He’d backed down then; he wasn’t going to back down now. 


“Look, you’ve had him on back-to-back assignments with little or no detailed information over the last couple of months.  If he goes out again you’ll lose him for good.”  Then he threw in what he hoped was the clincher.  “Not only him, but me as well.  I won’t stand for it.”


Waverly stood up and glared, nearly biting through the stem of his pipe. “Is that a threat?” 


Waverly’s eyes were cold and Napoleon didn’t trust himself enough to answer.  He straightened to his full height and walked out of the office.  In spite of all his bluster, Napoleon was well aware that Waverly could still send Illya off if he thought it would benefit U.N.C.L.E.


His anger had not lessened one wit when he quite literally bumped into his partner.


“Watch it.  Just where have you been?” Illya asked crankily as he wiped the spilt coffee from the front of his jacket with a napkin.  “Forget I asked.  In three days it will no longer matter.”


Just what he needed, a reminder that if he didn’t do something soon he’d soon be partnerless.




That night Napoleon had removed his watch, setting it on his bedside table.  Losing his temper had been a waste of time.  Okay, so Waverly had ordered him to do everything in his power to keep Illya from resigning.  Why?  Waverly had to be aware of Illya’s reasons for wanting to leave.  Or was he?  Was Waverly so focused on winning the war that he’d lost sight of what it could mean to his men?  In either case, Napoleon doubted that his current course of action was what Waverly had in mind. 


He liked to think his actions were motivated by the thought of U.N.C.L.E. losing one of their best agents.  Unfortunately he knew that was only part of it.  His main motivation was not to lose his best friend; someone he cared for more than was good for him. 


His failure to woo his partner into staying with flowers and candy had been weighing on his mind and resulted in his canceling of a date he had been looking forward to all week.  In recent years it had become increasingly obvious that he did his best work with his partner.  And said partner had become more important to him then the mission at times. 


The thought of seducing his partner sexually normally would never have occurred to him and he wondered why he was seriously thinking of it now.


Sliding between the sheets, Napoleon went to sleep with strange dreams. His dreams started with images of Illya, his shy, modest smile rarely seen of late.   The look of intense concentration as Illya studied some particular problem, his blue eyes hidden behind dark glasses.  His flirtatious fluttering of eyelashes, demonstrating his amusement at Napoleon’s lack of luck with a female innocent.  How many times over the years had Illya proclaimed, “We still have each other,” or  “I’d love to hear your stories… anytime”?  It was all a game to him.


He wasn’t sure why his dream took him back to his childhood days and the friend from his school days, whose name he no longer remembered.  All these years he’d managed to delude himself that it was just normal curiosity about another’s body.  Each recognizing in the other the same needs and wants. 


Napoleon moaned in his sleep, remembering the furtive glances and even more furtive touches.  The fear of being found out, as his friend eventually was, being laughed at and ridiculed, had forced Napoleon to hide who and what he was.  He’d pushed all that behind him, convincing himself it was just a youthful indiscretion. 


The intensity of the dream woke him, his heart beating fast enough to scare him.  He could no longer hide from the truth.


Phase Four


The next day, Napoleon was forced to concede that Illya was indeed serious in his intentions, especially when a notice, including the last date of employment, appeared on his desk.  It was with a heavy heart that he signed it.  He looked into his partner’s determined face.  “I suppose a farewell meal is out of the question?” he asked.


“That depends on who’s paying,” Illya responded, one blond brow raised questioningly.


Napoleon came around his desk, smiling.  “I’ll pay.  But only if you wear something a bit nicer.”  He fingered the roll of Illya’s black turtleneck. 


Illya looked down at the finger flicking the roll of his sweater, humphed once before turning around and limping off.




Napoleon adjusted his cuffs and shot a glance at his soon-to-be ex-partner, pleased to see that Illya was at least wearing a suit and tie and not his usual black turtleneck.


Opening the door, he ushered Illya in.  Leading the way, Napoleon paused partway down the carpeted stairway that led into the restaurant proper and admired the old-world charm that lay below.  He was looking forward to an evening of good food, fine wine and a chance to remind his partner of all the good times.  On the landing, he could see the maître′d waiting expectantly.


“Ah, Mr. Solo.  How nice to see you again.” 


“Good evening, Carlos.  A table for two, please.”


A look of puzzlement appeared Carlos’ face as he looked over Napoleon’s shoulder.  “The young lady?  She is …?”


It took Napoleon a moment to figure out what Carlos was talking about.  When he finally did, he shook his head.  “No, you don’t understand.  I’m here with an associate.”  He turned toward Illya and found him retracing their steps upward, patrons coming down the staircase parting in his wake.  “At least I thought I was,” he muttered and hurried after his partner. 


There was an understanding smile on Carlo’s face as he turned to welcome the new arrivals.


Napoleon grabbed Illya by the arm before he got to the doorway.  “Hey, what’s wrong?”


“I refuse to eat here.  It’s too… too… romantic,” Illya practically spat.


Napoleon turned and went down the stairs and looked over the stairwell.  The maître d' reached for the menus once again. 


Napoleon smiled graciously and studied the room. What was Illya going on about? 


Napoleon smiled graciously and studied the room that stretched out below them.  What was Illya going on about?  Okay, so there was a couple holding hands, and two booths away a couple cuddling.  Nothing he hadn’t done himself a time or two.  And over in the corner booth, the private one…  His eyes widened.  Was that two guys kissing?


Napoleon’s mouth gaped open and he looked upward at Illya.


Illya looked down at him, his arms crossed over his chest, one eyebrow raised as if to say, ‘Now do you believe me?’


Napoleon shrugged his shoulders.  “What can I say, the food here is terrific.”


Illya shook his head, a look of disgust on his face, before turning and making his way out of the restaurant.  Napoleon gave another shrug to the maître d’ before hurrying to follow.


When they reached the car, Illya asked, “Was that charade for my benefit?”


“What charade?  Okay, where do you want to go?”


Illya’s face brightened and he moved to the driver’s side of the car and held up his hand.  With a sigh of resignation, Napoleon tossed the keys over before sliding into the passenger side.  


The smug smile on Illya’s face should have made him suspicious, but it didn’t.  When Illya pulled up to a shabby building with an expression of excitement on his face, Napoleon decided to suck it up, grin, and bear it.  At least it would be cheap.


Loud music greeted them as Illya led the way down a darkened stairway and Napoleon’s senses went on alert.  He expected to be attacked at any moment.  They reached the bottom and entered a smoke-filled room. 


“Illya!”  A young girl, dressed in black from the top of her beret to the bottom of her stockinged feet, flashed a smile and ushered them to a small table, a candle the only illumination. 


Napoleon squinted as he tried to make out shapes around the room.  Two cups were set in front of them just as a bright light sprung up from somewhere and three long-haired individuals jumped up on stage.  Napoleon was unable to tell whether they were male or female.   


Without thinking, Napoleon picked up the cup and took a swallow and almost gagged.  This was supposed to be coffee? 


The moment the music started, he cringed.  The horn was just short of ear splitting, the bass player’s strumming sounding like a cat in heat, and the pianist was pounding loudly on the keys.  If there was a tune, it escaped Napoleon. 


From what he could see of Illya’s face, he seemed to be enjoying it.  Either that or he was enjoying Napoleon’s discomfort. 


After a while, Napoleon’s stomach rumbled.  He leaned closer to Illya and asked, “Where’s the menu?”


“There is none.  You eat what you are served,” Illya answered without looking at him, his fingers drumming on the table in time with the beat.


Napoleon plastered a fake smile on his face and pretended everything was fine.





Napoleon grimaced as he eased the door to Illya’s apartment shut, his hand covering his stomach.  The food had turned out to be just as greasy as the coffee and Napoleon was regretting letting Illya talk him out of staying at his favorite restaurant. 


Illya had already loosened his tie and unbuttoned the top button.  “Want something to drink?”


 “I’d rather have an anti-acid.”


“You know where it is.”  Illya jerked his head toward the bathroom and draped his jacket over an armchair.


Napoleon wove his way through the half-filled boxes that littered the two rooms.  In spite of Illya’s claim that he wasn’t particularly materialistic, there were quite a few boxes.


“Music will be the one thing I’ll miss when I go back.” Napoleon heard Illya saying as music drifted into the bathroom. 


Napoleon looked into the mirror; his face held a sour expression to match the feeling of his stomach.  Had Illya just intimated that he wouldn’t miss him?  He opened the medicine cabinet to find it bare except for the essentials.  Finding the pills he needed, Napoleon let the music sweep over him, relaxing him.


“Don’t they have music in Russia?” Napoleon called out, more to irritate Illya then anything else.  It worked.


 “Of course we have music,” Illya said, slightly affronted.  He was standing in the doorway, two glasses in his hands.  “Just not live jazz.”


“That was jazz?” Napoleon asked as he took one of the glasses and slipped past Illya to wander around the apartment, sipping his drink and peeking into the various boxes.  Books, albums, clothing, and a few trinkets.  He hadn’t wanted to believe it, but seeing the boxes brought it home like nothing else that Illya was indeed serious about leaving.


The sudden chuckle behind him let him know that Illya’s choice of restaurant had been a deliberate attempt on his part to annoy Napoleon.


Heaving a heavy sigh, Napoleon wondered what it was he’d done to get on Illya’s bad side.  One of the open boxes caught his eye and he couldn’t resist investigating.


“Do you mind?” Illya asked, snatching a record from Napoleon’s hands. 


Things had not gone as he’d planned: no good food, no excellent wine.  Hell this was the first liquor to pass his lips all evening.  And forget about talking, that had been all but impossible.   Napoleon resisted the urge to pout; after all Illya did it so much better.


“What will you do?” Napoleon asked, more to get his mind off the thought of Illya’s lips pouting.  In a way he was shocked at himself.  Thoughts like these had never occurred to him in all the years he and Illya had worked together.


“Not sure.  I have options.  I have my doctorate.  I could teach or do research.”  Illya looked up from straightening the contents in the box.  A smile quirked one side of his mouth.  “I could even become a fashion designer.”


Napoleon snorted at the idea.  “And I could work with computers.  Where do you plan to go?”  Napoleon looked down into his glass, watching the amber liquid swirl.  “Back to Russia?”


“No!”  Illya’s response was firm.  “I considered it, but…”  His face took on a dreamy look.  “Think I might move to England, perhaps somewhere in the countryside outside of Edinburgh.  It’s nice and quiet there.”  He took a deep swallow of his drink and looked slightly embarrassed.  “Foolish isn’t it.  To want to live someplace serene?”


Napoleon swallowed most of his drink in one gulp.  Then he studied Illya, really looked at him.  For the first time in their partnership, he realized that he didn’t really know what made his partner tick and he very much wanted to.  He shook his head, his words so soft he wasn’t sure Illya heard them.  “No.  Not foolish at all.”


Illya limped over to his sofa and sat down.  He laughed and it struck Napoleon as being a bit bitter.


“There have been some good times, surely?”  Napoleon went to pour himself another drink.


“Name one.”  Illya held out his glass for a refill.


Napoleon cast his mind back. 


“Aha, you can’t think of any.”


“What about the time we worked together on that case in the garment district?  Remember Ramona and Jerry?  Or the time we shared a house in suburbia?  Oh, and let’s not forget the assignment Waverly gave us to bring down that Laslo Kurasovmat.  We did a great job on that one and you got to come back from the dead, my dear Colonel Mikalovech Dohnyev.”


 “Sure.  Three out of how many?


Napoleon could only hope that Illya wasn’t thinking of all the times that things had gone wrong and one of them had been in danger or hurt.


“Do you normally frequent restaurants that cater to pediks?” Illya asked, out of the blue, taking Napoleon’s mind away from his gloomy thoughts.


“Huh?  Pediks?”  Napoleon’s Russian wasn’t quite up to it.


“Homosexuals,” Illya translated.


“Huh?” Napoleon repeated.  “You’re making that up.”


Illya shook his head and said cryptically.  “It pays to know the dangers around us.”


“You have something against homosexuals?”


“Not at all.  Some of my best friends are homosexual.”  Napoleon held in a deep breath.  Was he imagining it, or did Illya know? 


Illya chuckled.  “Considering you’re as straight as they come, it’s extremely amusing to think that you take your dates to a place like that.”


Napoleon didn’t comment; he was too busy staring down at the patterned rug, his foot tracing the pattern.




Napoleon looked up through the dark curl hanging down upon his forehead.  His eyes immediately returned to the floor.


“I don’t suppose I should be surprised.”


Napoleon’s eyes quickly came up to stare at Illya, who had paused and was taking a sip of his drink.


“You always were a bit of a dandy.”  There was a glint of amusement in Illya’s eyes and Napoleon breathed a sigh of relief.  Illya was taking this much better than he expected.


Illya started as if a sudden idea had occurred to him.  “The flowers, the candy.  That was you?  Why?” 


That was a good question.  “Ah, Mr. Waverly suggested…”


“Napoleon, there is no way you could convince me that Waverly sanctioned this… this…” 


“Seduction?” Napoleon suggested.  “Well, not in so many words.”


Illya stepped closer, poking Napoleon with a finger, but Napoleon was unable to make out what he was saying.  Blood was rushing through his ears and other parts of him, blocking everything, including sound, as feelings kept at bay for over twenty years swept over him.


Without thinking, Napoleon grabbed Illya by his shirt front, pulling him close until their lips met.  Napoleon’s first thought, when he finally was able to think, was that it should have felt strange, but didn’t.  Illya’s hands had slipped down, holding lightly to Napoleon’s hips and Napoleon let go of Illya’s shirt and wrapped his arms around him. 


When Illya finally backed away, Napoleon just stood there, his fingers touching his lips.  He didn’t know what he was more shocked at.  That he’d actually kissed his partner or that Illya had kissed him back.


Napoleon followed as Illya backed away from him, Illya’s eyes drawing him like a magnet.   They crossed into the bedroom, only stopping when Illya’s knees hit the bed, his eyes lowering, breaking contact.


He held his breath, afraid of what Illya might say, and was surprised when, in a tone Napoleon had never heard the Russian use, Illya commanded, “Strip.”


“Huh?”  Napoleon’s speech was lacking to say the least.


Illya raised his eyes, blue splinters of ice.  “You heard me.  Do you want to me to stay or not?”


Napoleon bent down and began untying his shoelaces.  His body wanted this desperately, but he had the uncomfortable feeling that Illya was toying with him. 


He looked up automatically when Illya, now reclining on his side, his head propped on his fist, asked in a purely conversational tone, “You’ve never done this before, have you?”


Napoleon felt his face redden as he continued unlacing his shoes.  He didn’t have the nerve to look Illya in the eye and answer him with the truth. 


Standing back up, he toed off the shoes.  Off came his jacket, then his tie.  He unbuttoned his shirt with trembling fingers, realizing how patently ridiculous this all was.  He gathered his courage and raised his head, looking Illya in the eye as he undid his belt, flicked open the button, unzipped his trousers, and pushed them downward, letting them slide to the floor.  Shirt and t-shirt quickly followed, landing in a heap on the floor.  He stepped out of the trousers and began hopping first on one leg then the other to remove his socks.  Illya’s laughter at his antics distracted him.  Standing there wearing nothing but his boxers, it occurred to him that if Illya was trying to humiliate him, he was succeeding admirably. 


“You just going to lie there fully clothed?” 


Illya hesitated before moving to the edge of the bed and slowly unbuttoning his shirt.  As the shirt slid off his shoulders, Napoleon let out a gasp of surprise.  He was on the bed in an instant, gently slipping the shirt the rest of the way off Illya’s upper body, exposing the fading bruises that covered most of his chest.  He’d known of the injuries, just not how badly.


“My God.  How did you get those?” Napoleon breathed.


“You should know,” Illya accused.


Napoleon’s mouth hung open.  His eyes closed as he remembered the last file, the one he hadn’t gotten a chance to read because of his curiosity about the file left on Illya’s desk.   “I swear to God, I didn’t know.”


Illya’s looked doubtful.  All Napoleon wanted to do was take that look away. 


“If you didn’t, then who…?” 


Napoleon brushed the hair back off Illya’s forehead.  “I don’t know for sure.  But when I find out…”


He didn’t get a chance to finish. 


When he was finally able to get his breath back, Napoleon began removing the rest of Illya’s clothing.  His hands touched lightly on a myriad of other bruises that Illya’s clothing had managed to cover-up. 


He had never paid much attention to Illya’s body.  Illya’s chest was lightly covered with a smattering of pale hair that narrowed as it trailed down his body.  With trembling hands, Napoleon nervously set out to rid Illya of his pants and boxers, revealing what lay beneath.  Once it was uncovered he couldn’t help but sigh.  Illya had been the aggressor, he should at least be showing signs of arousal.


“Something wrong?” Illya asked, looking downward at his own body.


“No…  No.  It’s just I was hoping for a little more show of… ah… excitement.”


“You don’t appear very… er… excited either,” Illya said dryly, nodding at Napoleon’s boxers.


Napoleon checked out his own condition.  Illya was right.   He covered himself self-consciously.  “I can’t help that.  It’s my first time.”


A look of disbelief appeared on Illya’s face as he scooted until his back was against the headboard.  He drew his knees to his chest and rested his chin on them, and peered quizzically at Napoleon.  “Let’s get this straight.  You are… er… queer?”


Sifting his weight to one leg, Napoleon winced at the unfortunate label. 


“Aren’t you sure?”  Illya’s eyes were full of mischief and he looked as if he were trying not to smile.


An embarrassing question to be sure.  As a young boy, Napoleon had always preferred looking at men and boys over girls.  That wasn’t so bad, most boys at that age didn’t like girls either.  It was the wanting to touch other boys that set him apart.  He’d been rather proud of his body and loved displaying it until it was impressed upon him, by means of a severe spanking dealt out by his father, that this was unacceptable behavior.


When he was a little older he’d been elated to find someone else who, like he, preferred males.  But the hurt and ridicule his friend suffered caused him to try to change how he felt.  To live a lie until he believed the part.   Not showing the world his true face, lest what happened to his friend happen to him. 


“At school, because I was quiet and retiring, it was assumed by some that I was also… homosexual,” Illya said, stretching out seductively.  “One thing I learned is you can’t always tell a book by its cover.  I was propositioned by the most unlikely people.”


“Are you… you know?”  Napoleon couldn’t bring himself to say the word.


Illya looked at his feet, his face taking on a thoughtful expression.  “I don’t really know.  Men, women… it depends on the individual.”


It occurred to Napoleon that Illya was taking this all remarkably well.  That instead of lying there so seductively posed, Illya could be shouting and screaming the same obscenities his school friend had been forced to endure, in any one of the many languages he knew.


In the meantime, Illya was pushing the covers down and slipping in between the sheets.  There was a twinkle in his eyes that had long been missing.  “Are you planning to stand there in your underwear or are you planning to join me?”


Leaving his inhibitions, as well as his boxers, behind, Napoleon dove beneath the covers that were held so invitingly open.






Napoleon’s nose twitched at the odor of sex.  Hair tickled his nose and Napoleon breathed in deeply.  The scent of Illya replaced the strong scent of sex.  One hand rested on bare flesh.   Beneath his palm, the bare skin wasn’t soft and silky like he was used to, but more muscular.  His hand glided upward and encountered hair where no woman would have any and he couldn’t help smiling.


For Napoleon, last night had been liberating.  Illya had taken the lead, but Napoleon’s natural instincts soon kicked in and he managed, with little effort, to drive the Russian wild. 


His ears picked up Illya’s even breathing and he knew the Russian was still sleeping.  It should have felt strange holding another man so close, but it didn’t.  In fact, it felt more natural than all the nights he’d spent with women. 


His thumb moved over a hardened nipple and he couldn’t resist tweaking it.  A slight tremor and an intake of breath let him know that Illya was awake.


“Want to do it again?” Napoleon asked, his voice husky with desire, while he nuzzled Illya’s neck. 


Illya turned into his arms with a muffled chuckle.  “I see I’ve created a monster.”


Napoleon blew a raspberry in response.  An urgent need to answer nature’s call distracted him and he slipped out of the bed with a muttered, “I’ll be back.” 


With an immodesty that surprised even him, he scurried to the bathroom.  As he relieved himself he wondered, if now that he knew the joy one could experience with another man, he could ever again resist temptation.


Then it hit him.  Christ, he’d spent last night having sex with his partner.  What must Illya think of him? 


“What are you thinking about?” Illya asked as Napoleon shook the last drops off his flaccid penis and moved to the sink to wash his hands. 


He turned his head and saw Illya was leaning casually against the doorjamb, absentmindedly toying with his morning erection.  In all the years they had worked together and shared assignments, he’d never seen Illya so uninhibited.


He pretended to check his reflection in the mirror, feeling the bristles on his face.  His eyes were on Illya, blond hair in disarray, his face, too, covered in bristles.  It struck him that not wanting Illya to leave had had a lot to do with enjoying his company, their working well together, and needing his friendship.  The sex they’d shared was a bonus.


The question had certainly caught Napoleon off guard.  He waved his hands about, looking for a towel while he tried to think up a sensible response.  “I don’t usually do things like this…”


 “With a man?”  Illya’s blue eyes, inscrutable as usual, slowly moved upward until they engaged Napoleon’s reflection.  He pulled out a hand towel and tossed it over on his way past to take care of business, not an easy thing to do given his condition. “Yes, we’ve gone over this before.  Consider our little tryst a farewell gift.”


Napoleon tossed the towel aside and returned to the bedroom, sitting on the side of the bed, his thoughts in turmoil.  Here he had finally accepted who he was and Illya was pulling the rug out from under him.  When he considered all the men he knew, Napoleon couldn’t picture doing with any of them what he had just done with Illya. 


Shit.  This wasn’t supposed to be about him.  He was supposed to be talking Illya into staying, not taking sexual advantage.  But hadn’t that been at the back of his mind ever since he thought it was what Waverly was suggesting?


“You look distressed, my friend.”  Illya stood before him, the bruises covering his body a blend of pale yellow and green in the morning light.


“Am I?  Your friend, I mean?  I should have seen what was happening, not waited until you were about to leave me to do something.  And I certainly shouldn’t have had sex with you.  It was unfair.”


  “Napoleon, everything about you is sex and I can’t say I didn’t enjoy last night.”  Illya sat on the bed next to Napoleon, leaning close in a supportive gesture.


Napoleon took that as encouragement enough to ask, “Enough to stay?” 


“No.”  Illya pushed himself off the bed and grabbed a robe to wrap himself in. 


Napoleon gathered the rumpled sheet around himself to cover his own nakedness.  He went to the window and pushed back the curtain to look out.  Illya’s firm response had hit a sore spot and he needed the time to come up with an alternative plan.  “What if I insist that you not be sent out on any more assignments without me?”


Illya surprised him, coming up behind him, wrapping his arms around him and resting his head on Napoleon’s shoulder. “I can see Mr. Waverly going for that,” he said dryly. 


Relaxing into the embrace, Napoleon spoke with more confidence then he felt.  “He’s not going to have a choice.  Mr. Waverly’s going to find out what it’s like to go up against his Chief Enforcement Agent.”


Illya squeezed him tightly and shook his head.  “If that were the only problem…”


Napoleon turned a questioning look over his shoulder.


“You haven’t been listening.  I could take the constant injuries.  They go hand and glove with the job.  What I want… need… is someone to… I don’t know….”


“I think I know what you mean.”  One could wish for a normal relationship with someone, but in their line of work it wasn’t really feasible.  Even though he dated often, getting closely involved was not in the cards.  It was much too dangerous.  Yes, he not only understood, he was tempted to join Illya.


“Now can you understand why I must leave?” Illya whispered in Napoleon’s ear.


As much as it hurt him, Napoleon knew he had no right to ask Illya to stay.  Waverly be damned.  He wanted Illya to stay for his own selfish reasons.  Even now, his body was telling him that he was the one who needed Illya, and not just at work.  He realized he hadn’t been courting Illya so much for U.N.C.L.E. as for himself.   He couldn’t think with Illya’s arms around him.  He pulled away.


“If it’s companionship you want, you’ll always have me.  You can move into my place, or we could get a place, a retreat in the country… Connecticut perhaps?”  The more Napoleon thought about, it the better he liked it.  He could see them sharing a cottage in the country, sharing a bed, expanding their love lives.  Last night had only been a tantalizing glimpse of what they could enjoy.


Illya laughed and shook his head.  It was obvious he could follow Napoleon’s thought processes.   “And I suppose we could do this in relative secrecy?”  There was an amused quality in his tone.  “Napoleon, my friend, you are living a pipe dream. It won’t work.” 


Napoleon let out an exaggerated sigh.  Illya was probably right.  Damn U.N.C.L.E.  But Napoleon was nothing if not determined. 


He decided it was time to play dirty.  “I need you, Illya.”  He dropped the sheet he was wearing, letting his need show.  There was a doubtful look on Illya’s face, so he decided to up the ante.  “Who else could save me from all the female Thrush agents in the world?”


Illya’s laughter followed him as Napoleon took his bare self to the bath, doing his best to keep his dignity in place.


Napoleon had just started sudsing his body when the shower curtain was pulled aside.  “Decided to join me?”


Illya stepped into the tub and drew the curtain back into place.  “I just want to reiterate — Waverly would never, ever let us get away with it.”


“Why not?  There’s nothing in the bylaws that says we can’t have a private life.”  Napoleon was treading on thin ice here; he’d never actual read the U.N.C.L.E. bylaws, just skimmed through them when he first joined.  “Besides what can Waverly do?”


From the look on Illya’s face, he thought Waverly could do quite a lot.  Napoleon frowned.  Maybe Waverly had already done something.  Maybe that was why Illya was getting those strange assignments.


“Illya?  You don’t suppose Waverly thinks we are already… involved?”


Illya mulled it over as he soaped Napoleon’s back.  “It would explain a lot if he does.”


That didn’t seem fair.  Here Illya was being punished for something they hadn’t done.  Something tickled at the back of Napoleon’s mind.  He had to work hard to concentrate and ignore what Illya’s hands were doing to his body. 


It was something Waverly had done — no said.  “According to this, Mr. Kuryakin is the best man for the job.”  Napoleon blinked.  He’d been so angry he hadn’t notice Waverly had known no more about the assignment than he had. 


That meant there was someone else who was trying to drive Illya away.  Should he bring it to Illya’s attention?  But if he knew, would Illya just use it as one more excuse to leave?  Napoleon jumped when Illya’s hand made contact with his genitals.  He looked down at the hand fondling him, then up into mischievous blue eyes.  Now was not the time to bring it up.  Later.  Much later.


“I intend to have a nice little talk with Mr. Waverly.  If you promise to stay, he may be willing to overlook it.”


“And if he doesn’t?”


Napoleon thought it through and gave a shrug.  “There’s still the cottage outside Edinburgh.  I’ll even join you.”


Illya snorted.  “Can you promise me more sha-co-lats?”  A teasing grin joined the laughter in his eyes.


Napoleon reached for his partner.  Perhaps courting the Russian hadn’t been such a disaster after all.








yumyumpm: Napoleon and Illya (Man from UNCLE)
 The Better Lover


A Gentleman Never Tells

By YumYumPM

Written for Eyes Only 2009

Companion Piece to ‘Count Kuryakin’

(Who is the better lover?  Napoleon or Illya?  Exactly what did Illya have to do to get back lost information?  A gentleman never tells.)


The sun shone brightly through the window, blinding him, and he covered his face with his arm.  Noise, coming from the bathroom, let him know his partner was up and about his business.  Sometime during the early morning hours someone had divested him of his tuxedo and replaced it with his favorite flannel pajamas.  He laid his head back on his pillow and went back to sleep…or tried to.

The sound of rolling wheels and an overly cheery “It’s about time you got up” didn’t help.  He tried to ignore it until the whiff of fresh coffee filtered the air in front of him. Not just any coffee, but coffee fixed just the way he liked it. 

“What time is it?” he croaked as he took the cup offered.

Napoleon moved over to the cart and was rearranging the plates on a table near the French-doors that opened onto the balcony.  “Almost two… in the afternoon.”

Reluctantly Illya got up and sat down at the table, where a great many of his favorite dishes sat, knowing full well the questions that would soon be flying his way.

The day before, he had been seething with anger as he slammed the door of the hotel room in the heart of Cannes that he shared with his partner.  After all his hard work to bring this project about, to have his part end up posing as a waiter was intolerable.  Illya couldn’t decide if he was more irritated by Napoleon’s smug arrogance that he was incapable of romancing someone, or if he was just plain tired.   After all, he wouldn’t have had to come to France at all if Napoleon hadn’t managed to misplace a certain piece of information that had been his assignment.  When he’d reported in, only then had Waverly stressed the important need to get the information back.  From the look of things, Illya was certain that Napoleon had been unaware of just how important the information was.  How many times had Waverly sent them out on what supposedly were milk-runs only to find that he had misrepresented those assignments to his agents?

The flight to Paris had been long, and the stewardesses, for some unknown reason, kept stopping by to see if he needed anything, disrupting his sleep.  Illya had known from the beginning that Napoleon had purposely left out something during the video conference when he’d reported in from the Paris Office.  He was certain that Waverly knew it too, but had decided to overlook it at the time, ordering Illya to Paris to help find the missing information. 

Immediately upon his arrival, making use of additional information that Napoleon had provided, he not only found out the name of Napoleon’s mysterious woman, but met with the Paris team.

He had not been surprised to find an old friend, from the time he had been stationed in Europe, in charge of the Paris contingent.  Jacque Bouché was a top Section Two agent; he also a talent for ferreting out information.  Jacque had introduced him to his partner, Yvette Sonnier, a petite redhead.   Her short haircut gave her an elfin-like appearance, which in all probability worked in her favor on assignments.  The third member of the team was Michael Garnier, fresh out of Survival School, an unknown quantity; however, he must be fairly competent for Jacque to work with him.

Napoleon, in spite of appearing disgruntled, looked a lot better than the last time Illya had seen him.  As it was Illya had accomplished more than Napoleon had so far, and Napoleon did not like being upstaged.  In true Solo fashion, Napoleon had graciously offered to buy him lunch.  While it was true he’d gotten a meal out of it, Illya had ended up paying for it in more ways then one. 

The rest of the day had been occupied with the two of them going over information that Jacque’s team had accumulated and coming up with a way to get back what Napoleon had lost.  By the time he’d left the room and entered the elevator the beginnings of a plan had already coalesced in his brain.  There was an evil grin on his face as he pushed the down button.

In the meantime, while he had been busy setting up this little escapade, Napoleon had time to take out Jacque’s lovely partner Yvette and manage to get a little sleep too.

After their relocation to Cannes, setting the stage to bring Napoleon’s tryst out into the open, and finding himself relegated to the part of a waiter, Illya’s next stop was at a bank of phones where he made a long overdue phone call, then he stopped in the suite of rooms that had been set aside for Jacque’s team and commandeered the services of Jacque’s partner.  Once he explained what he needed, the gleam in her green eyes let him know she was more than willing to assist.   Hours later he had found himself attired in, considering the short amount of time, a tuxedo that would put Napoleon’s to shame.  His hair, styled off the face rather than hanging over his forehead, changed his look.  Last, but not least, in his pocket was a special invitation for the event of the season.


Illya pulled up in his borrowed Morgan Roadster and handed the keys over to the young French agent, Paul. 


“Do try not to strip the gears,” he murmured. 


Jacque, acting the part of doorman, held the hotel door open for him, muttered underneath his breath.  “Our target arrived ten minutes ago.”


Nodding acknowledgement, Illya stepped through the door and heading toward the Grande Ballroom.  Steps led down to the dance floor and Illya paused at the top, his eyes scanning and locating his partner without seeming to, before making his entrance.  The room quieted as he started downward, his presence caused the crowd on the stairway to part in his wake.  Handing over his invitation, he was aware of all eyes turned his way as he stopped at attention, bowed deeply to His Royal Highness, Prince Rainier, and his bride.


“Count Kuryakin.”


The announcement was heard clearly around the room.  Managing to hide his smug smile, Illya let himself be engulfed in an embrace by the beautiful Princess.  Before U.N.C.L.E. and Napoleon he had managed to become involved as an unwilling go-between with the Prince and the young film starlet, Grace Kelly.  It was she who had dubbed him Count Kuryakin, in jest.  It was a title he had not used again until years later, during The Alexander the Greater Affair, when he and Napoleon had crashed Alexander’s party and Tracey Alexander had asked him if he was not by chance Count Kuryakin.  Without thinking he’d responded, “Yes.”


Princess Grace smiled and led him from one group to another.  Illya kept an eye on Napoleon, while seeming not to.   It appeared that he had already made the acquaintance of their target, Nicole Jordan.  Napoleon arrogantly thought he could do a better job of charming the information back…well it was time that Illya showed just what he was capable of accomplishing.


Upon their arrival to where Napoleon and Nicole stood, Illya had the impression that Napoleon was surprised to see him not wearing the waiter’s uniform.   He clicked his heels, politely bowed over Miss Jordan’s outstretched hand, then nodded to Napoleon before he turned away and proceeded to ignore them.


Just as he expected, Nicole’s interest was piqued.  Napoleon may have had the first dance with her, but Illya soon found her in his arms.  As he danced with her he endeavored to maintain the fine line between indifference and snobbery.  A quick glance showed that Napoleon had found himself preoccupied, little knowing that Illya had enlisted her Royal Highness in providing him with dance partners that were sure to irk him.


They danced well together and she seemed to love hearing his accent, which he purposely thickened.  His suggestion that they go somewhere more…private made slipping away almost too easy.  Once inside the Morgan Roadster, she leaned close to him, not an easy thing to do with a stick shift between them.  As they drove alongside the waterfront, she ran her hand up and down the inside of his thigh and whispered in his ear.  “Pull over.”


Illya kept his composure, but he couldn’t help but wonder what her angle was.  His plan called for escorting her home, searching for the lost information, and making a quick exit.   Oh, well, plans often changed in mid-play and he was nothing if not innovative.  He pulled over to a secluded stretch of beach, perhaps he could start by searching her.  He reached for her, only to have her pull away.  The next thing he knew she was out the door.


Moonlight filtered on the deserted beach.  Nicole stepped in front of the car headlights and twirled, letting the wind catch her skirt.  He watched through the windshield as she reached behind and unzipped her dress letting it slip down her slender body before dropping to the sandy beach.


“Let’s go skinny dipping.”  Standing there wearing nothing but her shoes, she beckoned, kicking off her heels and running toward the water, splashing through it until she got deep enough to dive.


He sat behind the wheel, his mind spinning.  Could he have underestimated her innocence, could she be aware of his intent?  Impossible, still he hadn’t gotten where he was in this business by dismissing the possibility.  He’d bet on the fact that his use of a title would catch her attention.  He assumed she was used to men with titles courting her, that taking no notice of her would intrigue her.  He was fairly certain of what his partner would do if he were in this position.  


He glanced up.  The moonlight cast a glow on the water and she was doing her best to entice him into joining her.  Her beautifully coiffure hair hung down wet, framing her heart-shaped face and strikingly alluring eyes. Already his perfectly fit trousers were proving too tight. 


Her purse lay where she’d left it and a quick search proved the item he wanted wasn’t there.  He already knew she wasn’t carrying it on her body and it wasn’t in her apartment in Paris.  Opening the door on his side of the car, he stepped out and slipped off his tuxedo jacket.  Keeping his eyes on her, he began a slow and subtle strip tease.


Hidden as he was behind the reflection of the headlights and the low door, Illya wasn’t sure just how much she could see.  When he lowered his trousers and boxers, her look changed to that of lust, leaving the distinct impression that her eye-sight was quite good even in the dark.  She turned, looking wickedly over her shoulder and dove back underneath the waves.


Illya shut the car door and started after her.  His first plunge into the cold water shocked his lower extremity into shrinking.   Ignoring the temperature, it took only a few powerful strokes to bring him to her location.  She rose up from the depth of the water and wrapped her arms around him, her mouth claiming his instantly.  His cock filled again.  He planted his feet firmly on the sandy bottom, letting the water rise to his chest area; he was certain that hanging onto his neck as she was her feet didn’t touch the sandy bottom.    She leaned back, pulling him down with her and they continued their kiss under the water.  Lack of breath finally forced them to come up for fresh air. 


“I love your hair better this way,” she cooed, running her fingers through his wet hair, pushing his bangs out of his eyes.  “You remind me of the singing group…the Beatles.”


The salt water had washed most of the greasepaint off her face, making her features appear younger.  Her figure was stunning and he was, after all, a red-blooded male and no more immune to the charms of a lovely woman than his partner.  He just managed his response better – usually.


Nicole’s long legs wrapped around his hips, and she settled her body, her core coming perilously close to being pierced. Almost.  His hands gripped her butt, lifting her. 


“No.  Not here.  We need…protection,” he whispered in her ear.


A mew of disappointment sounded; slowly her head nodded her agreement.  Her legs loosened their grip on him and she began the swim back to shore.  Once they were close enough to stand, he took her hand and they waded toward the sandy beach, letting the cool breeze wash over their nude bodies.


Reaching the waters’ edge they came together, their mouths devouring each other. 


“I know where we can go to be more comfortable,” she whispered, as his lips moved down her neck to suckle a pert nipple.


Smiling inwardly, Illya moved away and opened the boot of the car, withdrawing a soft blanket to wipe them down.  They dressed quickly and she gave him directions sending them on their way.  Nicole turned toward him and pulled back a string of hair that was blowing in the wind; she tilted her head, resting it on his shoulder. 


During the half hour drive, they talked of inconsequential things.  Illya made up a past to match his friendship with their Royal Highnesses, making promises he knew he wouldn’t keep, while letting her think that he was under her spell.


Hand in hand, Nicole giggled as they ran up the terracotta-colored staircase that curved up the outside of the Villa to the second floor.  They paused on the outside patio long enough for her to retrieve her key, and then Illya, being the gentleman that he was, opened the French doors and stepped aside, letting Nicole enter first.  The room was beautifully appointed.  In fact it had a masculine feel to it that made Illya leery.  He’d felt that way from the moment she’d slid into his arms on the dance floor.  Nicole went to the far side of the room where the bar was situated and prepared drinks. 


“Do you like?” she walked back to him holding out one of the glasses. 


“It’s not exactly what I expected,” he said as he reached past her taking the other glass.  She laughed as she took a sip, and then caught sight of herself in one of the many mirrors that decorated the room. 


Mon dieux, I look a mess,” she shrieked as she finished off her drink in one gulp and started toward one of the closed doors, shedding clothing along the way.   She looked impishly over her shoulder and pointed to another closed door.  “Let me clean up a bit.  The bedroom is there.”


He debated joining her, but decided against it.  Illya waited until the shower started before he even tried the door to the other room.  Carefully he pushed it open and stopped short.  He paused a moment and studied the room. The room, like the living area, had a masculine feel to the furnishings, except for the lumpy flowered bedspread, in shades of red, pink, and orange.  A bit garish he thought.


With a shrug, he slipped off his jacket, setting it on the chair by the bed.  There were a few pieces of clothing scattered about, not all of them feminine.  His attention was drawn to several large manila envelopes lying on top of the dresser.  Unable to resist, he started to open one of them and froze as the lump under the bedspread moved.


Illya cursed under his breath. 


“Roger!  You know you’re not supposed to be up here.”  Nicole stood in the doorway, wrapped in nothing but a towel.  “Get out!  Now!”


The lump stretched, and uncovered its head to yawn. 


Illya raised an eyebrow as six feet of strapping man slipped from beneath the sheets.  “Sorry, luv.  I didn’t think you’d mind.  It’s not my fault you wore me out.” He grinned broadly, and then cast a wink toward Illya as he began dressing.


“Oh, no you don’t,” Nicole said as she snatched his BVD’s out of his hands.  “These are mine now.”


Roger just shrugged and pulled a pair of jeans over his naked body, grabbed a shirt and was out the door before Illya could react.


“I see you’ve found my little collection,” she said slyly as she found another envelope, stuffed the briefs in them and tossed it down with the others. 


Illya felt like a thief with his hand in a cookie jar.  It occurred to him that Napoleon’s latest playmate was something of a nymphomaniac.  The envelope in his hand held another pair of briefs, a sock, and a tie that he thought he recognized.  But not the one item he was here to retrieve.  He cocked an eyebrow as he pulled out the tie and draped it around her neck, catching hold of both ends with one hand.


She surged closer, her hands going for his trousers, slowly undoing the button and lowering the zipper.  Pushing the trousers down, she ran a hand over the front of Illya’s boxers, looked him straight in the eye and purred, “Souvenirs, if you please.”


A chuckle escaped him, and, without using his hands he managed to divest himself of his pants, leaving his shoes behind with them.  He dipped his head, capturing her mouth with his as her hands worked to relieve him of his shirt.  Slowly he worked her backwards until the bed caught her behind the knees and she fell.  She scooted to the middle of the bed and he moved to straddle her.


Illya slipped the tie from around her neck and used it to tie one hand to the bedpost.  Spying another tie nearby, he repeated the process to the other hand.  That seemed to excite her.  He loosened the towel, feasting his eyes on her exposed body.  Her hair spread artistically over the pillow, a pleased smile graced her lips, her body posed sexily beneath him.


Teasingly he kissed her softly, eventually using his tongue to part her lips.  Lying to the side of her, his hands brushed over her soft skin.  When he abandoned her lips, she let out a moan of disappointment that soon changed as he kissed his way down her neck, stopping to suckle a pert tit. 


Her body twisted under his, her moans growing turning into growls.  Her thighs spread apart, invitingly.  He shifted his hand to stroke her inner thigh, feeling her wetness. 


“Do it, do it, do it,” she chanted over and over.


“Careful, my sweet, after all we don’t want any accidents now do we?” He moved off the bed to snag his trousers.  He may not have had his gun, but he still had protection.


“That’s not necessary,” she purred.  Her eyes darted to a large black bowl setting on the bedside table.  Illya dropped his pants and reached over her, his body touching hers in all the right places as he gripped the bowl and pulled it onto the bed with them.  Tipping it for a better view, he was a bit surprised to find that the inside was filled with condoms of every size, texture, and color, designed for maximum pleasure according to the labels.  He shifted his fingers through the multitude of wrapped packages and came across one that was a little less flexible then the rest.   It only took one glance for him to realize he’d struck paydirt. 


Having accomplished his mission he knew that he should leave, there was nothing stopping him.  He looked down at the woman spread out wantonly on the bed and reconsidered. 


Discretely tossing the disk down near his trousers, he reached for one of the condoms.  Then giving it a bit more thought he reached for a couple more.


An hour, or was it two, later found a very tired Illya back at the hotel room he and Napoleon shared.   He’d managed to leave a very satisfied and sleepy Nicole without leaving the prerequisite souvenir behind and to recover Napoleon’s missing items as well.  He shrugged off his tuxedo jacket, leaving it where it landed on the floor, after tossing the manila envelope to his partner and flopped down on his bed.  His eyes closed, he had no intention of going with Napoleon to deliver the disk. 


           The door closed as he drifted off to dreamland; he knew that tomorrow Napoleon would undoubtedly pester him with questions, but as the old saying goes ‘a gentleman never tells’. 

yumyumpm: Napoleon and Illya (Man from UNCLE)
 Count Kuryakin

By YumYumPM@


Published in Kuryakin File 28

Continued in ‘The Better Lover’
In the Alexander the Greater Affair episode Tracy Alexander asks Illya if he's Count Kuryakin

(Reminiscent of The When in Roma Affair, Napoleon once again misplaces a vital piece of information,

and it's Count Kuryakin to the rescue)


Paris-late evening


On the surface, the mission should have been simple enough.  Ridiculously easy in fact, even without his partner there to help him.  A reward for suffering through several nerve-racking assignments, as Alexander Waverly had worded it.  Hah!  It wasn’t turning out that way.  He had the document ready to deliver, and the bad guys were nipping at his heels.  Sounds of heavy footsteps on the cobbled pathway behind him faded as Napoleon paused in an alley to catch his breath.  He wasn’t as young as he used to be and to top it off, his partner wasn’t around to back him up.  After a moment, he straightened his tie and adjusted the fit of his jacket then made one last check to make sure the coast was clear.  All he needed now was to find someplace to lie low for awhile before getting back into the game. 


Fortune smiled upon him and the infamous Solo’s luck was intact.  Rounding the corner, he saw her.   She was young and lovely, and he couldn’t help the smug smile that flitted across his face.  Her blonde hair shining under the streetlights, making her standout from the crowd that surrounded her.  All he had to do was make her acquaintance.  Illya would not have approved, Napoleon smiled, that thought alone making the idea seem the perfect solution.  But with Napoleon and a woman involved, nothing is ever simple.


The next morning he’d woken up in a hotel room…alone … with a monumental headache brought on by the bottle of champagne they had shared.  On the bright side, there had been no obstacles in his path.  No foreign powers to deal with.  No Thrush agents to avoid, and alas, no information to pass on.  Somehow, during the brief interlude, Napoleon had managed to misplace the information as well as several articles of clothing, his tie, one sock and strangely enough, his underwear.  In spite of all that, he wasn’t worried.  All that needed to be done was to locate and charm back the intelligence that she wasn’t even aware that she had.  Simple, right?  Wrong. 




Feeling rumpled and untidy, Napoleon sat at the communication console in the Paris office.  He pinched the bridge of his nose, not looking forward to reporting his failure to Alexander Waverly.  With reluctance, he flicked on the switch.  Immediately the screen lit up showing the craggy features of Mr. Waverly,  Behind him in the background he spotted his partner, Illya Kuryakin, looking all too fresh and well rested as he sorted through papers spread out before him on the familiar round conference table.    


“Well, Mr. Solo.  Your report.”


“Ummm.  There’s been a slight problem.”  Napoleon looked away, wanting to avoid the disapproval he knew Waverly’s face would show.  A sudden rude noise caused him to glance up in time to see Illya’s head snap upward and the slight smirk on his lips, quickly suppressed.  Napoleon shifted uncomfortably in his seat as a twinge of irritation flowed through him.


“Hummph.  Exactly what do you call…‘slight’?  Waverly leaned back in his chair, waiting expectantly.  Something about the way he said it gave Napoleon the sinking feeling that Waverly already knew what his report would be.


 “Well, sir, it was like this…”


When Napoleon finished giving his edited report, Waverly sat, staring into space and strummed his fingers on the computer console in an uncharacteristic manner.  “And you have no idea who the young lady is?”


Napoleon shrugged.  In his opinion, she had been the means to an end and he had not wanted to take it, as enjoyable as it had been, any further than that.

Waverly’s secretary came into view.  She glanced up at the screen and Napoleon winked at her as she passed her boss a folder with the embossed seal of the U.N.C.L.E.  After glancing through the folder, Waverly turned his back to the communication center.  “Mr. Kuryakin, perhaps it would be best if you joined Mr. Solo and took charge of sorting out this mess.”


Napoleon straightened up with surprise and a slight bit of resentment.  He was momentarily distracted by the fact that Waverly felt he needed the help and the thought rankled.  Normally he didn’t mind having the Russian’s help, but he was number one of Section Two and perfectly capable of finding a missing document…again.  When his attention returned Waverly was gone and the taciturn Russian was looking at him.


“So…what really happened?”


“Don’t you have an office of your own to work in?” Napoleon snapped. “I just reported what happened.”


Illya snorted his disbelief.  “Let me reword this...what actually happened”


Napoleon was a tad indignant that his partner could read him so well.  Wishing that Illya would drop it and knowing he wouldn’t, Napoleon tilted the chair back as far as it would go and closed his eyes as he reluctantly called up all the details that he’d omitted while Illya took notes.


Two-thirds the way through he opened one eye to find Illya leaning over the console.  “You want intimate details?” he asked his eyes alight with devilish delight, knowing full well that that was the last thing Illya wanted.


“I think I have enough information, thank you.  See you in Paris.”  Illya said testily, before flicking the switch with finality.


When the connection broke, Napoleon smiled, in a much better frame of mind then when this interview had started.




Napoleon had gathered a few of the Paris Office’s Section II agents in anticipation of Illya’s arrival.  Jacque Bouche, his partner Yvette Sonnier, a red-haired pixie, and Paul Garnier, the U.N.C.L.E.’s newest member.


“What is Messieurs Kuryakin like?”  The youngest member of the group asked.  “Iz he as difficult to work with as they say?”


Napoleon and Jacque exchanged glances.  The menacing reputation that his partner had managed to pick up over the years was a source of constant amusement to Napoleon. 


“It has been awhile since I’ve work with him…”  Jacque shrugged haphazardly.  “But I would suggest that you not make him angry.  It would be best to stay away from his bad side.”


Paul paled.


Jacque turned away to hide his smile.


Napoleon decided it was time to change the topic.  “Let’s get back to the subject at hand.”


Bien, Napoleon', where do you suggest we start?”  Jacque asked, not really paying attention to the door of the office as it swished opened.


“Finding out her name would be a nice,” Yvette threw out with a flirtatious glance Napoleon’s way.


“Tut tut, my friend, it is so unlike you to not, at the very least, have gotten her name?” Jacque Bouche teased.  His partner, Yvette, giggled.


The loudness of folder slapped down on the table in front of them caught everyone’s attention. 


“Her name is Nicole Jordance,” a softly spoken voice stated.


Heads turned.   Everyone’s reaction a tad different toward the slender, blond-haired man, attired in a dark turtleneck underneath a gray jacket, his blue eyes hidden behind tinted glasses.


Jacque jumped up, both hands outstretched in greeting.  Bonjour! Comment allez vous, mon ami?”


Je suis très bien, JacqueIt is good to see you again,” Illya responded, a broad grin spread across his face, as he took the hands extended and let the older man pull him into a hug along with the traditional greeting of a kiss on each cheek. 


Yvette looked on enviously.  She compared the two agents from the New York office; to her eyes, both men were handsome in completely different ways.  Napoleon, the darker of the two, had a devilish handsomeness about him that led you and everyone else to believe he could charm any woman he wanted.  Illya, the blond haired one appeared much younger, in spite of there being an age difference of only a year or two.  It might have been his boyish good looks, though from his reputation, he could stare at you with those incredible blue eyes that could scare the pants off you when he wanted.  Of the two, Illya Kuryakin was considered the more intimidating.  From what she had heard, they were the best the United Network had. The Dynamic Duo, deadly and dashing.


“While you are here we must go to the…”


“Is it still there?”  The two talked over each other in their enthusiasm leaving the others to wonder about what.


Napoleon curled his lip in annoyance.  It was bad enough that Illya was there to bail him out; he had to steal his thunder by knowing their target’s name. When they were alone he intended to find out how.  He cleared his throat in order to get his partner’s attention.  “Umm, Illya?  Can we get back to business?  You can do the mutual admiration thing later.”


Illya smiled sheepishly as he slid into an empty chair.


Pardon, Napoleon.  It has been much too long since we’ve seen each other.” Jacque bowed to Napoleon before turning back to Illya.  “May I introduce my associates?   Yvette Sonnier, my partner, and Paul Garnier, our bright new star and recent graduate from Survival School.”  


Paul looked on incredulously.  Was this the same Kuryakin that he’d been told so much about?  The fearsome Russian?  He looked about as intimidating as a teddy bear.


Illya nodded to each in turn.  “Okay, bring me up to…speed?  So what is it you have got so far?”


“Not much,” Napoleon admitted.


 “All we have so far is a description.  Blue, blue eyes, and blonde hair.”  Jacque contributed, having returned to his seat. 


All eyes, except for Napoleon’s, turned to his partner.  Illya Kuryakin calmly took off the dark glasses that covered his blue eyes and ran a hand through his thick blond mane.  Illya’s expression grew serious as he leaned forward.  “We have a name, now we need to find out more about her.  Jacque, you have connections.   See what you can find out.”


Jacque nodded his acceptance.  “Come along, mes enfants.  We have much work to do.”


A slight smile graced Illya’s face as the others left the room and he turned back to Napoleon.  “What?” he asked, not that he had to.  Reading Napoleon was much too easy.  Napoleon obviously wanted to know how he knew Jacque.  “We worked together under Harry Belden.”


“Ah.”  Napoleon nodded.  He tapped the folder that Illya had dropped on the table.  “How did you find out the girls name.”


“Simple.”  Illya shrugged.  “I went to the hotel and asked.” 


Shaking his head Napoleon rose from his chair, why was it he’d never thought of that.  “Look, it could be awhile before they come up with something.  Want to go get something to eat?”


Illya’s face lit up.  “I know just the place.” 




“Don’t sulk, Illya.”


“But, they used to make the best Coq au vin,” Illya complained.


“It wasn’t that bad.”


 The restaurant they had stopped at had been just where Illya remembered, but the food and service had not lived up to Illya’s expectation.  By the time they got back to the Paris Office Jacque along with Section IV had worked miracles.  They now knew a little more about Nicole Jordance, with more information coming in.  Nicole, it seemed, was a model and globe-trotter and along the way she somehow managed to meet a lot of interesting and important people.  Her picture and antics appeared in the news fairly regularly.  One would have thought that she would not be too difficult to locate.  Except that, now that they needed to talk with her, she seemed to have dropped out of sight.  Even Section IV’s valiant efforts were unsuccessful.


Napoleon shook his head.  The two agents were now ensconced in a quiet room with a very large table. There they sorted through a very large pile of photos. Photo’s of Nicole.  There were quite a lot of them and she never seemed to look the same in any of them.  Hair color ranged from blonde, brunet, auburn, even pink.  Likewise her eyes were different shades of blue, green, hazel, brown, and in one shot completely white.  How were they ever going to locate her? 


“You like puzzles, Illya,”


“True.  But there is a difference between a puzzle and an enigma.”


“We need something draw her out,” Napoleon Solo muttered to himself.  She was obviously drawn to celebrities judging by the ones with whom she managed to get herself photographed.


The two agents requested a list of events and resorted to sorting through the vast amount of information searching for the perfect venue that would tempt the aloof maiden out.  Illya Kuryakin drew a slip of paper from the pile that covered the desk.  Passing the article over to his partner, he suggested, “The Cannes’s Film Festival?”


“Maybe.  Maybe,” Napoleon murmured as he read over the fact sheet.  “There must be a couple of hundred parties being held.” 


Soon the rustle of paper was the only sound in the room while they sorted through the extensive lists provided. 


“There are several parties here that might catch her attention.  It’s going to take a lot of man power to cover them all,” Napoleon groaned.  “I think we need something more.”


“A party so spectacular that she will not be able to resist,” Illya responded enthusiastically.  He stood up and gathered a half-dozen of the sheets together.  “I have an idea.” 


Napoleon quirked a brow questioningly, but Illya just smiled as he headed to the door.  When he reached it, he turned back.  “There just might be one problem.”             


“Only one?”


Illya’s eyes brimmed with mischief. “Oui. Coming up with a good reason why they should invite you.” 


The door slid shut in front of him just seconds before a hurled binder slammed up against it. 


In a shorter time than Napoleon thought possible, everything was arranged.  How Illya, with the help of U.N.C.L.E.’s travel section, had managed to arrange it all Napoleon couldn’t even guess.  He and Illya were ensconced in one of the top hotels in Cannes.  In his hand was an invitation to what was reportedly the event of the season hosted by none other than Princess Grace of Monaco.  The invitation list had been finalized months ago with only the best people receiving invitations.


Setting aside his invitation, Napoleon turned to where his tuxedo was hanging.  Adjusting the fold of the lapel, brushing imaginary lint from the shoulders, Napoleon tensed up as he heard the door behind him open.  He relaxed when a quick glance over his shoulder confirmed that it was his partner entering.


Carefully shutting the door to their suite, Illya called out, “Section III has confirmed Miss Jordance’s presence in Cannes.”


Napoleon nodded, relieved to hear the news.  He frowned as he returned to examining his tux; there had always been the chance that Nicole would not respond to the invitation.  “I just hope she shows.”


With a careless shrug, Illya tossed the folder he carried on a nearby bed.  “How could she not.  Would you refuse an invitation from the crowned Princess of Monaco?”


Napoleon agreed.  “This assignment’s as good as in the bag.”


“What makes you think you are her type?” 


Napoleon ignored the jibe and jerked his head toward a garment bag that hung from the closet door.  “By the way, your outfit is over there.”


Biting back a smug smile, Napoleon pretended not to show interest as Illya unzipped the black bag, revealing the waiters’ outfit inside and waited. 


“Why must I always be the help?  I can charm the girl just as well as you can.”


It was then that Napoleon made his mistake.  He laughed. 


The zipper went back up with a loud jerk and Illya glared at his partner.   Before Napoleon could apologize, he moved across the room, slamming the door loudly behind him.


The ballroom glistened, the crystals from chandeliers shone brightly down on the well-dressed and bejeweled people that mingled in groups.  Waiters weaved their way through the crowds with trays of hors d’Oeuvres and Champagne.  Napoleon grabbed a glass as it was offered and stood in a corner where he could watch the door.  He glanced irritably down at his watch.  Illya was late


Something made him look toward the entrance and there she was.  The light caught her honey-color hair swept up off her elaborately made-up face.  Her green eyes, matching her low-cut cocktail dress, glistened as she handed over her invitation.  He watched as Nichole was quickly surrounded by a group of young men, most of whom she blew off within the first five minutes.   Straightening his tie, he put a smile on his face and headed confidently her way. 


“Hello there.”


Her eyes traveled up and down his tailor-made tuxedo and showed no sign of recognition.


“Do I know you?” was her bored response.


He faltered, his smile dimming.  This was not the reception he’d expected.


Then she brightened.  “Ah, yes.  Paris.  The man from the street.  Magnifico!”  she purred, surging closer.


Napoleon beamed.  Things were beginning to look up, when a sudden hush descended across the room.  Napoleon’s, as well as Miss Jordance’s, attention was caught by it and they automatically turned toward the entrance. 


The crowd parted revealing a gentleman; his perfectly styled blond hair brushed back off his forehead, shimmered under the multitude of lights that lit the room.  Even from across the room Napoleon couldn’t help but admire the faultless cut of his tuxedo which spoke of exquisite taste, and his shirt, not the usual white of everyone else, but a sophisticated tone-on-tone stripe in bold black.  His lack of a tie, showed a distinct disregard for men who wore them with their formal clothing. 


Familiar blue eyes caught his and Napoleon’s jaw almost dropped as he realized the man was none other than his partner.  A soft smile graced Illya’s face as he strode confidently through the opening made by the other guests and handed over an invitation to the royal announcer.   


 All was quiet as “Count Kuryakin” was announced loud enough for everyone to hear.


Napoleon was stunned when his partner reached their host and hostess, to be greeted warmly by both, kissing cheeks continental style.  Princess Grace looped her arm through Illya’s then led him around the room, introducing him to the major players. 


Nicole’s eye’s glittered cat-like as she watched, all the while pretending as if she wasn’t.  Napoleon frowned.  Finally, the pair stood before them.  Illya clicked his heels and bent from the waist; bowing over Nicole’s extended hand.  He turned slightly in Napoleon’s direction, acknowledging his presence, and nodded.


 “Napoleon,” he murmured politely before allowing the Princess to pull him along to introduce him to yet another group of guests.


“You know him?”  Nicole pulled close to Napoleon to ask.


“I thought I did,” he muttered, more to himself then in response to her question.  His eyes narrowed as he followed Illya’s progress around the room.  More unsettling was knowing that Nicole was also following his partner’s moves as well.


Illya looked perfectly at ease with all the glamorous people around him.  For some reason that annoyed him.  Mentally shaking himself, he set his mind once more on the mission all the while wondering what Illya was playing at.


Music had been playing softly in the background, when suddenly the tempo changed.  Prince Ranier was leading his Princess to the dance floor.  Illya was escorting a slender brunette.


“Shall we dance?” Nicole asked eagerly.  Much too eagerly for Napoleon’s frame of mind, but if there was one thing he was confident in was his dancing ability. 


His arm went around her and he pulled her close.  Getting back the information he’d lost was within his grasp.  He whispered sweet nothings into her ears, but she didn’t seem to be listening.

There was one other problem…Nicole seemed intent on leading. 


The music finally stopped and as they clapped their appreciation, Napoleon was surprised to find them standing next to Illya and his partner.  He was startled when Nicole suddenly pushed between them.


“Count?”  she purred, her arms raised expectantly as another song filled the air. 


Napoleon watched flabbergast as Illya willing drew Nicole to him and danced away.  Before he could respond there was a tap at his shoulder and he turned downward at a much bejeweled matronly lady.  She fluttered her eyelashes flirtatiously at him.   Napoleon glanced Illya’s way, wanting nothing more than to go after Nicole, but his ingrained courtesy got the best of him and he reluctantly took the lady in his arm.  No sooner had they finished dancing, when another well-dressed matron took her place. 


As the evening progressed, Napoleon grew more and more annoyed.  Elderly women of all shapes and sizes seemed to make it their mission in life to entertain him.  He tried to keep his eye on the couple but it didn’t work.  Sometime later, the two simply…vanished.


Frustrated he returned to the hotel where he tried to get in touch with Illya on his communicator and received no response.  Just as he gave up and was preparing for bed, he heard a key turning in the lock.  Napoleon scrambled to get his gun just as the door opened.


Illya yawned, ignoring the fact that a gun was pointed at him and tossed a manila envelope at Napoleon while slipping out of his tuxedo jacket, letting it fall carelessly to the floor.


“How did you manage it?”  Napoleon asked, having slipped the safety back on and tossed the gun down.  Rummaging through the envelope, he came across his missing tie, sock, and BVD’s, not to mention the important information. 


Illya sat wearily on the edge of his bed, slipping his shoes off.  “You know a gentleman never tells.”


Napoleon twitched his nose, too busy redressing to answer, since it was his first priority to complete his ill-fated mission and deliver the information.  He adjusted his jacket around his shoulders, patted his pocket one last time just to make sure he had everything.  There were a few questions he wanted answered before he left, like what exactly was Illya’s relationship with the Prince and Princess of Monaco and what was it with this ‘Count’ business.  Count Kuryakin indeed!   He also wanted to know exactly what lengths Illya had gone to in order to get the information back.


When Napoleon turned from the door intent on getting answers, it became obvious that he was not going to any.  Lying on his back, still clothed, Illya snored.  It appeared that ‘The Count’ was out for the count.







Code 20-A

May. 6th, 2017 04:37 pm
yumyumpm: Napoleon and Illya (Man from UNCLE)

Code 20-A 

By YumYumPM

Originally written 2005


We first hear of Code 20-A in the Brain Killer Affair

Alexander Waverly is once again down only this time it goes one step further - he's missing.



Illya Kuryakin was reclining in his partner’s chair, his feet propped atop the desk, reading a new ‘technical journal’.  The type of ‘journal’ that contained the centerfold that unfolded with the staple in the middle of the picture.  It was a secret pleasure for him and evidently for Napoleon as well since he kept the magazine locked away in a drawer.  Suddenly the sound of a klaxon blared throughout the building. It could only mean one thing - Alexander Waverly, head of the U.N.C.L.E. North America, was down.  He was on his feet in an instant; hurriedly he tossed the magazine back into the drawer and as an afterthought relocked it.

Grabbing his jacket, he rushed out of the office, working his arms into the sleeves as he passed other agents, guns drawn, as they too raced toward Waverly’s office.  Getting there he pushed his way though to the front of the crowd finding Mr. Waverly’s right hand girl, Lisa Rogers, standing there looking dazed.

“What happened?” he demanded.

 She came out of her trance long enough to point toward the office.  “He’s not - there.”

Illya entered the familiar office, coming to a stop midway into the room paused and did a one-hundred and eighty degree circle.  His eyes scanned the room, first the communication console behind the circular desk, then the picture window, on to the couch against the wall, and finding everything in place.  Lisa was correct, Waverly wasn’t there.  Napoleon Solo as number 1, section 2 should have been notified right away.  Since he wasn’t available that left Illya in charge.  Turning back to the anxious faces in the hallway he started barking orders.  “Contact Mr. Solo, Code 20-A.” 

 “You,” Illya ordered, pointing to someone in the hall. “Seal off this floor.  Get George Dennel up here to go over the room.”  Then turning to Lisa Rogers he asked, “When was the last time you saw him?”




Napoleon Solo was embracing an extremely attractive woman; their kisses had long since passed the steamy stage.  She had just pulled back breathlessly and rose from the sofa to purr, “Darling, I’ll be right back.”

When she reached her bedroom door, she turned, looked over her shoulder and sensually ran a wet tongue over her lips while she fluttered her eyelashes.  “After I get into something more comfortable.”  Her look promised much. 

Napoleon smiled in anticipation, then his communicator started to chirp.  Patting his pocket, he pulled the pen out.  He moved away from the sofa to find a more private place to take his ‘call’. 

“Solo,” he answered, his eyes still on the bedroom door, his smile still firmly in place.

A feminine voice carried over the airway saying briskly, “Code 20-A.  ETA?”

Solo’s smile quickly turned to a frown as he checked his watch and made a quick calculation.  

“11:45,” he responded tersely before closing the channel.  He put his pen away just as his date for the evening reentered the room dressed, or in this case barely dressed, in a rather seductive negligee. With a sigh of disappointment and a final kiss, Solo made his excuses and left.




By the time he reached headquarters his mindset was all business, he’d put his date and his plans for her a thing of the past from the minute he reached his car.  He entered through the agents’ entrance and was greeted by the receptionist who fastened his badge to his tuxedo.   She tilted her head to one side and informed him, “Mr. Kuryakin is waiting for you in Mr. Waverly’s office.”

Giving her a parting smile along with a sly wink, Napoleon moved on through the sliding doors into the main maze of corridors that encompass the U.N.C.L.E.  He made his way to Waverly’s office slipping through the stream of people that were rushing this way and that, a somewhat unusual occurrence for that time of night.  Entering Waverly’s office he stopped to see his partner, sitting in Waverly’s chair, his shirtsleeves rolled up, going through a pile of folders, scattered across Mr. Waverly’s desk.

The swishing of the door opening caused Illya to glance up as his partner entered into the room.  A sly smile lit his face and without a word he pulled out his handkerchief to pass it to U.N.C.L.E.’s CEA (Chief Enforcement Agent) pointing to a lipstick spot on his face.

A bemused Napoleon wet the cloth and wiped the spot indicated.  The lipstick print explained the mischievous glint that had been in Illya’s eyes.   Giving a ‘what did you expect’ shrug, Napoleon asked, “What happened?”

Illya leaned back in Waverly’s chair and sighed. “We are not sure.  Sara left him in his office, alone, at around seven o’clock; Lisa took over shortly thereafter.  When Lisa entered with Mr. Waverly’s usual nine o’clock tea he was…. gone.” 

Napoleon’s eyebrows drew up in disbelief. 

Illya shrugged in response.  “We’ve checked all the entrances and have gone over all the tapes.  There is no sign of him leaving. Not this office or the building.”

“That’s impossible,” stated Napoleon firmly.

“Impossible or no, that is what happened.” 

George Dennel, who had been quietly examining the room, came over.  “I’ve gone over the entire room.  It’s clean as the proverbial whistle.  I plan to return to my department and check out the records there and see if I can come up with anything else.  See you guys later.”

“So, we’re ruling out kidnapping?” Napoleon turned back to his partner.

“We have not ruled out anything.  I’ve been going over his files,” Illya said as he waved to the folders that covered the round table.  “There is nothing here that could…” his Russian accent growing more pronounced signaling his frustration.  He sent a sly glance toward his partner before suggesting. “Why don’t you go change, unless you prefer to impress the secretaries with that tux?”

Napoleon glanced down at his tuxedo. Somehow during the activities of the evening it had lost its pristine look and several buttons were in the wrong holes.  He started to correct that situation, but stopped when he decided Illya was right.  Nodding, he set out toward his office, glad that he kept a change of clothing there. 

The first thing he did was to sit his desk and take out the special key he kept hidden, unlocking one of the drawers.  He couldn’t help but notice right away that something was wrong; his magazine which he usually kept face up was now lying upside down.  His eyes became mere slits and he uttered just one word, “Illya.” Who else would enter his office and invade the privacy of a locked drawer. The corner of his mouth twitched, it seemed you can’t trust anyone.  He started to relock the drawer then thought better of it, since Illya had already managed to get into the drawer there no longer seemed a point to it.

Freshly dressed, Napoleon reentered Waverly’s office just as Illya smoothly rose to switch places.  Sitting down he glanced sideways at the Russian and muttered, “You could buy your own copy, you know?”

Illya looked at him, blinked as he wondered what Napoleon was talking about.  Once he realized, a small slightly embarrassed smile lit his face.  He considered playing innocent, but decided there was no need and shrugged.  His frugal ways were well known, besides it was more fun getting into places that were supposed to be off limits.

Napoleon shook his head, letting that matter slide.  He looked over the information that Illya had organized for him and continued, “So what brings you here at this time of night?”

“There was nothing better to do and my air-conditioning is out…again,” Illya grumbled

“You‘re always welcome to use my spare room.  I even have color TV,” Napoleon offered.

Illya smiled his thanks as he shook his head negatively.

Napoleon shrugged.  “It’s your loss,” he said as he continued to sort through all the reports Illya had gathered.  Finally leaning back he stated, “You’re right.  We have a visual as well as a written record of him entering this morning at eight o’clock.  Not to mention a complete list of everyone he saw from that time on.”

Illya interrupted, “They are all being questioned to see if there was anything said, no matter how small, that could be of any help.” 

Napoleon nodded his approval.  “Sara is positive that he was here when she left at seven, but Lisa can not verify that he was here when she arrived.” 

Illya shrugged.  “She had no reason to enter the office until nine.” 

“Soooo, he most probably disappeared sometime between seven and nine.”  His eyes squinted he looked around the room.  “The question is how?” 

Illya grunted his agreement.




Napoleon rubbed his face with his hands.  They had been at this for hours and were still no closer to an answer.  He’d gotten back into town late and immediately changed for his date that night, so that explained why he was tired.  His partner had to be tired as well, though you wouldn’t know it to look at him.  “Why don’t you get some rest?” he offered, taking a sip of coffee that one of the secretaries had so kindly provided them with. 

Illya looked up from the papers he had been going over.  “I am no more tired than you are, my friend.  This is more important.  When we have located Mr. Waverly then I will rest.” 

Napoleon sighed and shook his head; there was no arguing with the adamant Russian.  That led his thought to a topic that had been at the back of his mind for some time, yet never asked about.  “Illya?”   

His partner looked up again.   

“Why is it you never speak in your native tongue?”  He himself sometimes called Illya ‘tovarish’, but with Illya it was always ‘my friend’. 

Illya looked at him amused. “You are getting punchy; perhaps you are the one that should rest.”

Napoleon smiled back.  “You could be right.  But seriously, why don’t you?” 

Illya set the papers he’d been studying down and considered.  

“Napoleon, not everyone...,” how could he phrase this.  “My accent alone gives many people…what is the word…cause for concern.  Much less my actually speaking…”

Napoleon looked shocked. “Aw, come on, this is a free country.” 

“Only to some,” Illya said softly, looking down. “Could we please change the subject?” 

Napoleon nodded but made a mental note to find out which people had ‘cause for concern’.

Illya got up and started pacing the office; the question had bothered him and he didn’t like thinking about it.  Then he had an idea.  He looked from one wall to another.  “Napoleon?  Where are the blue prints of this office?” 

Napoleon sorted through all the papers spread on the desk and finally pulled one free.  The two men stood over it and studied the dimensions.  Then Illya mentally went over the dimensions of the actual room.  There was a shortage, but where?




They had gone over every inch of the room and were on the last wall.  Napoleon was running his hands down a certain section, when he felt rather than heard a click.  He moved back just in time to miss being hit in the nose by a section of wall, as it swung open. 

The two agents came and stood side-by-side and stared - at another wall.  This one had a large, and rather ugly, painting on it.  Napoleon sighed.   “Well, it’s no Picasso.” 

Illya gave him a look of amusement as he ran his fingers over the picture, a large bowl of fruit.  The pear in the picture looked out of place and as Illya’s fingers touched it, he found a depression and the frame slowly swung open. 

Both agents backed away before moving forward again.  What they found was a doorway with a voice-activated lock.  Napoleon looked at the Russian.  “I’d heard rumors that there was a fifth entrance.”

Illya nodded.  “Evidently it’s not a rumor any longer.” 

“So, now what?”  Napoleon asked. 

“Usually people use something easy to remember, something familiar to them, such as a birthday or anniversary,” Illya suggested. 

Napoleon went back to the desk and thumbed a button. “Lisa, we’re going to need a few dates.  Mr. Waverly’s birth date, his anniversary…”

“The date he started with U.N.C.L.E,” Illya threw in.

“Any dates you can think of that Mr. Waverly might use,” Napoleon finished. 

Lisa returned shortly with four pages of dates.  Her eyes went wide when she saw the opened wall. 

“You never saw that,” Illya said, his eyes going over the pages in his hands. 

She just nodded as she backed out of the room.




They had gone over half of the dates when Napoleon suggested it might be programmed to Waverly’s voice.  They had passed this thought on to George and he had confirmed that that might be the case. 

Illya who had entertained friends with his uncanny imitation of Mr. Waverly started over again.  Nothing.  Illya was about to suggest using explosives when Napoleon suggested facetiously, “Why don’t you try Open Sesame?” 

Illya gave him a look that clearly suggested what he could do with that idea.  Then he considered that he had nothing to lose and cleared his throat. “Open Sesame,”  he said in a perfect imitation of Alexander Waverly.  Much to their surprise the door opened leading into a tunnel.




The agents, after much deliberation and with flashlights in hand, had decided to follow the tunnel.  Their lights flashed against the dark, damp wall along the way until they reached the end of the tunnel and found another doorway.  Unlike the other doorway, this one had just an ordinary handle.  They opened it to find themselves inside a subway station.  Looking back at the door, the sign hanging on it said ‘Broom Closet’. 

As people kept rushing around them Napoleon stated the obvious, “Okay, what do we have…a secret wall with a secret door and a secret tunnel.”

“That leads to a subway station,” Illya finished. 

Napoleon ran his hand through his hair and looked around.  He spotted a large sign that said ‘Waverly’s Way’.  “You don’t suppose?” he asked looking at Illya. 

Illya shrugged as they went over to the sign.  They regarded it far a few minutes, and then Illya pushed on sending it swinging inward.  The two agents looked at each other before cautiously entering yet another tunnel.  When they arrived at the end finding just an opening, no door, and exiting they found to their surprise a limousine waiting for them. 

“Mr. Waverly sends his regards,” the chauffeur said. 

With great reluctance they entered the limo and were whisked away to Mr. Waverly’s home.  The chauffeur doffed his hat to them as he let them out before returning to the driver’s seat and driving away.  The two agents approached the front door and knocked.  An English butler opened it and promptly led the way to the dining room where Mr. and Mrs. Waverly were seated eating breakfast.  Two additional places had been set and Mr. Waverly motioned for his agents to take their places.  The two agents looked at each other and silently sat down where he had indicated while the butler brought out plates of egg, bacon, toast, and coffee as well as juice.  Mr. Waverly looked at them with disapproval as they started to attack their plates.  Checking his pocket watch he sternly stated, “Gentlemen, it is now eight o’clock.  I had expected you here at least half an hour earlier.  Perhaps next time you will do better.”


The End.

yumyumpm: Napoleon and Illya (Man from UNCLE)
 Bring on the Clowns

By YumYum
(once upon a time there was a script written concerning a circus and clowns as an episode.  This was my take on it.)

Published in Collected by YumYum Zine


Napoleon was leaning against the wall next to the water cooler engaging the latest addition to the secretarial staff in conversation.  “I thought dinner, a little dancing, and then….who knows.”


The young lady in question, a petite red head responded by looking pointedly over his right shoulder.


“I am sorry to interrupt, Napoleon, but our appearance has been requested by Mr. Waverly.”   The soft Russian voice did not sound sorry at all.


With a growl of frustration, and an apologetic glance at the young lady, Napoleon fell into step with his partner heading toward their superior’s office.


“Another assignment?”  Napoleon questioned.  “We just got back from the last one.”


Illya spared an uncertain glance to his partner. “I am not sure.  The request was rather strangely worded.”


By that time they had reached Alexander Waverly’s door and walked in. 


Waverly looked up from the pile of papers in front of him. “Come in.  Come in.  Have a seat, gentlemen,” his tone jovial.


Napoleon and Illya exchanged shocked looks at each other before sitting in their usual chairs at the round conference table.


“It has been brought to my attention that the two of you have been rather overworked,” Waverly commenced solemnly, though there was a slight twinkle in his eyes.


“No more than usual, sir,” Napoleon said smoothly.


“Be that as it may, gentlemen.  The medical section assessment suggested that a little time away is in order.”


“Just how little time away…,sir?”  Illya queried.  Something about this did not feel right.


“Eight weeks,” Waverly answered.


“Eight weeks!”  Napoleon exclaimed in surprise, even when they were wounded they were never out of commission that long.


“Just enough time to go back to school.”  Waverly sent a file turning toward the two men.


The two agents exchanged startled gazes.  Illya was the first to pick up the file and open it.  “Clown College!”  He looked at his boss, his mouth open in shock the folder hanging loosely in his hands.


“Here, let me see that,” Napoleon said sharply as he grabbed the folder from Illya’s limp fingers.


Waverly leaned back in his chair, patting the tobacco he’d filled his pipe with into place. “I don’t want to hear any objections from either of you.  Medical has made its decision, and I stand by it.  Everything you will need is in that folder.  Now off with you.  That’s an order.”


The two men got up out of their seats, each in a state of shock.  Napoleon turned back to ask one last question.  “What if something important comes up?”


“If we need you, we’ll call you.”  Waverly dismissed them abruptly.


Once outside Napoleon, who had the folder still in his hand, turned to Illya. “This is madness.”


Illya nodded his head in agreement.


So that was how twenty-four hours later the two agents found themselves in Venice, Florida, outside of Tampa, attending the Ringling Brothers Clown College, along with twenty-eight other participants. 


Sitting together at the back of the tent, the two agents listened as Kenneth Field informed every one of what to expect.  “You will learn make up, juggling, and the fine art of falling down.”   Someone at the front giggled.


Napoleon leaned over to mutter in Illya’s ear.  “I already know how to fall down.”


Illya snickered, earning him a sharp look from a nearby young lady.


“You will design a character that is especially you.  Make up, clothing, the works.  You will work out a routine and at the end of eight weeks you will be full-fledged clowns,” Fields announced.


A hand was raised from the front row.  “Mr. Fields, just how many different types of clowns are there?”


“That’s a very good question.  If you will refer to your folders there is a list, a rundown of the types, with makeup and costume suggestions for each.  As a brief rundown, however, there are four different types of clowns – the Whiteface, the August, the Tramp/Hobo, and the Character.  The Whiteface clown is broken down into three categories.  There is your classic European whitefaced clown, commonly called the Pierott clown.  He or she is considered an elegant clown, artistic, colorful, bright, and cheerful.  Its performance is highly artistic and skillful, but with a comedic or dramatic flair.”


Napoleon leaned close to Illya and whispered, “That could be you except for the bright and cheerful.”


“Then there is the straight whiteface clown.  This clown is much like the European clown, only more so.  In any skit he is the one in charge, setting up the routine, throwing rather than taking the pie, slap, or kick.”


“That would appear to be the one for you,” Illya whispered back to Napoleon with a smirk.  It earned him a snarl from Napoleon and a glare from the person seated in front of them.


“The last is the Grotesque Whiteface, a more traditional clown.  He is more comical than the straight whiteface, but a bit more reserved than the Auguste.  The Auguste is the most comical of clowns.  He/she is impish, gregarious, and thrives on slapstick.  Actions are usually big, clumsy, and awkward.  He is usually the brunt of the joke, though he can also be the instigator.”


“I take it back, Napoleon.  That one sounds more like you,” Illya whispered, careful not to earn another glare.


“Then there is the Tramp or Hobo.  This classic clown was epitomized by Emmett Kelly, and Otto Griebling.  He is usually a forlorn and downtrodden character who has nothing and knows he will never have anything.  Red Skelton’s portrayal of the character Freddie the Freeloader is a good example.”


Napoleon grew thoughtful.  There were times when that description could describe his partner.


“Lastly we come to the Character clown.  Usually an identifiable character or occupation.  A fireman, doctor, nurse, cowboy, the list goes on and on.   Charlie Chaplin would be considered the epitome of a character clown.  When working up your clown’s character – try to remember originality is important.  It takes practice, hard work, and determination to be a good clown.”


“Sounds a lot like preparation for being a spy,” Napoleon muttered aside.


“Without further ado, let’s go to the next phase.  Developing your character.  Follow me,” Kenneth Fields finished off, leading the way to another area.


Napoleon and Illya got up with the rest of the students and followed Kenneth into another tent.  This one was filled with makeup tables, wigs, and clothing.  Handing each student a drawing pad, he encouraged them to look around and decide just how they wanted their character to look.  “When you have decided how you want your character to look, I’ll turn you over to our makeup artist, who will teach you everything you need to know about the types of makeup and how to apply it.”


“Mr. Fields, how long do we have to decide on a character?” someone asked.


“Oh, I think you all should have something ready by the end of the week,” Fields replied.


Checking out the costumes, Napoleon remarked to his partner, “You could probably show them a thing or two.”


After looking around, Illya found himself a quiet corner, opened his pad, and started sketching.  Napoleon, totally frustrated, came up behind him and looked over his shoulder.  With a few strokes, Illya had managed to convey a unique and original character.  The face was of course white, with black lids and lips and a small tear in one corner.  The clothing was simple and typically Illya-basic black.  “I didn’t know you could draw,” Napoleon said with amazement.


“There is a lot about me you do not know,” Illya replied absently as he put a few final touches to his drawing.


“Could you do one for me?  I was never very good at that sort of thing,” Napoleon asked.


“Sure.  What did you have in mind?”


With a sigh Napoleon said, “If I knew that I wouldn’t have asked you to do it for me.”


“It’s never stopped you before,” Illya said with a smirk, folding the paper for a fresh sheet.  In a few strokes he created yet another character, white face and bald.


“Il – lya!”  Napoleon growled.


With a chuckle Illya turned the sheet to start again.


A pixie like girl came close and addressed Napoleon.  “Excuse me…but I couldn’t help but wonder.  I don’t want to offend you or anything.  But you don’t seem the type to be here.  You just don’t look like clown material.”


Without looking up from his drawing, Illya answered for him.  “Napoleon will go anywhere, if there is a chance to meet girls.”  Napoleon nudged him with his elbow.  “Actually he is here humoring me.”  He tuned his pad around to display the character he’d created for Napoleon.  The whiteface was simply done; the head topped with a top hat, and the body in a rather shabby looking tuxedo.


Napoleon grinned his approval.


“That’s really good!” exclaimed the girl.  “What do you plan to call him?” she turned to ask Napoleon.


Napoleon in turn, turned to Illya.


“Code names are your area of expertise,” Illya responded.


By the end of the second week, they had graduated to doing makeup.


The makeup lady had started her lecture with, “There are several different types of makeup.  There is water-based, Halloween, cream-based, and greasepaint.   The choice of most clowns is greasepaint.  Greasepaint is impervious to all but the heaviest of soakings, holds to your face and retains its color well.”  Groans could be heard from various people in the class. 


“If you will refer to your information sheets, you will find a few helpful tips.  One.  Apply makeup only thick enough to cover your skin.  If you apply it too heavily it can flake off.  Two.  Powder your makeup with baby powder or talc.  This helps set it and prevents it from running.  Do not use powder with cornstarch, unless you want a yellow face.”  This statement was greeted with laughter.  “Three.  Do not apply colored makeup to your upper lip.  This should be left white or flesh to provide some definition between your nose and mouth from far away.  Okay now let’s get to it.”


Illya, of course, was enlisted by the teacher to help once his knowledge of makeup became evident.  He was currently working on applying makeup to Napoleon’s face.


“You’re really getting into this, aren’t you?”  Napoleon asked, his eyes closed while Illya worked on him.  “Maybe Waverly was right.  Maybe we did need to get away.”


“Napoleon, will you please keep quiet.  I can’t do this properly with your mouth moving.”


By the end of the third week, their routine was in the process of being worked out.  Each group was to show what routine they had worked out so far in front of the rest of the students.  Illya was dressed all in black, wearing it like a second skin.  The wig atop his head was also black.  Napoleon had on a dusty old tuxedo and top hat.  He sported glasses and a handlebar mustache. The only thing was…their act – it wasn’t funny.  Napoleon could do the rolling and the tumbling, but he couldn’t do funny – at least not intentionally.


“Come on, Napoleon,” Illya hissed. “You’ve got to do better than that.”


“I know,” Napoleon moaned.  “It’s just that I find it inhibiting to perform in front of a crowd.”


“Since when?”  Illya asked wickedly.  This earned him a slap in the back of the head by his partner.  Suddenly there was laughter.  The two men didn’t notice.


“Just what is that supposed to mean?”  Napoleon asked sharply, advancing menacingly on his partner.


Illya backed away slowly. “Oh just that I’ve heard…”


“And what have you heard,” Napoleon demanded to know, his eyes flashing angrily.


“Ah, well…”  Illya said as he retreated further. “It was all over the office.”


“What was all over the office?”  Napoleon roared.


Illya turned and ran, his eyes alight with mischief.


Laughter resounded throughout the tent, but neither man noticed. 


Illya hid behind the center post that held up the tent, peeking around with a wicked smile, unaware that he was unintentionally making his partner angrier.  Napoleon rounded on him ready to do damage.  They circled each other until Illya found a ladder leading up to a platform and climbed it briskly.  Napoleon with his large shoes followed slower.  Illya backed away. “Now, Napoleon, do not do anything you will regret.”  He wasn’t really worried.  After all there were witnesses, what could Solo do?


“What makes you think I’m going to regret it?”  Napoleon growled.


Illya had reached the end of the platform.  There was only one thing to do.  He did a back flip and landing gracefully on the ground.


Napoleon rushed to the edge, frightened by what he might find – a smashed body below.


Illya looked up at him grinning.


Tremendous applause broke out, as well as stomping of feet and catcalls.  The two agents froze in astonishment.  Mr. Fields, still chuckling, came up to them.  “I think you have finally got it.”



They were in the process of removing their makeup when a familiar beeping sounded.  Napoleon looked around, found a quiet out of the way spot and opened his pen.   “Solo here.”


“Ah, Mr. Solo,” Waverly’s voice echoed.  “Sorry to interrupt you…but we have something rather urgent that has come up.”


Illya had edged close so he too could hear what was said.  “And what would that be,” he muttered.


Waverly responded almost as if he had heard the remark.  “You both are to catch the next flight for France.  Your tickets should be waiting for you at the counter.”


“Yes, sir.  What are we to do when we get there?”  Napoleon asked.


“You will be met by the manager of the Cirque du Soleil.  He’ll brief you.  Report in when you arrive.  Waverly out.”  The channel went dead.


“He did say Cirque du Soleil?”  Illya asked.


Napoleon stared at his communicator; obviously there was more to their clown lessons then met the eye.  “Ahum, the old fox!”



The end.






yumyumpm: Napoleon and Illya (Man from UNCLE)
 Blood, Sweat, and - Sex

An AU story

By YumYumPM
(sadly I haven't been able to figure out how to add my pics.  I have this on pdf with pics.  If you'd like to see contact me at


Act I  The Enemy Within

Walking through the gun-gray metal hallways in U.N.C.L.E., New York - Napoleon Solo's eyes sparkled as two visions of loveliness, dressed in black and yellow, hurried past him.  He turned, adjusted his tie and tilted his head to one side to admire the view while continuing to walk backwards down the hall.    He couldn't help but feel fortunate that he worked for an organization that prided itself on the physical fitness of its employees. 

Without warning things changed.  The walls began flashing a glowing red.  There was no whooping alarm, nothing to say that U.N.C.L.E. was under attack, and yet a sense of urgency and danger swept through him.  He knew, without any doubt, that his life was once again heading down a path he'd long left behind.

His vision shifted from color to black and white and instinct told him that his eyes had changed from their normal golden brown to a glowing yellow.   In all the years spent as an agent for the U.N.C.L.E. this had never happened. 

Willing his eyes to return to their normal state of warm brown, he sent out his senses.   Whether the cause for the change was friend or foe, he wasn't sure, but whoever it was, was close by in the room off to his right.  Here in U.N.C.L.E. headquarters of all places.

His eyes narrowed as he reached for his gun, sneaking a look to either side to make sure the hallway was vacant.   Facing the offending door, his eyes widened as he realized whose office was behind that entrance.   The door swished open automatically just as he hastily removed his hand from inside of his jacket.

Stepping inside he paused to check the room out, the office a duplicate of his own.  Illya Kuryakin, his partner and friend, sat at the standard office desk, not unusual in itself considering that this was Illya’s office.  A quick glance around showed him that there was no one else in the room, but something had set off his internal alarm.

It was then that he focused on the only occupant of the room.  When Illya raised his eyes, Napoleon got a good look at him.   He observed the tinted glasses that were covering Illya's eyes, the ones he sometimes wore, and behind the tinted lenses he could see dark circles and that his skin tone was paler than usual.  Illya did not look well.  He was wearing a soft black turtleneck and while he often wore turtlenecks, he was tugging at the neckline as if he were trying to hide something.   Napoleon thought about reaching over and pulling the rounded collar down, but was afraid of what he would find.  It would only mean one thing.  But, this was impossible!  They had been partners for years.  He would have known if Illya was something other than human - like him.  There were only two ways to be changed.  One was to be bitten and the other was more rare and the way he had - to be born into it. 

“Are you okay?” he asked worriedly.

Illya took off his dark glasses and shook his head.   He blinked in the light, his eyes tired and a paler shade of blue than normal.  “It’s probably nothing.  I just didn’t get much sleep last night.”

“Too much partying?”  Napoleon asked, but didn’t hold out any hope that the answer would be yes.  Illya was not the type.

“No.”  Illya got up and moved toward his file cabinet.  “Did a little jogging in Central Park.”

“Since when did you take up jogging?” At night and in Central Park of all places!  Napoleon took the time to sniff the air.  Yes, the scent was there.  Not a full change, just the start of one.  It could only mean that someone had taken steps to turn Illya.  But who and why?  Damn, he had often had to work hard to keep from turning Illya himself, the man was just too tempting. 

“Just recently.  Doctor’s recommendation.  After that last assignment.”

Napoleon winced.  It was bad enough that Illya's last assignment had caught him fresh out of the hospital from their previous one.  No wonder he hadn’t been in as good of shape as usual.

“The next time you go let me know.  I could use a little jogging myself,” Napoleon said, one hip hitched upon Illya’s desk as he patted his tummy, to make his point.

Illya looked back at him, a soft small on his face, and nodded his head in agreement.

Just then, an announcement over the loudspeaker called Napoleon away.   He only hoped it wasn’t an assignment.  At least not before he could figure out what was happening with Illya.

Act II Vampire 101

In 1867 when he hit puberty, Napoleon’s father pulled him aside and explained the facts of life to him…that is the facts of the Solo family life.  Napoleon had laughed so hard he fell down.  Vampires!  There was no such thing.  Napoleon’s knowledge of vampires was limited to say the least, restricted to old stories one of his grandmothers would tell late at night and some very bad movies.  That was until his father smiled down on him and his canine teeth grew longer.

Napoleon’s jaw dropped.  He was to learn that he was a born vampire, as opposed to a turned one, and something that rarely happened.  They weren’t really sure what to expect of him, but they did know that drinking blood would be vital to his survival.  So his father took him to where he would eventually get all his needs met.  It was there that he learned that most of his knowledge of Vampires was misconceptions.

The following night his father had insisted on taking him away from the family home.  They walked down the streets in the city of Montreal where they happened to be living at the time.  He rarely ever got a chance to do anything with his father, since he was gone most of the time.  His mother on the other hand usually slept the day away, coming out mostly at night. 

 Eventually they turned into a doorway that Napoleon was pretty sure hadn’t been there just seconds ago.  It was located on an out-of-the-way side street and barely rated a second glance. 

Napoleon, not normally a timid boy, stayed as close to his father as he could.  Once they entered, he blinked twice at the medieval setting that met his eyes.  A large fireplace stood at one end of the room, with what looked like a giant pig roasting on it.  There were sturdy wooden tables scattered around the room.  Napoleon, even at that young age, couldn’t help ogling the bosomy waitresses who were weaving through the path between tables, large pitchers of various alcohols held aloft on their trays. 

Because of his age, it struck him as odd that only a few patrons glanced their way.  His father, after greeting several of the clientele, led him to a door hidden in a far corner of the room.  A barmaid, dressed in a skimpy outfit, approached and with a pleasant nod, unlocked the door and let them inside. 

Inside there were wall-to-wall bookcases filled to the brim.  There was a short, thin, elderly man, wearing a long robe of academia, standing on a ladder and pulling book after book down from the shelves.   

“Professor, this is my son.” 

The man turned, his glasses slid down his nose as he took a good look at Napoleon.  Long gray hair, along with a longish beard, surrounded a thin face.  This alone was enough to intimidate the younger Solo.  “Hmm, so this is the new addition to our community?”  Slowly he backed down from the ladder, and then laid the books he’d pulled on a table next to a large stack of others.  His dark eyes remained on the boy as he waved Napoleon to sit down and ordered, “Read.”

Napoleon pulled one of the bigger books forward, furtively keeping an eye out as the senior Solo was pulled to one side by the Professor and asked.  “How much does he know?”

His ears perked up and he noticed that his father winced.  “He’s lived with his mother.”

“Ah, well.  It can’t be help.”

Trying to act as if he wasn’t listening, Napoleon opened the largest tome.  He looked at the words on the page; Napoleon was fluent in English and French, both Parisian and Canadian.  This was neither.  The Professor pulled it away from him with reverence.  “This is one of the most ancient.  It will be years before you can read it with any type of competence.” He set another book in front of him.  “This will start you out easier.”  His tone condescending. 

And so the lessons began.  Napoleon spent many hours each day learning that there were a lot of facts that differed from what he’d always been led to believe.  The first myth to bite the dust was the one that claimed all vampires slept in coffins.  He learned that while many of his kind that were sensitive to light, there were some that could actually go out in the daytime.  Napoleon was definitely one of the one’s who could.  Most vampires could turn others into vampires by biting; it did take the sampling of blood three times though.  Like with many things there were vampires with morals and those with no morals at all.  Those without morals would take pleasure in their victims and off times leave them for dead.

Feeding was not so much a myth as misinformation.  The biting on the neck thing wasn’t always necessary.  As he was to find out from personal experience taking blood from the wrist was just as satisfying.  It wasn’t until later that blood taking and sexual enjoyment came into play and made the act more sensual.

Another myth had all vampires strong, speedy, gorgeous, and with enormous sex drives.  According to the Professor if that was how you were when you were turned that was how you remained, the main difference is that your life span was longer, and yes, you could die.

There were no firm rules for born vampires, as they were rare, and Napoleon was told he would be a case study, which really didn’t sit well with him.  Perhaps that was why that when he became of age, he tried his best to live his life as much like a human as possible.  It was true that he aged, but at a slower rate than his friends.  Still he managed to serve in at least three wars and only leave a paper trail in one.  No surprise there. 

Act III  A Walk in the Park

One hundred years later, Napoleon held back a smile as he followed leisurely behind his partner on one of the many jogging trails in Central Park.  As it was, it had taken him the better part of the day just to find a suitable jogging outfit to wear.  Little did Illya know that he did not need to take things easy, that Napoleon had far more stamina then Illya gave him credit for.   He was just about to goad Illya into moving a little faster, when he felt them.  His internal radar told him that there were two of the undead and they were converging on their path from two separate directions.  Illya had stopped where he was, his body frozen as the two males in mismatched outfits moved closer.  They were midway between two lampposts, where the lights were dimmer making the area they were in darker than the rest of the path.  Their eyes glowed and they seemed to be licking their chops in anticipation.

Napoleon went into action automatically, he stepped in front of Illya and his eyes glowed, his canine teeth elongated, and he growled deeply.  Their two opponents exchanged sudden glances, then as quickly as they had arrived, they vanished into the night.  He waited until he was sure they were no longer in the area, then reluctantly turned, half expecting Illya to demand to know what was going on.

Instead, Illya stood silent as if in a trance.  Napoleon tried snapping him out of it, unsuccessfully.  Getting Illya out of there was the most important thing right now.  Fortunately, Napoleon was stronger and faster then he looked.  In no time at all they were inside Napoleon's apartment and the door locked. 

Napoleon was worried.   Illya just stood there, stiff as a board, his eyes never blinking.  Napoleon tried everything from snapping his fingers to dashing cold water in his partner’s face.  Nothing worked.  Napoleon paced back and forth for a half-hour before deciding that sleep was a better option.  Heaving a heavy sigh, Napoleon maneuvered Illya into the bedroom and settled him on one side of the bed.  Shutting the blackout drapes that covered his bedroom windows, not that he needed them; he went about the task of undressing Illya, finding that it was like undressing a manikin. Changing into his pajamas, Napoleon slipped into bed and checked on his partner one last time before laying his head on his pillow.  Hopefully the morning would bring a change in Illya.

“Owww.”  Napoleon rubbed his arm, only to see a fuming Russian on the other side of his bed.   “Why did you do that?”

“Why am I in your bed?”  Illya’s blue eyes flashed in anger.

Think fast, Napoleon.’  “Ah, you passed out while we were jogging and I didn’t think you’d want to go to medical.”

Fortunately, Illya bought that excuse and Napoleon let out a sigh of relief.  It wasn’t easy but after that Napoleon managed to find excuses to stay close to Illya most evenings.   Until the day that Waverly ordered Napoleon to undertake an assignment out of the country.  Even though he’d insisted that Illya not go jogging without him, he suspected the stubborn Russian would do just that.

The first thing Napoleon did when he got back was rush to Illya’s apartment.  As he feared Illya, paler than normal, was lying on his bed with his arms crossed over his chest.  Napoleon sat down heavily on the bed as he contemplated what was happening to his partner and best friend.   His greatest fear was that even now it might be too late to save his friend.  Especially from the bloodlust that would come with his turning.  He reached for his communicator.  There was no way that Illya would be able to go into headquarters without a whole lot of questions being asked.  

After getting the okay for them both to have a week off from Alexander Waverly, Napoleon was able to make arrangements for them to fly out on a private jet.   The flight plan filed had their destination listed as Victoria with a slight layover in Toronto.  Their arrival into Victoria was really a diversion.  Now disguised as a male nurse and his patient; the two slipped out at the Toronto layover and commandeered an ambulance to make their way to Montreal. 

Act IV  To Turn or Not to Turn

Less than twenty-four hours later, Napoleon entered the same tavern that his father had taken him to so many years ago, pushing a rigid Illya in front of him.   The very same barmaid, not looking a day older then the last time he had seen her, greeted him.  Any other time he would have been delighted to see her, but today he was more worried about his partner.

Marcella’s green eyes brightened up when she saw young Solo enter the bar, then she notice he was not alone and the person with him was not kindred.  It only took one look at the two of them and she immediately ushered them into the back room, the very same back room where Napoleon got his education.

Talk about déjà vu.  Professor Lucendre, the same teacher from his youth, looked down over his glasses from where he was perched on a ladder.  As usual he was removing a huge book from the enormous shelves that circled the room.  Looking much like the elderly Professor he was, his face held a stern look and his dull eyes glowed a golden color.    

“Young Solo, to what do I owe this pleasure?” he asked softly.  He took one look at Illya.  “Have you any idea what you bring with you?  Have you forgotten your lesson’s so soon?  Go!” He commanded with a wave of his hand as he moved to the door.

Napoleon allowed Marcella to pull him away leaving Illya behind.  “Marcella, bring forth two glasses of our special red,” the Professor ordered before shutting the door.  Marcella nodded, and moved Napoleon to a table in the far corner.

Preoccupied as he was, Napoleon couldn’t help but wonder what was going on behind the closed door as Marcella brought a tray with two crystal goblets, their contents a ruby red. 

When she returned she moved closer to him, letting him catch the scent of her.  From the time he was sixteen, she had been the one he came to when he needed to feed, first from her wrist, then she had been the one with whom he’d learned the delights of sexual release at the same time as they fed from one another.  “Darling, your little friend will be all right.  Perhaps you need a little distraction to make you feel better.”

Napoleon hesitated.  He felt responsible for Illya’s current predicament, though he knew he shouldn’t be.  There was nothing he could do for his partner, and the familiar scent of Marcella was calling forth his sexual nature.   He took one more look at the closed door before following Marcella up the stairway at the back to her room.

A satisfied and sated Napoleon descended the stairway, slowly buttoning up his shirt.  Marcella followed slowly, a dreamy expression on her face.  The Professor sat at the bar staring into a pint of ale. 

“How bad is it?” Napoleon asked softly afraid to disturb the quiet.

The Professor rubbed his chin.  “I will be frank with you.  He needs to be turned or he will die.”

 Napoleon shook his head in a state of shock.  “I can’t do that to him.  He's my partner and my friend.  I would give my life for him, but to turn him … I don’t think he would ever forgive me.”

“Darling, if you won’t do it, I’ll be happy to do it for you,” a newcomer’s sultry voice drawled.

 Napoleon’s face paled, eyes glowed dangerously.  “Angelique!  So THRUSH is behind this?” 

Angelique, her head tilted provocatively to one side the way he remembered, step forward in a slinky black gown.  Her bright red lips broke into a wicked smile showing off her canines.  She waved the accusation away with her hand.   “Don’t be silly, Napoleon.  Neither they nor I are involved in this.   If you don’t believe me, you can ask him yourself.”  She turned and pointed to the door, where Illya leaned, looking like death warmed over.

“Napoleon, no matter who turns him, he will be at their beck and call.  Is that what you want for your friend?”  The Professor said softly enough that only Napoleon heard him.

“Napoleon, might I have a word with you?” Illya stated emphatically.

He ushered Illya back into the library and pushed him down into a chair.  “Shouldn’t you be sitting down?”

“Where are we?  Why are we here and more importantly, what is she doing here?”  Illya scowled. 

Good questions, Napoleon thought to himself.  Though he supposed he shouldn’t be surprised.   He paced back and forth, rubbing his forehead.   “The where is Montreal.  The why is a little more complicated.  What do you know about vampires?”

Illya gave Napoleon a look that suggested he’d gone crazy; then he laughed out loud.  “You can’t be serious.  According to my friends the gypsies vampires are creatures of the night.  They make a habit of drinking human blood. Oh, and their reflection cannot be seen in a mirror, also crucifixes and garlic supposedly keeps them at bay.”  Illya shrugged.  “Personally I think they are figments of an over active imagination.”

“What if I told you that they are not figments?”  Napoleon asked slowly.  “That there really are vampires and not all of them are affected by the sun, and most of us have no problems with either crucifixes or garlic.”

“You did say us? Are you trying to say that you’re a vampire?  That’s ridiculous, you can’t be a vampire.  I’ve seen you out in the daytime lots of times.”

Napoleon chewed on his bottom lip. “You caught that, huh?”

Illya slid out of the chair and slowly moved away.  “…”

Now it was Napoleon’s turn to laugh, his eyes brightened until they were a golden color.  “Well a male vampire, in this case my father, puts his penis inside a woman vampire’s vagina and…didn’t you learn about this in the KGB?”

Illya didn’t smile back.  It hurt Napoleon to see the fear in his partner’s eyes as he backed away, a fear he’d rarely seen in all the time that they’d worked together.  “Illya, I know that you’re…,” Napoleon didn’t want to say afraid.  “angry, but surely you are aware that something is not right with you.” 

“Napoleon, what is to become of me?”  Illya whispered.

The fact that Illya was even admitting that something was wrong worried Napoleon.  He squeezed his eyes shut and pinched the bridge of his nose; there was no way of getting around this.    Finally he opened them.  “I hate to break this to you…but either you allow someone to change you…or you die.”

“Die!”  Illya’s voice rose an octave.  “Isn’t that a bit drastic?”

“The process has already started.”  Napoleon informed him.  “There is no going back.”

“By change, exactly what do you mean?”

Napoleon cleared his throat.  “I realize that this is a lot to take in, but here goes.  Sometime, fairly recent, someone started the process to change you.  If they are allowed to complete their mission, you more or less belong to them.”

Illya’s eyes flashed with indignation.  “I belong to no one.”

“Tell me about it,” Napoleon muttered.  “Do you want to hear the rest or not?”

“Tell me no one will drain me of blood.  I just know that drinking of blood is involved in this isn’t there?   My grandmother used to tell us stories to scare us.”  Illya said gloomily, then bared his throat.  “Let’s get on with it.”

Napoleon rolled his eyes.  Illya was being obstinate as usual.  Then there was that tingling warning sensation, Napoleon’s eyes flashed, changing colors, and his whole body went on alert.  He was out the door and into the barroom in seconds with Illya close behind him.

The barroom looked like a warzone.  There had to be at least fifteen to twenty combatants hurtling around and he had no idea who was on whose side.

The Professor struggled to their side.  “You must make your claim on him.  NOW!” he yelled frantically over the noise while pushing them back into the room, locking it from further invasion.  He rushed over to one section of the library and pulled out one of the books, the wall of books swung open revealing a spiral staircase.  “Hurry!  We will do our best to hold them off.”

Act V  Something Weird This Way Comes

Snatching Illya by his wrist, Napoleon dragged him into the stairwell.  The door closed, leaving the area black as night.  Carefully the two men made their way up the stairs until they came to the top landing.  Napoleon’s vision told him there was a door in front of him; he looked for the knob and could not find one.  He ran his hand over the metal door, unable to find a latch or button of any source.  Illya snorted and joined in the search.  Once their hands touched the door swung automatically open, revealing a richly furnished bedroom.

Even though Napoleon had just quenched his thirst a short while ago, his canines lengthened and his eyes glowed with lust.  He had Illya undressed and splayed across the bed in a matter of seconds. 

Watching as Illya’s licked his lips, his eyes wide, Napoleon slowly removed his own clothing piece by piece. 

“I don’t want to force you, Illya,” Napoleon choked out. 

“I’d rather you didn’t force me either,” Illya muttered.  His breathing deepened, Napoleon’s body was a lot buffer then he remembered.  “Ummm, why are we naked?”

Napoleon lay next to Illya bringing his face close.  “It’s all part of the experience.”

Illya cocked an eyebrow doubtfully. 

Napoleon moved closer breathing in Illya’s scent.  He let his canines scrape down Illya’s neck, leaving a red streak all the while letting his hands roam down Illya’s body.  Then he let his tongue move upward erasing the stripe of red. He could feel the blood coursing through Illya’s veins.  He sensed rather than saw the smile on Illya’s face.  Desire filled him.  He flipped Illya over with ease and dragged his tongue slowly down his back to his crease.  Illya’s skin felt silky smooth beneath his tongue.

They were both breathing heavily.  He lay flat on Illya’s back, his hard cock pressed against his stomach.  One of them was whimpering and he had no idea as to whom.   Napoleon nuzzled the back of his light hair, breathing in the scent of Illya.  He knew it was time to make his claim.  Just how was he going to do that without hurting him?  Illya appeared to be trying to slip away from him, scooting his back legs under him causing Napoleon’s cock to slip into the crease.  That decided it.  Napoleon clamped down on the vein running up the side of Illya’s neck and started sucking what had to be the sweetest nectar he’d ever tasted while at the same time driving his cock home up Illya’s tight passage.

Illya howled and everything went on the fritz after that.

Napoleon opened his eyes and stretched.  The room was dark, but that was to be expected.  He lay in a state of totally relaxation, not a normal condition for him.  Never had he felt so good.  He had taken blood in a variety of ways, but this one was at the top of the charts.  Unfortunately his memory of their coupling was a little fuzzy.  He turned his head to look for Illya to see how he had faired.  There was something weighing down on him and he lifted his head up to find a light colored ball of fur lying on his chest.  The long silky tail covered what had to be the muzzle. 

“Illya?”  Napoleon asked in shock, looking around for his partner.

The head moved up, familiar blue eyes opened and blinked sleepily.  That couldn’t be…something was definitely not right!  Napoleon had never changed anyone, but he had a feeling that this was not normal.  The Professor!  Maybe he had the answer.

Napoleon hurriedly dressed with what he could find and cautiously moved barefooted down the stairs into the library, a little blond furball tagging along at his heels, his raised tail wagging enthusiastically.  His vampire vision got him to the door leading to the bar and he let his senses expand.  He looked down as he felt something nudging his lower leg.  Illya, if it was indeed him, looked up at him with challenge in his puppy dog eyes.  Strangely all was quiet.

Slipping the door open, he peeked into the other room.  The place was in shambles, bodies scattered about.  In between were piles of what looked like ash.  In two steps he was beside the facedown body of the Professor.  A quick check proved that he was still alive with not a bruise upon his body that Napoleon could see.  He smiled as a groan passed through the Professor’s lips and his eyes opened.

Napoleon’s head jerked up as moans sounded around the room.  Various members of the defending team were regaining consciousness.  Angelique was among them and she was shakily getting up, her dagger still in her hand.  A growl sounded and the next thing Napoleon knew a large wolf-like animal whizzed past him going straight for her.  She dropped the dagger and shrieked in horror.  In a flash Napoleon was barreling into the furred body, just in time to keep it from sinking its fangs into Angelique.

They rolled across the floor and the beast beneath him whimpered.  Napoleon looked into the blue eyes that he knew so well.


This was not the small bundle of fur from earlier.  This was a full grown wolf.

“What on earth…?” the Professor asked, coming to stoop down next to Napoleon.  “How did this happen?”

“Haven’t the faintest clue.  That’s what I wanted to talk to you about,” Napoleon answered, holding on tightly to Illya who seemed to calm down in his arms.

“He’s a wolf?” asked Angelique, intrigued.  She reached out with one hand out to stroke the smooth white fur just managing to snatch it back before Illya tried to snap at it.

“I would not advise that,” Professor Lucendre warned amused.  “He does not seem to like you.”  Lucendre frowned.  “Is this who I think this it?”

Napoleon nodded.  At least to the best of his knowledge it was.

“How the hell did this happen?”

“That’s what I was hoping you could tell me,” Napoleon offered, nuzzling the wolf under his chin.

Adjusting his glasses further up his nose, he studied the white furred creature that had made itself at home on his prize pupil’s lap.  For the two centuries he’d been a vampire, he had never come across anything like this.  “This will require much study,” Lucendre concluded.

Ignoring the others cleaning up the mess made during the recent fight, Angelique sat on one of the bar stools, her long hair dangling as she leaned over to light a cigarette and try to recover her composure.  Crossing her legs and letting her thigh show provocatively, she watched the smoke as it drifted slowly up toward the ceiling.   Tilting her head to one side, she snarked wickedly, “I wasn’t aware that you were into bestiality, darling.”  

The words had no sooner left her mouth when the wolf leaped out of Napoleon’s arms and went straight for her throat.   She let out a shriek just as Napoleon managed to catch hold and stop him. 

“Illya!” Napoleon shouted as he hung on for dear life. 

“You’d best leave, my lady,” the barmaid suggested.  Angelique turned up her pretty nose and walked to the door.  Everyone breathed a sigh of relief once the door shut behind her.  Good riddance everyone thought, and even the wolf seemed to smile.         

Act VI  Answers to The Legacy

Napoleon and Professor Lucendre were holed up in the library behind the barroom searching through the entire selection of books for any reference that could explain what had happened.  Illya lay at Napoleon’s feet, no longer the big, bad wolf, but not exactly cute and cuddly anymore either. 

The nearest thing they had come across was that Illya had changed into a werewolf.  A werewolf?  Napoleon wasn’t buying it, after all shouldn’t he have sensed it?  He slammed another large tome shut.  “There is no such thing as werewolves,” he insisted.  “They’re just products of old folk tales told to scare little children.

Illya lifted his head and rolled his eyes.

“How better to hide then under the cloak of disbelief.”  Lucendre peered down from his perch on top of the ladder.  “We’ve been doing it for centuries.”

A brown-haired waitress slipped into the room, her tray filled with delicious food for the men.  She patted Illya on the top of his head as she set down a bowl of dog food in front of him.

Illya looked down his long nose at the bowl.  Sniffing the air, the scent of cooked steak caught his nostrils.  Licking his chops and salivating, he slipped closer to where Napoleon was engrossed in a stack of books and managed to sneak it off of Napoleon’s plate without him noticing.

Napoleon’s eyes narrowed when he finally noticed that his plate was empty.   One look at Illya’s innocent expression was enough to tell him were his food had gone.   “It doesn’t make any sense.  I bit him; shouldn’t he have turned into a vampire?”

“Ordinarily I would have said, yes.”  Lucendre frowned.  “This is totally out of my area of expertise.  Perhaps we should come at this from another direction,” he murmured.  “If only we could get him to change back into a human.”

Napoleon looked thoughtful.  “I wonder what would have happened if he had bitten me.  Would I have turned into a werewolf?”

“He didn’t bite you?” Lucendre asked.

Illya came over and nudged Napoleon’s hand with his head.  Napoleon ran his fingers through the soft fur, so reminiscent of Illya’s normal hair.  He brought his nose to the soft coat and sneezed.

“Eureka!” Lucendre shouted as he blew dust off an ancient small leather bound book.

“What is it?”  Napoleon rose from the floor to meet him, Illya at his side.

“This, my boy, may hold all the answers to your questions,” Lucendre assured him.  “It has been centuries since I’ve read this.  If memory serves, it belonged to your great, great grandfather.  ”

Napoleon frowned.  “I don’t remember him.”

“That is because he ceased to exist long before you were born.”

Illya tilted his head to one side. 

“Vampires do live a very long time.  But there are several ways to be killed.  For certain of us sunlight will do it.”  Lucendre lectured.

“Chopping off our heads works as well,” Napoleon added dryly.

Lucendre nodded, then yawned. “It is time I retire.  I am sure that you will find this interesting reading.”

Blowing on the cover, Napoleon moved to a more comfortable chair.  Once he was settled in, Illya leaped up and sprawled across the back, all the better to read over Napoleon’s shoulder.

Napoleon squinted at the faded ink on yellowed pages.  Nothing made sense.  “What the…this isn’t even in English!”

Napoleon felt sharp teeth nip his ear, then a rough tongue licking the spot.  Next he heard a loud thump behind him and twisted around to see what it was.  Or was it who?

Illya lay sprawled on the floor in all his human glory.  He scrambled up and snatched the book out of Napoleon’s hand.  “I can read it.”

“Oh, right.  I forgot that you have a degree in dead languages,” Napoleon said dryly.  Secretly he was delighted that Illya was back to normal.”

Illya grinned, then sat down and began reading.

“Care to share?”

“Did you know that your great, great grandfather was Leonardo DiVinci?”

Napoleon’s eyes grew wide.  “Heck, no.”

Illya’s eyes grew hard and he tapped the book.  “He is the reason I am as I am.”


Illya was angry, very angry.  “It’s all here in black and white.”

Now Napoleon was angry, it wasn’t as if he’d started this shit.  He’d merely finished it. 
“Explain,” he barked.

“DiVinci is…was…vampire.  He managed to hide it well.  Mona Lisa, however, was wolf.  A freak, like I am now.”

“You would have been a dead freak if I hadn’t changed you, Tavarish.  Someone else started the process.”  Napoleon shook his head, this did not make sense.  He’d had his whole live to adjust to this.  Illya had not.  “What else does it say?”

Illya leafed through the remaining pages and shook his head.  “Nothing much.  Just that the full moon is going to be a bitch.”

Napoleon sighed, gathered up a blanket and wrapped it around his partner.  “Let’s get some sleep now and try to figure this out later.  I want to know who started your change and why.”

Act VII  Full Moon Rising

Two years later, Napoleon and Illya stopped to hide behind a large tree in an attempt to escape their pursuers.   They had been on the run for the better for two day and even with their special abilities they were beginning to lag. 

Illya had long since come to terms with what he now was and they had returned to the U.N.C.L.E.  Any question as to where they had been and why had been easily taken care of, after all Napoleon had managed to hide what he was for years, and they figured that the same would hold true for Illya.  Physicals were just as easily taken care of thanks to Napoleon’s ability to wipe another’s mind.

Leaning against the tree trunk Illya asked.  “Are you sure you can’t change into a bat?”

Napoleon merely glared at him.  He bent over, his hands on his knees, getting his breathing under control.  Even his vampire background had its limitations.

With a wicked grin, Illya dashed away shedding clothing as he went and changing into his wolf form.

“Illya!” hissed Napoleon, knowing full well who would end up carrying said clothing.  It never ceased to amaze him how beautiful Illya looked in wolf form.  That was until he felt the barrels of two guns pointed against his head.  How had they managed to sneak up on him?

“Where is the small blond one, your partner?” one of the two snarled.

Napoleon did his best to hide his smile as he nodded over the guy’s shoulder.  He turned his head just in time to see a white streak heading his way.  Fighting years of discipline Napoleon used his special abilities to take out the second guy while Illya’s claws dug into the first.  The smell of terror radiated in the clearing and Napoleon caught of whiff of bile. 

He tossed a glare Illya’s way.  It would become increasingly difficult to keep Illya’s situation hidden, especially if he continued attacking in wolf form.  “What do you suggest we do with the bodies?  Someone is going to come along eventually and they might just get suspicious.”

Illya merely bayed at the full moon, which was now high in the sky, and began digging.  Being paired with a wolf wasn’t all bad, but the object was to keep anyone from knowing about it.

Between the two of them they managed to cover up the attacks.  Napoleon sat down heavily and heaved a sigh.  “What do we do now?”

Illya moved closer to Napoleon and licked his face.  Napoleon wasn’t sure how long Illya would be able to control the effect that the full moon had on him.  The past two years had been an experiment on how the moon affected Illya’s wolf side caused by their mating.   Not that Napoleon regretted it.  The sex was amazing and kept the wolf-side of Illya in check. 

“Ouch” Napoleon slapped at his ear. 

The blue-eyed creature sitting near him smiled and lapped at the blood dripping down Napoleon’s neck.  Within seconds, Illya the man sat next to him.  Illya arose gracefully, his nude body glowing in front of the backdrop of the full moon and held out his hand.

“There is a cabin not too far.  I think we will be safe there until morning,” Illya said softly.  He brushed back the curl that drooped over Napoleon’s forehead.  “Do not think too much about it, Napoleon.  It is what it is.  The legacy of your great, great grandfather has brought us closer together, and inspite of everything I cannot find it in me to regret it.  Can you?

Act VIII  Who Wants Illya Dead - and why?

The trek through the woods was made quietly and swiftly.  The cabin was a little more than a shack that blended into its surroundings.  It had evidently been abandoned; the inside was rustic and musty.  The place was pretty much bare, though there was a mattress lying on the floor.  Illya went straight for the bed and flopped down on it.  Illya had never bothered to dress and Napoleon couldn't help but smile at the wicked display that his partner made on the bare mattress.  Once Illya had finally embraced his inner wolf, he had developed a wicked sense of playfulness that never ceased to delight Napoleon.

Napoleon was happy.  He not only had a job he enjoyed, but a companion who would live as long as he did.  Provided he could keep him safe.  He really could not bare the thought of living his life without Illya. Frowning he asked, “Do you think this had anything to do with our assignment or were they after you?”

“I have no idea.  Right at this very moment I just want you to strip and let me fuck you.”

It wasn't that often that Illya wanted or needed to top, but when he did Napoleon was always willing to accommodate him.  He quickly shucked off his jacket and holster sand started working on the buttons of his shirt.  His smile widened as Illya cocked one brow and licked his lips, his eye's alight with lust.  His hand rubbing his hardening shaft, then gripping it and waving it teasingly at Napoleon.

Napoleon never failed to admire Illya's pale body.  He was still slim and trim, but his muscle mass was phenomenal.  There was a dash of pale hair that surrounded the dusky nipples and thickened as it made a trail from his belly button to his cock.  That too was pale and slender and the helmet turned a dusky rose color when Illya was aroused.  At the moment there was a pearl drop of fluid dripping from the tip.

 Now it was Napoleon's turn to lick his lips.

Just then Illya stiffened, his body on alert, one finger raised to his lips in warning as if he felt something near.  Napoleon frowned as he sent out his senses, but could detect nothing.  That in itself was strange.

The next instant, Illya leaped off the bed and took a stand in front of the door, blocking Napoleon's view.

In a blink of the eye, the door burst open and two humungous vampires entered the room.  Another man, a great deal older, followed leisurely.  Napoleon peeked around Illya.  He blinked in surprise.  This was the last thing he expected.


"Hello, son."

Napoleon moved around Illya, who in his human form wasn't much protection at all.  "What are you doing here?"

"Correcting a problem,"  Alberto Solo sneered.  He waved his hand to his underlings.  "Grab him."

The two vamps moved toward Illya who immediately shifted and started to growl.

"Call off your dog,"  Napoleon's dad ordered.

"Not on your life."  Napoleon shook his head.  "What do you mean you're here to correct a problem?  What problem?"

"Him," Alberto pointed at the white wolf.  "He should have never been created.  He's an abomination.  This is all your mother's fault."

"Huh."  Napoleon and the wolf exchanged looks.  "What the fuck?"

Alberto's face was red with anger.  "Your mother decided it was time you got married.  She heard you were working with someone called Illya Kuryakin.  She assumed Illya was a woman and, in her infinite wisdom, thought it would be a good idea if ..." he waved his hand at Illya.  "you and this Illya got involved, that it would be best for all concern if she was changed.  Turned into one of us.  When we found out that she was a he it was too late.  I tried to remedy the problem, but by then it was getting difficult.  Listen to me, son.  This is for the best."

Napoleon could feel his father trying to compel him.   Telling him to turn his back on his partner and let them destroy him.  His eyes glowed a bright red and he roared.  Walls of red flame-like energy flowed from his body and encircled the occupants of the room. 

The two vampires tried to make a break for it and were engulfed in flames.  Alberto Solo's eyes widened and his jaw dropped.  Illya had changed back into human form and was looking around in astonishment.

"Stop!"  an authoritative  voice snapped.

Act IX  The King of the Vampires

All eyes turned to the doorway.

There at the entrance to the room stood a small ancient man, the Professor by his side.  Napoleon's father immediately dropped to one knee and bowed his head.  "Your Majesty."

Napoleon and Illya looked at each other, 'Your Majesty?' they mouthed in disbelief.  Napoleon's eyes roamed over Illya's naked body, a body that was his alone to view.   He hastily picked up his jacket and threw it to Illya, ignoring Illya's look of indignation even as he drew it on.

"Bow to our king, my son,"  Alberto hissed.

"Count Dracula I assume?"  Illya muttered.  Napoleon rolled his lips to keep from laughing aloud.

The King chuckled, a small smile graced his face leaving his fangs showing.

Professor Lucendre stepped forward.  "This is His Majesty King Kasmire.  Your Majesty, Alberto Solo and his son Napoleon ... and friend."

Ignoring the senior Solo, the diminutive king walked up to Napoleon.  "I am impressed.  Not many of our people can do that.   And who do we have here?"

"He is no one,"  Alberto interceded before Napoleon could answer.

King Kasmire turned an angry glare at Alberto.  "I do not recall asking you.  Leave my presence.  Now!"

Alberto looked as if he wanted to object, but in the end he did as he was commanded.

Kasmire looked around the cabin, taking its grungy appearance in, and decided that if they were to have a meaningful discussion, their surroundings needed some improving.  With a snap of his fingers, the four men were transported into an underground palace.

King Kasmire was seated in a high-back chair, the Professor standing at his right.  He waved Napoleon and Illya to sit on any of the many seats in the large room.  Standing nearby was a manservant holding out a beautiful blue silk robe, the better to cover Illya up than a jacket that is just a tad too big and yet not big enough.  While Illya donned the robe, Napoleon buttoned up his shirt.  By this time Napoleon had almost forgotten the question.  "Your Majesty, this is my partner, Illya Kuryakin."

"Ah yes.  The werewolf/vampire hybrid.  Truly unique."

"That's one way of putting it,"  Illya admitted.  "Excuse my impertinence, but why are we here?"

The Professor cleared his throat.  "Allow me?"

Once the Professor got the royal nod, he took his lecturing stance.

Napoleon crossed his leg over one knee and cocked an eyebrow.  This had better be good.

Before he could begin the manservant returned with a tray of drinks and whispered in the King's ear.  The King looked grim as he nodded. 

Into the room stormed an angry Alberto Solo surrounded by a contingent of husky vampires.

Both Napoleon and Illya jumped in front of the King, coming between the two factions.  The King slipped between the two with little effort. 

"What is it you want, Alberto?" 

"I want what is mine by right.  I want him!"  Alberto's eyes flared with hatred as he pointed at Illya.

"He is not yours.  Though your men may have started the turn, Napoleon finished it."  The Professor pointed out.  "Mr. Kuryakin is therefore..."

"I am no one's property,"  Illya snarled.

Everyone turned to Napoleon, who shrugged his shoulders.  After all, the comment was true.  If anything Illya owned him, not the other way around.  A fact that the look in Illya's eyes said he was well aware of.

"This is ridiculous.  Attack!" Napoleon's father roared.

"I think not."  Everyone turned to find Angelique and six female vampires entering the room.  With a wave of her hand each of her confederates went up to Alberto's followers and gripping  them by their ears pulling each and everyone of them from the room.

Angelique sashayed across the room to slip between Napoleon and Illya.  "Well, Darlings, it looks like I arrived in the nick of time."

"Angelique, your timing was perfect," Napoleon purred.

Chuckling softly, her eyes mischievous as she went to lift the back of Illya's robe.  "Just what do we have underneath here?"

"Nothing you need to see,"  Napoleon snapped as he slapped her hand away.

"He's just jealous."  Illya teased while Angelique pouted prettily. 

This conversation so incensed Napoleon's father that he would have attacked immediately, taking out the little blond deviant - except for one thing.  He found himself frozen in place - unable to move.   

"Please, will everyone take a seat,"  King Kasmire calmly suggested.

Alberto was a high ranking vampire and he did his best, but he could not break the hold that was on him.  He glared at his King.

It did not take the King long to realize what the problem was.  However, it was not he who had cast the hold on the senior Solo.  The son must have more power than Kasmire thought. "Napoleon?  Kindly release your hold on your father."

Napoleon blinked.  It had not occurred to him to try that.  Everything that he'd done so far had been instinctual.  He glared at his father and shook his head.  He looked at Angelique.

"Sorry, Darling, but I don't have that kind of power."

They both turned their gazes toward Illya.  He stood there his arms crossed defiantly over the royal blue robe, his bare feet spread apart, a wicked smile pasted across his face.

"Oh my god!" Angelique breathed.

Illya glanced around the room, noting the shocked looks on everyone's face, except for Napoleon's.  Napoleon looked amused.  "Only if he promises to control himself."

Somehow Alberto managed to nod, not that he meant to keep his promise.  For the time being, however, he would bide his time.

Illya snapped his fingers.  It was as easy as that.

Once everyone was seated, King Kasmire solemnly made his announcement.  "I'm not getting any younger.  I would like to enjoy what time I have left in this world, so I would like to step down as King."

Napoleon and Illya looked at each other in alarm.

"I've decided to hand over the reigns to your son,"  Kasmire informed Alberto.  "Of course he will need a good bit more training.  He and his mate - Illya. "

"Over my dead body," growled the older Solo.

"That can be arranged."  Angelique smiled sweetly.

"Napoleon, could I have a word with you?"  Illya asked.

The two of them moved away from the others.

"He wants me to be King,"  disbelief evident in Napoleon's voice.

"Is that what you want?"  Illya wanted to know. 

"Hell no."  Napoleon had spent most of adult life living as a human.  He'd just now found his soul mate and was positive that being King was not in the cards for him.  Just how do you refuse an offer like this.  "What about you?"

Illya shook his head.

"Your Majesty.  As much as I am honored by your offer, I must reluctantly recline."

"Napoleon, the vampire community is dying off.  We were hoping that you and Illya could revive it."  Professor said.

Angelique perked up.

"Revive it how?"  Illya asked apprehensively.

Act X  Rising of the Full Moon

Napoleon lay contentedly on the cramped bed in Illya's apartment, his head resting on the blond's shoulder, and sighed happily.  The last year had been relatively trouble free.  Thrush had still done their best to put them away, but even without their special gifts they had managed to stop them from doing major damage. 

Once a month on the full moon, they managed to get away from it all, no matter what part of the world they were in, so Illya could let his inner wolf run free.

"You're sure you have no regrets?"  Illya asked.

"Not a one.  I learned how to cloud minds, which will come in handy, donated some sperm which will make my father happy.  It beat the alternative."  He and his father had come to a truce thanks to the Kings intervention.

His head traveled down Illya's body until it came to his favorite part, which was standing straight up waiting for him.  A drop of pearly liquid was already leaking from the tip.   He breathed deeply, taking in the aromatic aroma of sweat before licking then engulfing the broad head.   Soon he would feed on Illya's blood, bringing them both the an orgasm of massive proportions.  Life was good.

Just then a communicator beeped. 

Growling Napoleon scrambled off the bed and reached for his jacket.


"Mr. Solo, it would appear that a Thrush agent is trying to get in touch with you,"  Mr. Waverly informed him.

Illya sat up in bed, his hard cock wilting.  Napoleon sat bare assed on the floor.  Which member of Thrush was trying to get in touch with them?  As if they had to guess.

"Would you and Mr. Kuryakin get in touch with that Angelique person.  She seems to feel that it is very important."

"Yes, sir."  Napoleon tossed his communicator on the floor and pounced on the bed.  "I wonder what Angelique wants?"

"There is only one way to find out."

Covered with sweat, Angelique panted as she strained to push, wondering why she had ever thought this was a good idea.  "Where is he?"  she asked, through gritted teeth.

"He's here," a soft voice assured her.  "Push once more."

She opened her eyes and there at the door stood her handsome Napoleon, his expression one of shock.  Unfortunately next to him stood that annoying Russian.  She cried out triumphantly as she gave a final push giving Napoleon the one thing Illya Kuryakin could not give him.  Falling back against her pillow, she waited for the sound of their child, notifying them that he was in the world.  All she heard was a small whimper.

 A strangled cry had her looking at Napoleon, who stared at the bed where she lay with his mouth open.  Next to him, smiling smugly was his much amused partner.

Angelique slowly lifted her head as the mid-wife laid her and Napoleon's child on her stomach.  Something soft and white and furry stared back at her and she screamed.

"Illya?  What have you done?"  Napoleon muttered out of the side of his mouth.

"Nothing.  This was all Angelique."  Illya moved forward, gently picking his son off of Angelique.  "It's okay, n'yehm-NOHZH-ka ah-DEEN "  he crooned.




Illya looked proudly down at the little white ball of fluff that played in the playpen. 

"Okay, how did you manage to pull it off,"  Napoleon asked.

"It didn't seem fair that you had to do all the work, so I contributed a little something to the sperm bank,"  Illya explained.  "How was I to know that Angelique would pull a stunt like that, or that she would end up with the wrong sperm."

"Hmmm."  Something about the smug look on Illya's face led Napoleon to wonder just how much that was true.  There had always been more to Illya then met the eye and Napoleon wouldn't put it past him to have the ability to foresee the future. "Well it's a damn good thing that she's not contesting custody."  The cute little cub was hiding under a blanket.  Napoleon couldn't resist  dangling one hand in the playpen and got nipped for his troubles.  "Ouch!"

The next thing they knew the cut little wolf cub had changed into a beautiful baby boy.








yumyumpm: Napoleon and Illya (Man from UNCLE)

Blood Brothers

by:  YumYumPM

originally written 2004


Act 1


The two agents were in Illya’s office; Illya was getting a backlog of paperwork out of the way, while Napoleon stood nearby looking through a folder.


“Napoleon?  I do not feel well.”


Napoleon glanced up to see his partner, his face pale, suddenly collapse.  Rushing over to check on his friend, he was relieved to find a pulse, and quickly went to the phone to contact UNCLE’s medical section.  In a matter of minutes a pair of orderlies arrived with a gurney.  One of them observed Napoleon’s worried face and offered, “It’s probably just the flu, a lot of that is going around.”


Napoleon, much relieved, decided to help Illya finish up his paperwork figuring that if he had the flu it would be a while before he would be able to do it himself.  He didn’t get much accomplished as he had trouble concentrating and kept glancing at the phone hoping medical would call with an update on Illya’s condition.  After waiting several hours and not hearing anything, he decided to go the medical section and get some answers.  Mr. Waverly, looking worried, was standing at the door in consultation with one of the doctors.


As Napoleon got closer to them he asked anxiously, “Is Illya all right?” 


He couldn’t help but notice the glance the two men exchanged.   Mr. Waverly nodded to the doctor, who turned to Napoleon and, taking a deep breath, replied, “I’m afraid it’s bad news.”  He paused.  “Mr. Kuryakin appears to be dying.”


Napoleon, his face pale with shock, whispered, “You must be mistaken?”


Mr. Waverly responded gravely, “I’m afraid not, Mr. Solo.”


“We’ve run dozens of test so far.  I’m afraid there is no doubt,” The doctor added.


“I don’t understand.  What….?” 


“We don’t know.  We’re continuing to run tests.”


 “Can I see him?” he asked, not knowing which way to turn.


“Yes, he’s conscious now,” the doctor said.


Looking back at the doctor, Napoleon asked quietly, “Does he know?”  But it was Mr. Waverly who shook his head before turning and walking away.


Napoleon entered the room to find his partner sitting up in bed, his face thunderous, looking better than he had.  Illya looked up at his entrance and smiled, relieved to see him.  Noticing the expression on Napoleon’s face, he frowned and asked, “What’s wrong, Napoleon?”


Never having been able to deceive his Russian partner, Napoleon took a deep breath, reached over and took Illya’s hand in his and told him. Illya closed his eyes having trouble taking it all in.  Napoleon, his mind churning, was having a hard time as well.  A nurse entered the room and administered a sedative, while Napoleon stood by.  He stayed until Illya fell asleep, clinging to his hand in support.


The next day he headed for the medical section first thing on arrival.  Catching a nurse as she was leaving Illya’s room, he asked, “How is he?”  The nurse shook her head sadly before continuing down the hall.


Taking a deep breath and steeling himself, Napoleon entered the room to find Illya, sitting up in bed wearing blue pajamas that matched his eyes, glance up and take one look at Napoleons face before saying, “You look worse than I feel.”


“Hi,” Napoleon said weakly, with a drawn smile.  He wanted to ask Illya how he was feeling but the words stuck in his throat.


“Who died?”  Illya quipped.


Napoleon turned away, not wanting Illya to see him this close to tears.


Illya sighed. He had intended the joke to relieve the situation. “I’m sorry, Napoleon.”


Napoleon turned back to him in surprise. “You’re sorry?  I’m the one who should be sorry.” Closing his eyes in pain, he continued, his voice was full of the distress he felt.

“Last night I couldn’t sleep, all I could think about is what am I going to do if...”


Illya reached out and put his hand on Napoleon’s arm to pull him closer. “Napoleon, I have a favor of you to ask.”


Napoleon nodded, waiting for him to continue.


“I want to go home,” Illya said earnestly.


“Illya, I don’t think they’ll let…” Napoleon started to say.


Reading Napoleon’s mind, something they had been able to do for years, he shook his head and continued, “Not to my apartment, Napoleon, to Russia.  If…” he looked away and closed his eyes for a minute, before turning back to plead, “If…I am going to die, I would wish to see my homeland again.  Please?”


Looking into those eyes, Napoleon swallowed hard. “I’ll see what I can do,” he promised.


“Thank you. That is all I can ask for.” Illya’s hand squeezed the arm he was holding as Napoleon reached over to cover it with his own. 


Act 2


It hadn’t been easy, Napoleon had to fight long and hard but he finally got permission as well as a special plane to take Illya home.  The only concession was that a nurse had to accompany them.  Them, he thought, for he wasn’t about to let Illya go without him.


They were at the airport waiting to board the special plane when he spotted her.  He glanced at his partner sitting in a wheelchair, another concession.  Clasping him on the shoulder he murmured, “I’ll be back.”


 Illya glanced up at him and then over at her and reluctantly nodded.


“Hello, Angelique,” he said as he came up behind her, his hands in his pockets.


Turning to look at him she gave him a seductive smile. “Hello, darling.”


“What brings you here?” he asked not smiling back.


Pulling her fur stole closer around her she replied, “I heard the sad news, darling, and even though your little Russian friend and I don’t get along …” Her voice caught. “I know how much he means to you.”


He looked away unable to meet her eyes.


“Do you know what…?” she ventured softly.


He only shook his head.


“If it makes you feel any better, I can assure you that THURSH has nothing to do with this,” she stated gently.


He finally looked at her. “It doesn’t,” he said tonelessly before walking away.


When he arrived back at Illya’s wheelchair, his partner looked up. “What did the she-devil want?”


Napoleon started pushing the wheelchair out the door to the waiting plane.  “She said she loved you and was just using me as an excuse to make you jealous.”


That brought a smirk to Illya’s face and by the time they got to the plane, he was laughing out loud and didn’t stop till they were safely strapped in the plane.  He looked over to his friend and smiled.  “Thank you.  I haven’t felt much like laughing lately.”


Napoleon smiled back as he remarked, “You’re welcome.”


An hour into the flight, the nurse insisted that Illya be moved into the private bedroom at the back of the plane, with Napoleon’s help, she made sure her patient was situated on the large bed and made comfortable while she handed him his pills to help him get to sleep.


“You should let him get some rest now,” the nurse said sternly to Napoleon, as he paused at the door to look back at his friend.


“I will in a minute,” he remarked absently as he leaned against the door and watched his partner slowly close his eyes in sleep.




He jerked awake suddenly; evidently he’d gone to sleep leaning against the door, looked at his partner who was barely awake.


“What?” he asked softly.


“It must be very uncomfortable sleeping standing up. This bed is very large,” Illya replied, scooting over to make room.


Napoleon considered and relented, he didn’t really want to leave Illya alone, so he went to the bed to remove his shoes and lie back.  As he turned to his side, his back to his partner, he felt Illya’s hand grab the back of his jacket and smiled before letting sleep claim him.


“Really!  This is most unacceptable.”


Napoleon jolted to wakefulness, and it was a minute before he could place his surroundings as he watched the nurses retreating back before turning to his partner.


Illya was also awake. “I don’t think she quite knows what to make of us, Napoleon,” he said with a smirk.


“Who cares,” Napoleon answered as he got out of the bed, his clothing rumpled and his hair awry, and rubbed the sleep out of eyes.  He looked down at his partner before going to the private bath and showering.  With fresh clothes and a good meal, he was more than ready to spend the rest of the flight entertaining his friend.


Act 3


On their arrival at the Moscow airport, they were met be none other then the American Ambassador and given diplomatic immunity.  “Alexander insisted I see to it that you are well taken care of.  You and your party, of course, will be staying at the embassy.”  This surprised the two agents, as they had not been aware of the arrangement beforehand. Escorting them to the waiting limousine, the ambassador engaged in small talk till they arrived at the embassy.  After being shown through security, the two men were shown to their rooms, which were connected by a private bath, and left to rest from their long trip.


The next morning over breakfast a list was made of places that Illya wished to visit and detailed plans made.  Train schedules were consulted and a timetable set and the following day they started out, the nurse bringing up the rear with her medical bag full of pills.  It was a wonderful change to actually enjoy seeing a country without being shot at and they took it slowly so as not to tire Illya out.


Four days later they were back at the embassy when a call came through for Napoleon. 


“Hello, darling.”


“Angelique!” he said in surprise.  “To what do I owe the pleasure of this call?”


“I have some information for you, concerning your little friend,” she purred. “Could you both meet me outside the Moscow museum today at two?”


Napoleon debated, it would be worth it to find out whatever information she might have.  “Sure.”


“Ciao, Bella, till then,” she purred yet again as she rang off. 


Illya who had been listening to Napoleon’s side of the conversation asked, “What does she want?”   His voice dripped with sarcasm and not a little suspicion.


“I don’t know,” Napoleon said, looking thoughtful.


“Do you trust her?”  Illya asked.


“Yes.  I think I do,” Napoleon said with a smile, causing Illya to shake his head.



Angelique had been very busy since she had last seen Napoleon.  With all the contacts at her disposal, she had worked hard to find a link to Illya’s illness for him.  THRUSH was not part of whatever the problem was, she was sure.  She had managed to obtain a copy of Kuryakin’s medical report, how and why would never be known, and had several THRUSH scientists look it over for any clues.  She had even seduced a young computer wiz to do a search for anything even remotely similar and had finally hit pay dirt.  This was not THRUSH, this was something personal.  Then she had contacted Napoleon.


Angelique was waiting for them when they arrived and after greeting Napoleon with a passionate kiss. After which she gave Illya, seated in his wheelchair, a brief smile while merely glancing at the nurse who accompanied them.  “Darling, I want to take both of you to see a friend of mine,” she said as she linked her arm through Napoleon’s.


“What if I say no?”  Napoleon asked.


“Then I would say you will live to regret it.”  Her eyes were somber.


The two men exchanged looks and Illya nodded.  Whatever Angelique wanted had piqued his curiosity.  With a look of delight, Angelique ushered them to an awaiting car.  They were very surprised when they pulled up at the German Embassy, and Angelique rushed up the stairways to greet an elderly man wearing the usual white coat of a doctor.  “Darlings, I would like you to meet Dr. Schmidt, an old and dear friend of mine.”


Napoleon was amused. “Hello, Dr. Schmidt?  I take it that’s not your real name.” His mind was totally on taking in his surroundings and searching for any possible ambush.


“That is correct,” the doctor replied with a faint smile and a small bow, he led them into the building. Turning to Kuryakin, he asked politely, “Vould it be possible for me to hav a sample of your blood?”


Illya looked distinctly nervous and the nurse was all but indignant.  Napoleon felt called to ask, “Is that really necessary?”


Angelique pulled him aside. “Napoleon, this is important.”  Her eyes told of the magnitude of the request.


Napoleon looked back at his partner and nodded, letting him know that he should comply.  Illya in turn looked at the doctor and held out his arm.  The doctor went to work rolling up Illya’s sleeve in preparation for taking his sample while the nurse looked on glaring.


After Dr. Schmidt left with his sample Angelique showed them to a fashionably furnished room and offered drinks to everyone.   Napoleon and Illya accepted theirs, but the nurse refused receiving a shrug from Angelique who merely said, “Suit yourself.”


An hour later the doctor returned and pulled Angelique aside. “It is positive.” 


Angelique nodded and turned to the nurse.  “Could I see the pills you have been giving Mr. Kuryakin?” she demanded, her voice hard.


The nurse looked resentful.  “And if I refuse?”


Napoleon who was beginning to get the drift ordered, “Do it.”


The nurse with an insolent air opened her bag as if to get out the pills and pulled a gun. 


“Why?” demanded Napoleon.


“I will tell you nothing,” the nurse said, her voice hard, and her eyes blazed as she turned the gun toward Illya and prepared to fire.


Angelique quickly grabbed her trying to subdue her and they were soon rolling on the floor.  Napoleon started to go to her aid, but Illya held him back.


“I am sure Angelique would not appreciate your interference.” 


Soon Angelique got the upper hand and pulling back her fist managed to knock the nurse out.


“Nice right hook you have there,” Napoleon said impressed.


Angelique gracefully got up, straightening her clothes and patted her hair back into place.   “I think you will find this all goes back to something in your friend’s distant past,” she said glancing over at Illya.  “If I were you I would get him back to New York as soon as possible.”


“How can I ever thank you?”  Napoleon said gratefully as he nodded his agreement.


Looking at him with sultry eyes she answered, “I’ll think of something, darling.  Now I must leave.”  She turned and gave the doctor a peck on the cheek before giving Napoleon another passionate kiss, while Illya looked on rolling his eyes.  She turned to walk away, then did an about face and going over to the wheelchair, pulled Illya’s face up for an equally ardent kiss.  The stunned look on his face was worth it she thought as she left.


Act 4


Three weeks later Napoleon entered Illya’s office to what seemed like déjà vu.


Illya was once again in the midst of paperwork, having fully recovered from the subtle poison that had been slowly killing him.  Angelique had been right; it had been retaliation for something he’d done before joining UNCLE.  He hadn’t told Napoleon anything about it and wasn’t planning to.  The past was the past and he refused to dredge it up.


Illya looked up to find his partner looking at him speculatively.   “What now?”


“How would you feel about coming home with me?”  Seeing the look on Illya’s face he corrected himself.  “Not my apartment…where I grew up.  I got to see something of your past and wanted to show you something of mine.”


Illya considered it for a while before nodding with a smile.  “It would be my pleasure.”


Two days later they arrived at Napoleon’s hometown.  Over the course of the next few days they visited where Napoleon used to live, schools he went to, and even where he had played little league. They were now standing in front of a statue with park benches all around.  Napoleon said proudly, “And this is where I stole my first kiss.”


Illya snickered and said dryly, “I see they put up a statue in honor of the event.”


Napoleon looked at him, contemplating his next action.  He then stepped closer, and giving in to something he’d wanted to do for a long time, kissed him. 


Illya pulled back, his eyes troubled. “Napoleon, we can not do this.” And with a sigh continued, “You are too much like Lays Potato chips to me.”


Napoleon looked at him confused.


“You know, can not eat just one?” Illya’s eyes mirrored his amusement.


Napoleon found it comical that his friend would come up with a food related analogy, but he backed up a respectable distance understanding what his friend was trying to say.


“Besides, I owe Angelique, and she would probably kill me,” Illya said, his eyes asking for understanding.


“You’re probably right,” Napoleon said a little sadly to the man he thought of as more than a brother, before coming up with an alternative.  “How does blood brother sound?”


Illya perked up noticeably.  “You know I’ve always wondered…”


Napoleon smiled and pulled out his penknife.  Opening it, he ran it lightly across his palm, slicing it open, then taking the hand Illya held out repeated the process and clasped their hands together formally sealing the pact.


“Blood brothers,” Illya said softly with a radiant smile.


Napoleon looked at him and smiled back. Then with a slight frown of apprehension he asked, “You do know I’m not Indian, right?”


The End.




yumyumpm: Napoleon and Illya (Man from UNCLE)
 Beware of What You Wish For


Originally published in YumYum Collected

Revised 6/10/09

When the two agents find themselves hanging Napoleon makes a, for him, unusual wish.  Then an experiment conducted by a mad scientist while on assignment leaves him with an strange talent and he learns some interesting things about Illya.  Things begin to get interesting and could change their partnership in ways they never thought of.


The two agents hung facing each other, eye-to-eye, their bodies less than two feet apart, their bodies swaying slightly.  As usual they were bickering.


“Look this isn’t my fault,” Solo insisted.


“You picked the restaurant.  You made the reservation,” Illya flung back.


Napoleon Solo, the darker of the two, sighed as he looked into the unreadable blue eyes of his Russian partner and wished for the hundredth time that he could read his mind.  The two agents hadn’t even been working when they had exited the restaurant, only to be overpowered and dragged to the vacant warehouse where they currently found themselves strung up.  He was lost as to who the men that had taken them captive were and more important – why?  They hadn’t asked a single question, just strung them up with chains and left them, laughing about the bomb that was planted, waiting to go off.


“You wouldn’t by any chance have any, ah…?” Solo arched one brow as he asked.


“No.  Do you?” the Russian replied, scowling, his chin coming up defiantly.


With a smug smile, the American replied nonchalantly, “As a matter of fact…”


“You do.  Where?” Incredulity lit the Russian’s face.


“Ah, you’ll have to come closer,” Napoleon said with a twinkle in his eye.


“How close?” was Illya’s wary response.  Considering their current predicament, amusement was not what he expected.


“Very,” Napoleon purred.


Shaking his head, the Russian’s cool blue eyes locked onto Solo’s as he tried to gauge whether he should believe him or not.  Deciding he had nothing to lose, he got a grip on the chain, then the pole, before he carefully managed to inch his way closer toward the darker man.  It was not easy and he was panting with the exertion when he finally stopped within inches of his goal.  He tilted his head to one side and asked, “So, where is it?”


“In the tag at the back of my shirt,” Solo replied as he tried to keep a smug smile off his face.


“Napoleon!”  The ridiculousness of the placement made Illya tetchy.


“Look.  It wasn’t my idea,” Napoleon responded with a shrug, as well as he could despite the fact that his hands were chained above his head.  


Illya maneuvered closer to try and reach the lock pick that someone from armory had decided to hide in the tag at the back of Napoleon’s collar.  Why the tag, why not his belt-buckle or the collar itself, he thought?   It made no sense.  However, it was the only thing he had to work with, so he did his best to reach it.


Napoleon could feel Illya’s harsh breath on his neck and he closed his eyes as his body started to react strangely to the closeness of his partner.  He breathed in the scent of the Russian as fire started to course through his veins and tremors of desire swept over him while Illya tried desperately to reach the lock pick.  Unusual as it was Illya, and not some gorgeous woman, who was generating these reactions. 


In order for Illya to reach the tag, he would have to more or less plaster himself to his partner.  When their bodies came into contact, it felt so good that Napoleon had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from moaning.  Only his professionalism allowed him to mask his reaction to the closeness of his partner.  He blinked and wondered if the Russian had any idea of the effect he was having on Napoleon.


As close as they were, Illya still could not reach the back of Napoleon’s shirt and with a growl of frustration, he pulled away.  Looking intently into warm brown eyes, Illya asked, “Do you trust me?”


Napoleon nodded, not trusting his voice.


Nudging Napoleon’s chin up with the top of his head and using his teeth, Illya proceeded to loosen Napoleon’s tie.   Then he pulled off the top button of Napoleon’s shirt with his teeth.


“Careful.  It explodes,” Napoleon murmured with studied casualness.


Illya rolled his eyes and with a mischievous glint, flicked his blond head, letting the button fly across the room toward the door of their cell.


Napoleon flinched as the bomb exploded, shaking the room and leaving the door in pieces.  He glanced at the Russian’s smug face as Illya again moved close to him to gain access to the lock pick.  He couldn’t help it as his breathing got ragged and his body started to shudder.


“Hold still,” Illya hissed into his ear and Napoleon’s eyes popped as Illya brought a leg up and around him to hold him steady enough so he could retrieve the lock pick.  Napoleon bent his head forward to allow Illya greater access to the tag, surprised by how good it felt having him this close.  A strange desire to place his lips against that neck stretched next to his swept over him as Illya finally got his teeth on the lock pick.


“Boost me up,” Illya muttered around the lock pick once he had backed away from Solo.


“What?  How?” Solo was having trouble focusing and found to his chagrin that his thought processes were lagging.


Illya glared at him and hissed, “Think of something.  I need to reach my hands.”


Napoleon looked up at the hands hanging from the pipe.  In his effort to reach them, Illya had gotten a hold on the chain and pulled himself up.  Even then, he was still short of reaching his goal.  With a mental sigh, Napoleon considered his options and then did the only thing he could.  Trying to keep from swinging too much, he brought one knee up between Illya’s legs, giving him the boost he needed.   This however, caused an unfortunate reaction in the area of his groin.   Looking down he muttered, “Down, boy.”


“I can’t.  Not until…I reach…my hands,” Illya replied, unaware that he was not the one for whom the command had been intended.


Seconds later, he easily managed to reach his hands.  “You can remove your knee now,” Illya said sarcastically as he reached up to unlock his cuffs before dropping gracefully to the ground and rubbing his sore wrists.  With amusement, he looked up at his partner and said speculatively, “I suppose I could leave you up there.”


Napoleon glared down at him and growled.


Illya relented with a grin and reached up to let his partner loose.  “Why did you bother to ask if I had anything on me if you had a lock pick on you all the time?”


Napoleon, his feet now back on the floor, shrugged as he adjusted his cuffs.  “It seemed like the polite thing to do at the time.”


Shaking his head Illya suggested, “Perhaps now would be a good time to vacate the premises.”


While racing through the building, Napoleon struggles to banish his recent reaction to his partner.   Once outside the building, they dove for cover, Napoleon protecting Illya with his body, savoring the feeling of the lithe body under his, just seconds before the bomb went off.


Once Napoleon shifted away from Illya’s body they found that ‘Solo’s luck’ had stood them in good stead, and only Napoleon’s suit sustained any damage.  As they inspected the damage, Illya said, “Perhaps I should have been the one on top.”


Napoleon tapped him on the chest and teased, “There’s not enough of you to protect anyone.” 


Illya made a face that clearly said what he thought of that statement.


Patting his pockets, Napoleon asked, “Have you got a nickel?”  They needed to get in touch with headquarters and their captors had taken everything of value away from them, everything except the lock pick.


Illya turned his pockets inside out.  “Afraid not.  Looks like we will have to call collect.”


“Mr. Waverly’s going to love that,” Napoleon muttered, as the two men went in search of a payphone.  With stern effort, he managed to relegate to the back of his mind the feelings Illya’s closeness had provoked.

Not too long after, early in 1965, the two agents once again found themselves captured, guests of a mad scientist whom U.N.C.L.E. had long suspected of conducting extremely unethical research in the area of brain transference.  His delight in having two new subjects to use for experimental purposes was incomprehensible. 


Why does this always seem to happen to us?  Illya thought, as the two agents found themselves lying on tables side by side. He turned to look at his partner and remarked.  “I can understand why he’d want to transfer my brain, but why yours?”


Napoleon just snorted at the sarcastic remark.  Illya’s smug superiority was beginning to grate.  The hair on the back of his neck prickled as he glanced nervously at the scientist and watched him pull the lever, sending an electrical shock through his body and causing him to arch in pain.  The last thing he clearly remembered before oblivion took over was the sound of Illya’s voice shouting his name.  He was dead to the world in more ways than one when April Dancer and Mark Slate arrived; effecting what they thought was a timely rescue. 


When Napoleon woke in the hospital, following this incident, he knew instantly that his partner was nearby even before he opened his eyes.  This shouldn’t have been surprising except for the fact that he also knew that Illya was clearly agitated, though you wouldn’t have known it from looking at him. 


“Hi,” Napoleon said groggily


“Welcome back,” Illya responded from the chair next to the bed.  “For awhile there, I wasn’t sure you would wake up.”


“You miss me?”  Napoleon asked in spite of knowing with sudden clarity that Illya had. 


“Of course not,” Illya lied. 


“What are you doing?” Napoleon asked.


“Writing up our report,” Illya said as his gaze returned to the clipboard on his lap. 


It was obvious to Napoleon, though he wasn’t sure how, that Illya did not want to write that report - that Illya had never liked writing reports.  “You don’t have to write it.  I’ll take care of it.”


“Napoleon, I’ve already done the part you were conscious for and you don’t even know what happened next.”


“So you could tell me.”  Napoleon reached over and pulled the clipboard from Illya’s hands.  “Okay, let’s see.  Oh yes, Dr. Klyber pulled the switch and…?”


You almost died… you were dead… had stopped breathing. 


Napoleon looked up, surprised at the aggrieved tone in which the words had been uttered.  The obstinate Russian never voiced his concern, why was he doing so now?  Somehow, Napoleon knew in an instant that Illya had not actually said what he’d just heard.


“I’m not dead,” Napoleon stated quietly.


“Of course not,” Illya repeated gruffly in his usual manner.   Thank God.


Somehow, the thought that his partner cared made Napoleon feel good.  He had felt the worry emanate off his partner with an insight he had never had realized before.  He remembered wishing he could read his partner’s mind and now it looked as if he could.  Napoleon knew better than to let on about this to his partner.   He knew number one, Illya would probably kill him and two, U.N.C.L.E. medical would have a field day if they found out.  That was something he was not looking forward to, so he kept his silence. 


When he was finally released from medical, he noticed he could perceive thoughts emulating from the stoic Russian when they were in close proximity and the closer they were the better the reception.  Entering Illya’s office shortly afterward, he was surprised to learn that Illya really, really did not like doing paper work.  It wasn’t anything the Russian said, but Napoleon had the distinct impression that he only did it because it was his duty.


Over time he gradually learned other things he hadn’t known about his partner.  Odd little things kept popping up, like the realization that Illya enjoyed reading poetry.  Napoleon had been sitting at his desk when lines from a piece of poetry kept popping into his head. 



Because I could not stop for Death,

He kindly stopped for me;
The carriage held but just ourselves
And Immortality.


He vaguely recalled reading this particular poem when he was younger and was wondering why he was thinking about it now, when Illya wandered in, a book in his hand.


“What are you reading?” Napoleon asked.


“Oh nothing,” Illya said as he tried to hide the title from view. 


Napoleon looked at him. “Poetry?”


Illya looked embarrassed.  “How did you know?”


“Lucky guess.”  It wouldn’t do to tell Illya that he could recite word for word the poem he’d been reading.


It was surprising to find that the impervious Russian had a romantic streak and Napoleon couldn’t help but wonder how his partner felt about being kissed.  Why it was important to know that about his partner he wasn’t sure.  The answer came as he happened upon Illya, who was receiving a thank you kiss from one of the secretaries for helping her with a problem she had been having with her computer.  At least, Napoleon had picked up the feeling that Illya had enjoyed the kiss; however, he was not prepared to test the kissing theory, in case this was only wishful thinking on his part.  It puzzled him how much his thoughts of Illya in a sexual way were occurring.  He realized that as head of Section Two, thinking about kissing his partner was somewhat inappropriate, especially when it led to his thinking about doing other things to the stoic Russian.   It got to the point that he even gave serious consideration to resigning as head of Section Two until he realized Illya would be his replacement, which put him right back at square one.


Napoleon gradually got used to having Illya in his head. In fact, there were times when it came in downright handy. 

The See Paris and Die Affair

It was while on assignment in Paris that he also learned that when Illya was extremely angry, his thoughts reverted to Russian, almost impossible to read, and at the moment Illya was angry now. 

“And you told him.”


“Now, Illya, you wouldn’t want me to lie to Mr. Waverly, would you.”


“You……blockhead,” Illya sputtered


To make matters worse, Solo whirled away with Mary Pilgrim, the innocent they had manipulated during this affair, as he called back to his angry partner.  “Dance with the lady, pussycat.”  The look Illya sent Solo needed no translation.


One way or another, Napoleon somehow managed to get back to the room they were sharing before his partner.  He felt a little guilty about the trick he’d played on his partner, but the Russian rarely made a mistake, so he hadn’t been able to resist.  He was just getting ready to slide into bed when the door flew open and an extremely irate Russian entered the room.


“You left me alone with that…that…”  Illya stammered as he slammed the door behind him.


Napoleon regarded his partner in shock before starting to back away.  Illya was so furious that he was thinking in Russian and Ukrainian and Napoleon couldn’t make out a word of it.


“Damn you, Napoleon.”  There was murder in the Russian’s eyes as he advanced on the American with intent to do major bodily damage.


Solo used to a certain cool, collected Russian, knew what he had done was irritating yet he was unable to understand the reason behind all this… anger.  Sure, he’d baited Illya, but he’d done that before many a time and never managed to get Illya this mad.  Unfortunately, Illya evidently didn’t see it that way.  In his opinion, this was the last in a long line of grievances he had against his partner.


The two men circled the room, Napoleon being somewhat hampered by the fact that he didn’t want to hurt Illya.  Illya, on the other hand, seemed under no such restraint. The small room ended up taking the brunt of the damage as Napoleon pushed objects in the way, which Illya violently sent crashing to the side.   Illya finally managed to manhandle his partner onto one of the beds before he leaped on him to thwart any idea Solo might have of escaping his punishment.  Illya was out of control and Napoleon had no idea what he planned to do, furthermore, he realized that there was nothing he could do to stop him. 


“Illya, I realize you’re mad,” Napoleon said desperately as he sought to placate the deranged Russian.


“Mad?   Mad is not the word for what I am.”  The normally icy blue eyes blazed with fire.


Illya’s thought patterns were so loud that they were beginning to give Napoleon a headache.  Napoleon grabbed his head as the pain intensified and managed to gasp out.  “Not so loud… in English… in English.   I can’t understand you.”  Napoleon, after he managed to open the eyes that he hadn’t known he’d shut; found himself looking into his partner’s glacial eyes.  He watched with relief as they changed from anger to questioning.  He knew that Illya had no idea what he was talking about, since Illya hadn’t actually said anything.   His head was pounding unmercifully and he covered his eyes with the palms of his hands trying to lessen the throbbing.  “Why… are you so… mad?”


Illya’s breathing slowed as he abruptly moved back to the foot of the bed.  As he sought to gain control of his temper, he asked himself, Why am I so angry?


Napoleon lay panting on the bed, his arm covering his face.  “That’s better… what do you mean you have no idea why you’re so angry?”


Illya’s eyes became suspicious slits as he pondered that statement.   “How did you know what I was thinking?” he asked aloud.


“Umm, Illya, there’s something I should have told you,” Napoleon said reluctantly.


“And what would that be?”  Illya was willing to listen now that he had control over his emotions.


Napoleon cleared his throat and sat up to look his partner in the face.  “Remember that deranged scientist six months ago?”


Illya nodded.


“Evidently the experiment wasn’t a complete failure,” Napoleon stated flatly.


Illya blinked. “Exactly what does not a complete failure mean?” he asked apprehensively, his mind racing through the possibilities.


“Could you please slow down,” Napoleon gasped, gripping his head.  “I’m having a little trouble taking it all in.”


“You can read my mind?”  Illya backed further away in shock before asking indignantly.  “How long have you been in my head?”


“Hey, it’s you that have been in my head, tovarish.  It’s not like I have any control over it,” Napoleon responded with a glare.


“Don’t tovarish me.  How long?”


“About six months now,” Napoleon admitted and taking a deep breath, went on.  “And there’s something else I need to tell you.”


“Go ahead.”


“Well, Illya, it’s like this,” Napoleon said hesitantly.  He wasn’t sure how Illya was going to take this.  “For some time now… I’ve found myself… harboring certain…ummm…feelings.”  He paused.  “Toward you.”


“What kind of feelings?”  Illya asked apprehensively.


Napoleon massaged his forehead with one hand.  “Do I have to spell it out for you?”


A stunned Illya looked away.  His mind went over the implications and coming to a decision, he pushed Napoleon back down on the bed and straddled him, his face inches from his partner’s.  “Read my mind now, Napoleon,” he dared him.


Solo concentrated before breaking out into a delighted grin.  “Why you devious Russian.” Napoleon looked at his partner in surprise - he’d finally caught it.  “I didn’t know,” he said positively elated, then he looked away puzzled.  “Why didn’t I know?”  


“If you had known, I assumed you would have wanted a new partner,” Illya said, despondently.


“No.  If I’d have known, I would have done this,” Napoleon said as he grabbed the delectable blond by his tie and pulled him close to claim his lips in a slow and tantalizing kiss.  As the kiss grew deeper and more lustful, Napoleon virtually ripped the clothing from the willing Russian, before covering the slighter body with his own.  The pajamas Napoleon was wearing vanished as if by magic and the two men ground their bodies together, creating a friction that all too soon drove them both over the edge, as they tried to muffle their moans of pleasure.


Napoleon turned to his side, breathing heavily, as his hand skimming ever so gently down the body of the man beside him.


“I cannot believe…”  Illya gasped in disbelief.


“That this just happened,” Napoleon finished as he pulled Illya back down and first used his hands and his mouth to soothe the trembling in his partner before changing it to a more sensual touch that brought shivers to the body beneath him.  No words were spoken as the voice in his head told him which ways were best to please his partner.  A touch here, a touch there soon had Illya moaning with pleasure. Once having gotten to that point, Napoleon relinquished control.


Napoleon sighed when they had finished for the second time. He gently turned toward Illya and lifted the other man’s chin with one finger.  Napoleon leaned forward, preparing to renew the sensations once again when he chanced to look at the clock on the bedside table.  “Damn, we have planes to catch,” he said regretfully as he leaped out of the bed to get ready.  

The Children's Day Affair 

One year later, they were on a train together heading back to the Geneva office after doing a security check for an important conference of U.N.C.L.E. heads.   Napoleon was somewhat relieved that, over time, the connection between them had faded.  Now as far as sex was concerned, the two agents approach to it was as different as night and day.  Kuryakin viewed sex the same way as one would an itch, if it bothered him enough he took care of it, if not he ignored it.  Solo, on the other hand, viewed sex in the same manner as he viewed a good wine or a good meal, an experience to be savored and enjoyed.  It had at times proven most embarrassing when Illya would finally relieve his ‘itch’ at the same time Napoleon was savoring his ‘wine’.”


During this last mission, Illya had been brutally whipped by a sadistic woman who called herself Mother Fear, his back a mass of bloody stripes when Napoleon had found him.  In spite of all that, they had managed to escape and stop her and Dennis Jenks, the head master of a nearby boys’ school, from assassinating the top level U.N.C.L.E. heads.


It had been a long day and Waverly decided they should spend the night at the lodge before heading back to New York.  Napoleon sat looked out the train window, trying to get comfortable, as he reflected on how much things had changed over the last year.  After Paris, the two agents had decided to play it by ear, with Solo never actively initiating their encounters, preferring to leave the when and where to his partner.  He could still count on one hand the number of times they had gotten together and enjoyed each other.  Take last night for instance.  When Illya normally initiated anything, he did more or less apologetic- last night he had been… demanding.


Napoleon had been unable to sleep because of all the tossing and turning Illya was doing in the other bed, evidently unable to find a less painful position.  Finally, Napoleon sighed and asked quietly.  “Does it hurt?”


“No,” had come the sharp reply.


“Don’t lie to me, Illya.”


There had been a pause of minutes before Illya replied reluctantly.  “It is merely… uncomfortable.”


Napoleon had turned and propped himself up on one elbow, asked, “Did you take the pain medication?”


“Yes.”  Illya snapped.


Napoleon had gotten up out of his bed and reached over for the jar of cream the doctor had prescribed. He had gone to the other bed and sat next to Illya who was currently lying on his stomach.  “Why don’t we apply some of this to your back?  It might help.”


Illya turned and looked at his partner.  He grabbed the jar from him and slammed it back down on the nightstand.  “No.  I don’t need that.”


“What is it you need then?”  Napoleon had asked, more than a little exasperated.


The next thing Napoleon had known, his slight partner had turned and pounced on him, driving him down on the bed and ruthlessly taking possession of his mouth.  There was no gentleness, just an urgent hunger and he felt like his tonsils were being sucked out of his throat.  The younger man’s mouth trailed down Napoleon’s neck, sharp nips and kisses down to his chest.  He had let up just long enough to rip open Napoleon’s pajama top, sending button’s flying.  


Napoleon was breathing hard as Illya ran his hand over his broad chest, tweaking the nubs of his breast before running his tongue over one than biting down – hard.  Napoleon had arched off the bed and panted.  “Illya, you’re killing me here.”


Illya had then backed away, his eyes burning with need and Napoleon had no problem discerning what.  Illya’s body had been trembling and he demanded, “Napoleon…”


 “Oh no, no, no, no,” Napoleon had said, shaking his head.  Of all the ways they had come together, that was one they had not done.


“Napoleon, please?”  Illya had begged.  The two men stared at each other for what seemed like ages.


“Damn…did you have to say please?”  Napoleon had sighed as he sat up and started removing the rest of his pajamas.  “How do you want me?” 


Illya hurriedly removed his own clothing, a wolfish grin on his face, before he had turned a reluctant Napoleon over on his stomach and positioned several pillows under his hips.  Then he had reached over for the jar of cream, not planning to employ it for its intended use.


Napoleon had buried his head in his arms and felt his rear cheeks parted and a finger piercing him, the sensation decidedly unusual, though not unpleasant.  He couldn’t help squirming as the finger was joined by others stretching and massaging his inner passage before hitting a spot that sent waves of pleasure up his spine.


Illya had removed his fingers and slapped Napoleon sharply on his ass, growling, “Be still.”


His erection was hard as a rock and it had been all Illya could do to hold back enough to carefully prepare Napoleon.  Hurriedly coating his straining erection, he slid into the body of his partner’s body with one swift thrust, a sigh of relief escaping his lips.


For Napoleon, the merging of their two bodies was more electrifying as he felt not only himself being entered, but the urgency and pain of Illya’s need centered in his mind.  The sharp pain of being entered had quickly been replaced with pleasure…pleasure doubled since it was not just his own, but Illya’s as well.  It had not been a gentle possession either, what with Illya slamming into him, hitting the right spot on every stroke.


Somehow both men had managed to keep their moans and growls of pleasure to a minimum and when Illya made his final thrust, they both managed to swallow the loud cries that wanted to escape.


Illya had collapsed across Napoleon’s back and muttered, “Are you all right?”


“Yeah,” he’d mumbled in reply.  Though in fact, Napoleon wasn’t sure if he was all right.  He was trying to sort through all the sensations he had experienced.


“Good,” Illya had said just before falling asleep.


The next morning Napoleon had woken, a sleeping Russian still plastered to his back, and the phone ringing. Total contentment radiated from the slumbering Russian.  Napoleon reached over to grab the phone, trying not to disturb him.  “Solo,” he’d muttered.


“Good morning, gentlemen.  Be prepared to leave in exactly one hour,” Alexander Waverly had announced before hanging up the phone on his end.


Napoleon had hung the phone up with a groan.  Nudging the man on his back, he said, “Wake up, sleepy head.  We have one hour to get to the train.”


“Don’t wanna,” the drowsy man had muttered.  It’s comfortable here, he thought.


“I know you’re comfortable, but we have to get ready to leave,” Napoleon had urged.


Illya had considered that statement and moved just enough so he could see Napoleon’s face.  “Is there something I should be aware of?” he’d asked apprehensively.


Napoleon waited a moment, debating on Illya’s state of mind.  “Possibly.  Let me sort it out first…okay?” 


“Damn, you’re reading my mind again.”


Napoleon hadn’t denied it.  “Will you just get off me?  We don’t have time for this.”


They had somehow managed to meet Waverly at the station in time.

Illya, at the back of the train, watched Napoleon squirm in his seat and moved to sit down across from him.
  “Does it hurt?” he asked.


“No,” was the sharp reply.


“Napoleon, don’t lie to me,” Illya said sternly, trying hard not to smile.


“It is merely…uncomfortable.”  Napoleon turned his gaze to his partner, unable to resist repeating Illya’s comment from last night.


Napoleon could clearly hear the laughter that Illya was generating, even though his face showed no signs of it.


“Napoleon, I’m sorry…I didn’t mean to…” Illya said quietly with a sigh.


“Don’t…” He didn’t want an apology.  “I was looking forward to a repeat performance,” Napoleon answered as he gazed affectionately at his partner.


Illya moved to sit next to his friend.  “Perhaps tonight we can see just how much you retained of last nights’ activity.”


Napoleon turned a worried glance to his friend.  “Are you sure?”


Illya shrugged as he leaned closer to his friend and whispered, “After all you have an advantage.  You can read my mind.”


Glancing at the blond Russian sitting next to him, Napoleon couldn’t help but notice a glint of mischievousness in Illya’s eyes.  Hopefully, that look meant what he thought it meant and surprised himself by again wishing that his partner could read his mind.  Illya tilted his head to one side and winked, causing Napoleon to think Ohhhh boy, as his features slowly changed to a heartwarming smile.   Maybe one need not beware of what they wished for after all.




yumyumpm: Napoleon and Illya (Man from UNCLE)

The Because I Miss You Affair


Originally written for Kuryakin Files 23



Napoleon Solo was whistling as he descended down the stairs to Del Floria’s Tailor Shop.  Two weeks away from grey steel corridors had a way of rejuvenating a man. Winking as he tossed a salute to the man behind the counter and entered the dressing cubicle, turning the hanger that took him into UNCLE headquarters.


“How was your vacation, Napoleon?”  The dark-haired beauty at the receptionist desk smiled as she leaned forward to ask conspiratorially.


“Absolutely wonderful, my dear,” the suave agent replied as he took her hand to bestow a kiss on it.  Two weeks in the Bahamas had left the agent well rested and tan. Wine, women, beaches, women, restaurants, women - what more could a man ask for?


“Is Illya in yet?” Napoleon asked.  One of the perks was being able to gloat about the fun he had while his partner had to work.


“Mr. Waverly asked to see you as soon as you got here,” she said as she took her hand back.  She hoped he didn’t notice that she hadn’t answered his question. 


“Can it possibly wait till I get a cup of coffee?” Napoleon asked with a frown as he leaning over for her to fasten his badge to his jacket.


“I’m afraid not,” she apologized, her hand lingering just a moment longer than was necessary on his lapel before handing him a stack of messages that had accumulated while he was gone.


Solo gave her a roguish smile before he entered the main corridor heading straight for the elevator that would take him to Mr. Waverly’s office.  He absentmindedly read his messages.  Jessica, Amanda, Monique, Susan.  Putting them away in a pocket, he stopped at the door to straighten his tie before continuing into the office and headed for his usual chair.  He assumed that his partner would already be waiting for him and he’d have a chance to regal him with how much he’d enjoyed his time away for the steel walled world they worked in.


He was somewhat surprised to find his partner not only not there, but another man seated in Illya’s usual chair.  He glanced at the man, noting that he was tall and thin, and his hair cut in a crew cut so short you couldn’t tell what color it actually was in stark contrast to Illya’s own long blond locks.


Napoleon was halfway seated when Alexander Waverly announced with an absentminded wave of his hand toward the other man seated at the round table. “Mr. Solo, I would like you to meet your new partner, Jack Standish.”  .


“New partner?  What’s the matter with my old one?”  Caught by surprised, Napoleon poised just above the seat of his chair.


“I’m sorry to say Mr. Kuryakin is no longer with us,” Waverly’s reply was blunt and he was avoiding eye contact.


“Ah, I’m sorry, sir.  Perhaps I didn’t hear you correctly,” Napoleon was beginning to develop a sense of alarm “You can’t possibly mean…?”


“No, No nothing like that.”  Waverly waved his pipe contritely, finally making eye contact.  “Mr. Kuryakin was recalled by his government.”


“When?” Napoleon was feeling as if he’d been pole axed.  Recalled?  There was no sign of any such action taking place when he left.  In point of fact they’d never actually discussed what would happen should his government recall Illya; indeed Napoleon had assumed after all this time that it would never happen. The two men had worked together a long time and to suddenly come back to find Illya gone was mind-boggling.


Waverly at least had the good grace to look uncomfortable.  “Three days ago.”


“And you let him go?”  Napoleon asked with a certain amount of outrage.  After all, Illya wasn’t just any agent, he was one of the best UNCLE had.  His knowledge of languages alone made him a valuable asset, not to mention his abilities in the lab and his remarkable talent with disguises.  Plus he was a darn good pick-pocket.


“We had no choice,” Mr. Waverly stated firmly his tone leaving no doubt that the subject was closed.  He had no intention of discussing this especially in front of another agent.   The orders had arrived and stated in no uncertain terms that one Illya Nickovetch Kuryakin was to return to the Soviet Union without delay.  “That will be enough about Mr. Kuryakin. You and Mr. Standish have an assignment.”  He then proceeded to outline the assignment as Napoleon tried to reign in his emotions.  However, he had difficulty concentrating on what his superior was saying. He was also having trouble understanding the reason why his partner and best friend had been recalled not to mention why nobody had thought enough to notify him of the fact.  Wasn’t he Chief Enforcement Agent after all?


“That will be all, gentlemen,” Mr. Waverly finished as he closed the folder, sending it around to stop in front of his chief enforcement agent.  He watched with concern as Solo picked up the folder and both agents got up to leave.  Damnable business this, he thought.  He hoped the feelers he had sent out to find what was behind the recall would turn up something soon.  He’d always felt that agents who worked as closely as those two did should not be friends.  He shook his head with disapproval before turning back to other matters.


Jack Standish followed his new partner out of the room.  He’d been watching Solo and was rather surprised that he had shown such concern about Kuryakin’s recall.  He’d heard the Russian was good, but he was smugly confident that soon Solo would see the he was a far better partner than the Russian had ever been and forget all about Kuryakin. Standish looked to the senior agent and said with faked sympathy. “Sorry to hear about Kuryakin, Solo, but I’m sure you’ll find me an excellent replacement.”


With a look of thinly disguised disgust Napoleon headed for his office with the unfortunate Standish in tow.  It was bad enough that Illya was gone, but this guy seemed to have a high opinion of himself.  It didn’t help matters that he stood four inches taller than Solo and had the irritating misfortune to talk through his nose.  Had he cared to check, Napoleon would have learned that Standish had just transferred in from the west coast and was highly experienced.  Not that it would have mattered.


Solo kept walking as Standish started to enter Kuryakin’s office.  He stopped surprised to find a work crew in the process of cleaning it out.


“Hold on here,” Solo ordered as he saw what was happening.  “Just what do you think you’re doing?”


The two workmen looked at each other before turning toward Standish to take their cue from him.  


“Mr. Waverly ordered Kuryakin’s things removed.  This is now my office,” Standish said matter-of-factly.


“I don’t give a damn what Waverly ordered,” Napoleon countered angrily.  “Nobody clears this office but me.” 


The workmen shrugged.  It made no difference to them who cleared the space out just so long as it was cleared. 


Napoleon hesitated before entering the room.  He was still having difficulty accepting the fact Illya was gone, and once he entered it would make the fact final.


“Would you like some help?”  Standish offered.


Napoleon looked at him in surprise, having already forgotten he was there.  “No….no, I’d rather do this alone.”  He waited for the men to leave before moving to the desk to empty it of any personal items that might have been left behind.  As he sat down his eye caught sight of an envelope addressed to him in his partner’s familiar handwriting.  He was hesitant to open it.  Picking up a letter opener he slit the envelope and slowly removed the letter within.




I’m truly sorry not to have had a chance to say goodbye, but it is undoubtedly for the best.

You know that I’ve enjoyed our years working together and how much I value our friendship.


Farewell my friend,

Illya N. Kuryakin


Napoleon crumpled the letter in his hand more than a little angry with his partner.  “Damn you, Illya,” he muttered.  “How could you let them do this to you…to us.” He’d only been away for two weeks and look what happened; Illya obviously couldn’t be trusted on his own. Appreciation for the way the Russian agent’s devious mind worked made working with anyone else unacceptable. 


Since they’d never discussed this possibility, somehow Napoleon had the idea that he’d never see his partner again, at least not alive. The suddenness of the summons would have been disquieting at anytime, but why now?   He considered all the possible reasons that his partner might be recalled for, but nothing serious came to mind.  For some reason this reminded him of the time his friend had been left to die on an island during The Concrete Overcoat Affair if not for a last minute rescue on his part and his chest tightened.  A last minute rescue!   It was minutes before he was aware of a knock at the door.


Mandy Stevenson paused outside the doorway before knocking.  She looked in to see Napoleon sitting, looking so alone and lost that her heart went out to him.  “Hi, Napoleon,” she said softly as she entered the room.  “I’m really sorry about Illya.” 


Napoleon cleared his throat.  “Thanks, Mandy.”  Geez, everyone knows but me.  Great.


“I thought you might want to see this...” she continued sympathetically as she hesitantly passed him a folder containing a copy of Illya’s recall orders.  Even though she worked in translations, she knew enough about their partnership to know that Napoleon would want whatever information there was on this.  Besides hadn’t Napoleon gone out of his way to let her have her own little bit of adventure?  He hadn’t had to do that.


Without saying a word Napoleon took it and just sat there staring at the folder.  “If there is anything I can do?”  she asked timidly before preparing to leave.


“Mandy,” he called to her causing her to turn back.  “Does anyone have any idea what’s behind this?”  He went through the folder as he spoke.


Mandy shook her head.  “It came as a complete surprise.  I don’t think even Illya was expecting it.  One minute he was here.”  She waved her hand around the office.  “Then poof he was gone.”


“Why didn’t anyone get in touch with me?”  Napoleon asked angrily.


Mandy bit her lip before replying, “Illya asked us not to.  He said he didn’t want to spoil your vacation.”


Napoleon leaned back in astonishment. Not spoil his vacation?  He was the chief enforcement agent.  Hadn’t Illya even realized what coming back to this could possibly….no of course not?  Shaking his head, he gave Mandy a rueful smile.  “Thanks,” he said.


He was sitting there reading its contents when Standish returned.  “Might I have my desk now?” the agent asked peevishly as he stood in front of the desk.


Napoleon pulled himself together and got out of the chair.  “Sure.  It’s all yours.”  He left the room holding two folders in one hand and the crumpled letter in the other.


“Solo, don’t you think we should discuss the mission?” Standish called after him.


Stopping and turning to face the man who could never replace Illya, he snapped, “Not now.”  And finished with thinking, not ever.  When he made it to his own office he took a deep breath and again opened the folder with Illya’s orders in it.  Coming to terms with this was harder than he expected.  He glanced down at the crumbled piece of paper he still held and carefully flattened it. 


He stared at the folder for several minutes before putting the letter carefully away in his desk drawer.  He opened the second folder that held the briefing that he should have been listening to while in Waverly’s office.  As he read the contents, his attitude took a turn for the better, and a slow smile passed over his face.  He reopened the folder with Illya’s travel orders in it and couldn’t help but notice that his new assignment would take him fairly close to the location where Illya had been ordered to when recalled. 


Standish arrived at Solo’s office twenty minutes later, having picked up their plane tickets.  “We leave in two hours, are you ready?”


Napoleon gave him a huge smile as he got up from behind his desk.  “I’ll be right with you; I just have a few little things to take care of.”  Had Standish any sense he would have been scared.



Napoleon pulled up the collar of his dark trench coat as he stepped off the train at Vilnius in Lithuania.  Turning right he headed through the Old Town, painfully aware of its dilapidated condition.  Burned out windows, crumbling shutters, and cracked plaster cried out for millions of dollars’ worth of restoration.  Mandy had been as good as her word and he had no trouble at all in finding the building where Illya was presently located.  He had ducked through archways and into courtyards before finally making his way to the former KGB prison.  He wasn’t sure what he had expected, but this wasn’t it.  The fact that it was now a museum was slightly ironic, as well as the fact that Illya was now in charge of it.


Upon entering the building he went to the receptionist, a rather mousy young woman, and asked in halting Russian, “Vi gavaritye pa angliski?”  He had never bothered to learn more than rudimentary Russian, seeing as when he had Illya for a partner he hadn’t needed to.


Da.  How may I help you?”  she asked in stilted English.


Before he could answer that, a blond-haired man dressed in a rather stiff uniform stepped out of the office behind her.  He wasn’t paying any attention as he dropped the folder he was carrying on her desk and turned away.


Napoleon stood there rocking back and forth on his heels and toes.  “Hi there.”


Illya stopped dead in his tracks and turned around at the sound of the familiar voice, his face split into a grin.  “Napoleon!  Come in, come in,” he said as he ushered Napoleon into his office. 


Napoleon looked around, taking in the bare walls and the 40-watt light bulb that hung down from the ceiling.  He appeared completely fascinated by the light and turned to cast a questioning eye at the slight blond.


Illya looked at him with amusement.  Being under scrutiny was a way of life here.  “You get used to it after a while,” he said with a shrug.  “I’m surprised to see you here.”


“Not nearly as surprised as I was when I got back from vacation and found you were gone,” Solo replied, his voice held some of the bitterness he was feeling. “You realize of course that I’d been thinking the worst and here I find you some sort of desk jockey.”


“You didn’t know?”  Illya waved him toward a chair.


Napoleon took off his jacket and sat down in an uncomfortable chair before continuing sarcastically, “Evidently no one felt it was important enough to inform me.  I found out when I was introduced to my new partner.”


Illya cocked an eyebrow at him.  “So soon?” he murmured.  “Where is he, or is it a she?”


“He is back at the hotel in Helsinki suffering from a severe hangover,” Napoleon replied rather smugly.  “He evidently hasn’t had experience drinking Vodka. So how is life treating you, Tovarish?”


“Not bad,” Illya said shortly.  “Why have you come here, Napoleon?”


“Well, I happened to be in the neighborhood and thought I’d buy you lunch.”


Once they were outside in the cold air, both men pulled their coats tighter around them as they set off down the road.  “Where are we going?”  Napoleon asked.


Illya gave the American a sideways glance.  “I thought we might go up to Castle Hill.  There is a tower with a magnificent view of beautiful Vilnius.”


Napoleon snickered.  “Just what I always wanted to see.”


Illya’s eyes crinkled with amusement as the two men continued their walk and, as they arrived at the top of the tower, Illya inquired somewhat hesitantly, “Should I ask again why you are here?”


“Probably not.  In all truthfulness I’m not quite sure myself.”  Napoleon stared intently at the blond Russian. “How are you….really?”


“Bored,” Illya said with a shrug as he turned away to take in the view below.


“Okay, who did you piss off to get sent here?” Napoleon asked wryly as he wondered how Illya could be so acceptant of this.  There were many things he’d missed about his partner; his caustic wit, his strange sense of humor, his intelligence…his wallet.   He even missed the bantering and the bickering, and the feeling of being able to count on him in a pinch.


“I wish I knew,” Illya replied with a brittle laugh.  “Will you be able to stay long?”


Napoleon shook his head.  “No, I need to head back soon and collect what’s-his-name.”


“What’s-his-name?  Hardly professional of you not to remember,” Illya stated as he let out a chuckle.


“He’s not very memorable though he seems to think he is.”


Despite the coldness of the weather, the two men walked slowly back down toward the train station.  They stopped at a tavern to eat and talked for quite a while of inconsequential matters before going their separate ways - Illya back to his boring office job and Napoleon to catch a train.




One month later Solo had managed to through three more partners.  No one seemed able to live up to Solo’s standard of excellence.  Waverly had finally given in and now Napoleon was truly a solo agent.  But, that was no reason to cut his senior agent any slack.


“It’s absolutely imperative that we get those plans back, Mr. Solo,” Alexander Waverly ordered in his usual brusque way.


Napoleon leaned forward in his chair and considered his options before playing his ace. “I’ll need Illya.”  He’d gone over all the information they had and found several instances where Illya’s expertise could prove invaluable. 


The old man sighed heavily.  They’d had this conversation before. “You know perfectly well, Mr. Solo, that Mr. Kuryakin is unavailable.”


“Yes.”  Solo nodded his agreement.  “However, I can’t do this without him.” This was not strictly true, it wasn’t that he couldn’t do this alone, but why bother.  Working with the Russian he’d gotten used to not having to second-guess him.  Illya knew exactly how he thought and acted accordingly, no explanations were ever necessary.  Their mission successes were a testimony to that.


Waverly had never liked being cornered and he scowled as he said abruptly, “I’ll see what I can do.”


Solo, with great difficulty, kept the smile of victory off of his face.


Twenty-four hours later Napoleon Solo was standing by watching as passengers disembarked at Kennedy airport.  He relaxed visibly when he spotted a certain blond-haired Russian dressed in black walking toward him.  As Illya stopped in front of him, Napoleon said matter-of-factly, “It took you long enough.”


“It’s good to see you too.  Now can someone please tell me why I am here?”  Illya demanded sternly, though the corners of his mouth threatened to curl up in a smile.


“Not now.  We have another plane to catch and I have everything we’ll need right here,” Napoleon responded as he tapped the inside pocket of his jacket.  “Shall we?”


“Shouldn’t I be debriefed?  I can’t see my returning as if nothing’s happened.”


“Sorry, there’s no time.  Waverly said this was imperative, and you know what that means.”


“He wants it done yesterday.”  Ever the pragmatist Illya simply shrugged and again picked up his suitcase to follow his partner.  His eyebrows went up as he noted their destination.  However, Napoleon still refused to fill him in.  Every time Illya would go to broach the subject, Napoleon would bring a finger to his lips as he smiled and shook his head.


They arrived at their destination and checked into their room.  Once the bellhop left, the two men worked with their usual efficiency checking out the room for listening devices and any other surprises that might be in store for them.  This is what Napoleon had been missing, someone who knew how he thought, someone dependable that he could trust to watch his back.


“Some things never change,” Illya remarked as he unpacked his suitcase upon one of the two double beds in the room.


“The budget, my dear Kuryakin, you must always remember the budget,” Napoleon said sardonically as he went over to the bar to fix them each a drink.


“Ah,” Kuryakin nodded with understanding.  “Can I now know why I was sent for?”  Illya asked as he took his drink.


“All in good time, my friend.  All in good time.  How much were you told?”  Napoleon asked as he settled in the one comfortable chair in the room and put his feet up on the nearby table.


Illya went over to the window and looked down to the beach below. The view was enticing and he couldn’t help but wish that they were here for something other than an assignment. “Merely that some important plans are missing.   Ah, the beautiful Cayman Islands,” he muttered wistfully as he paused before continuing.  “This would seem to be an unusual place to find them.”


Napoleon cleared his throat. “I suppose it would be…if they were actually missing.”


Illya narrowed his eyes and turned his scathing gaze on him.  “And just what does that mean?”


“It means, my friend,” Napoleon said as he finished his drink. “That we will enjoy ourselves for…oh say, seventy-two hours, before we produce the plans, saving the world yet again,”  he finished as he got up to refresh his drink.


Illya turned his head, following Napoleon with his gaze.  “Do we know where the plans are?”


Napoleon saluted Illya with his glass.  “Actually, we do.”


Illya pondered that before asking. “We do?  How do we know this? 


“We know because I’ve already found them.”


“You what!  You can’t be serious,” Illya said in shocked surprise.  Then as he thought about it further. “Then why did you need me?”


Staring down into his drink, Napoleon considered his reply.  “I didn’t ‘need’ you.  It was just the only way I could think of to get you back.  I figured we could enjoy ourselves and then after a few days I’ll return them.”


Illya shook his head with annoyance. “Then what?  They’ll only send me back, you know.”


“Well, I have a couple of other operations in the works that will definitely require your special skills,” Napoleon said serenely as he sipped his drink.


Illya looked at him with disbelief.  “For what purpose?  Besides…someone will surely catch on and then where will you be?”


“I guess I’ll just cross that bridge when I get to it.”  Napoleon shrugged, then leaned back in his chair, his feet propped up on the coffee table looking unconcerned. “By then it will have accomplished its purpose.”


“Which is?”


“To buy you time.”


“To do what?”


Napoleon dropped the bombshell. “To become an American, British, or Canadian citizen.  Whichever you prefer.” 


There was shocked silence for a time.  Illya looked at his partner as if he was crazy.  He would in all probability never be allowed to enter Russia again. “Do you realize what you are asking?”


Napoleon looked at his friend before saying softly, “I think I do.  But it’s the only way.  It wouldn’t change who you are.  Nothing could do that.”


“I might never be allowed to go back,” Illya said.  There was always the possibility they might shoot him on sight.  Defectors were discouraged rather harshly.


“No…at least not legally,” Napoleon couldn’t resist adding with a slight smile pulling at the corner of his mouth. “Can you honestly say you want to go back…to a desk?”


Illya’s shoulders slumped in defeat.  He should have known better than to argue with Napoleon.  Freedom, freedom to go where he wanted, to do what he wanted, to work once again with his partner.  He glanced at the dark-haired American before quietly replying.  “No.”  Taking the time to think this over and get used to the idea he brought up, “This could take years.”


“Not if we get Mr. Waverly to pull strings.”  Napoleon appeared to have it all planned out.


“And why would he do that?”  Illya wanted to know.


“Illya, I’m surprised.  You’re a very important agent; a lot of effort on my part has gone into training you.  Thanks to me you are now the best, after me of course.”  Napoleon positively radiated confidence.


“Napoleon, you know perfectly well I was already trained when you got me,” Illya stated letting the humor of the situation show in his eyes.


The smile on Napoleon’s face said that it would all be worth it.  Illya looked intently into his partner’s eyes.  “Tell me, Napoleon.  Why did you go to all this trouble?”


Looking back into the questioning blue eyes Napoleon said with complete sincerity.  “Because I missed you.”


The End.





yumyumpm: Napoleon and Illya (Man from UNCLE)

Anything for Illya


Formerly titled: The My Way or No Way Affair

By YumYumPM


It had been a grueling assignment not for him personally, but for his partner, Illya.  They had pumped so many truth drugs into him he didn’t know which way was up.  But he hadn’t told them what they wanted to know, of that Napoleon was certain.  He’d been there at the end and heard everything said. Even the part about Illya wanting him.  Exactly what that meant he wasn’t sure but he planned to find out. 


The THRUSH interrogator had been standing over him.  Then he had squatted down to Illya’s level and placed his hands on Illya’s thighs.  “Who is it you want so badly?”  His eyes glazed and licking his lips, Illya struggled not to say anything, but finally blurted out, “Napoleon.”


With a gleam in his eye the THRUSH agent had risen and whispered to his self, “Solo.”  He started to laugh a totally demented laugh, but he stopped laughing when he heard someone clear their throat.  Turning his eyes wide in astonishment, he barely felt the bullet as it entered his chest.


“Napoleon?”  Illya tried to focus his face going from surprise to delight to trepidation.


“Come on, Tovarish,” Napoleon said as he cut the straps holding his partner in place.  “Let’s get you out of here.”


They quickly left the building and were hiding in some trees on their way to Napoleon’s car.  Illya was still woozy and Napoleon had to hold him up.  “What was that all about, Tovarish?”


“Can’t tell…secret.  Napoleon,…why is it you call me Tovarish.  That should be…droog. or better yet…”  and promptly fell to the ground and was sick.


Droog, Tovarish, what’s the difference?  Droog sounds so harsh while Tovarish just sort of trips on the tongue.”  Napoleon reached over and pulled his friend up into a fireman’s hold and carted him to the car.


Back at headquarters what with one thing and another, the two men didn’t see each other for days.  When Napoleon finally caught sight of Illya going down the hall he rushed to catch up with him.  “No thanks are necessary you know?”


“Thanks for what?”


“For pulling you out of that predicament, you ungrateful Russian.”


“Oh, that.”


“By the way, what exactly did you mean about wanting me?”


Illya stopped in the middle of the hallway and went white. “What exactly are you talking about?”


“Well when I rescued you, you were telling them that you wanted me and they seem pleased.  Did you mean you wanted me to rescue you or…” looking at Illya as if a sudden idea had occurred to him.  “Illya, are you gay?”


Swiftly looking around to make sure they were alone and turning very red.  “Why don’t you just shout it out then everyone will know.”


Napoleon stood still with shock as his partner started to walk back the way they had come.   He caught up with him again and grabbed his arm to stop him.  “Come on, Illya.  I’m sorry but it just wasn’t something I was aware of.”  Looking into those blue and, at the moment, angry eyes.  “So you really want me, huh?”


Illya looked at him with suspicion. “It does not bother you?”


“I don’t know yet.  There are possibilities; I’ve never been with a man.”  He noticed Illya starting to back away and shake his head no.  “Look at it this way we could work on mutual enjoyment and you wouldn’t have to worry so much about my…”


Illya thought about it.  “Maybe” 


Gleefully Napoleon ordered, “Okay, meet me at my apartment at eight o’clock.”


“Why your apartment?”


“I want to enjoy this.  And I don’t think that would be possible at yours.”


“Is that an order?”


“No, merely a suggestion.”



As he exited the shower, he went to the sink to shave.  When he was finished he reached for the after-shave lotion, but decided that Illya would probably prefer him without it.  He stared at himself in the mirror and couldn’t believe he was actually going through with this.  He wouldn’t do this for anyone, anyone except Illya of course. 


Going into the bedroom he went through his closet deciding on what to wear.  Maybe he would just dress as he would for an encounter with Angelique or Serena, he thought with a smile.   After all there wasn’t that much difference, just a matter of different plumbing.  With that he pulled out and put on the red satin boxers Rachel had given him, the white silk pajama bottoms Monica had given him, and the royal blue silk dressing gown from Cheryl.  He added an ascot to the ensemble since he had been told it made him look dashing.  As he debated on wearing slippers he decided barefoot would be good enough.  Checking himself out in a mirror, he wondered what Illya would think if he answered the door buck-naked, which caused him to grin at his reflection 


Entering the living room he made sure the liquor was ready and the vodka chilled to Illya’s liking.  Next he went to the stereo and looked through the records that always worked with his female paramours.  There was that Russian piece with the cannons at the end-no better not, at least not on a first date. Where was that coming from, this was not a date, this was not a date.  Maybe if he thought it enough times he’d actually believe it.   After all these things had worked with females, why shouldn’t they work with males?  He was dimming the lights and lighting candles when the doorbell rang.  On his way to the door it he turned on the stereo.


Answering the door Illya came in looking as if he was on his way to a funeral. His eyebrows went up as he saw the way Napoleon had dressed for this encounter.  Seeing the dim lights and hearing the music.  “Really, Napoleon?”


Napoleon had turned to the bar and was preparing drinks. “What?”


“I am a man after all.”


“So I’ve noticed.” Handing Illya his drink Napoleon sat down on the sofa to sip his and patted the seat next to him suggesting that Illya sit down with him.  Since he had never done anything like this before he decided to try the techniques he that always worked with his female conquest and placing an arm around his partner and his hand behind Illya’s neck pulled him in for a gentle kiss.


Illya promptly pulled away.  “I am not one of your paramours.”


“I’m sorry but this is the only way I know about doing this, and I figured that since I’m the one you, ah, desire we could do this my way.”  Noticing the disgusted look on Illya’s face and hoping to appease him, he pointed to a tray of finger sandwiches on the bar.  “There is a little something for you to nibble on in the meantime.”


That was not what Illya wanted to nibble on, gulping down his drink in one swallow he decided to take the bull by the horn.  He pulled off the ascot around Napoleon’s neck; he slung it over his shoulder and followed this by opening the dressing gown. “You have too much on,” Illya insisted, he noticed that Napoleon was not wearing a pajama top, just the bottom.  Pushing Napoleon back to a reclining position, he swiftly pulled them down along with the red boxers.  Odd color scheme he thought.  What he saw once he had Napoleon disrobed actually made his mouth water.  Napoleon was a big boy.


Napoleon was a little nervous as his partner suddenly took his cock in his mouth and began sucking away.  This had never been done to him before by a male partner and he couldn’t believe that Illya was doing this to him now, but boy, oh boy, oh boy, it felt so good, that he couldn’t help but moan with pleasure.  Much too soon he exploded in his partners mouth, and lay unmoving as Illya swallowed every drop.  He looked up into the amused eyes of his partner and “Wow!” was all he could say.


“We aim to please,” Illya said as he got up to leave.


Napoleon sat up straight on the sofa. “Whoa, where do you think you’re going?”


“We have had our enjoyment and I am now going home.”


“Home? Oh, no you’re not.  This is supposed to be mutual enjoyment and I haven’t seen the mutual yet.”  He couldn’t believe he was saying this as he took Illya by the arm.  “By the way you have too much on also.” Getting up with his pajama bottoms around his ankles he proceeded to take off Illya’s jacket and toss it on a chair.  He couldn’t help but notice the gun and shoulder holster his partner was wearing. “I see you came prepared.”


Illya looked down. “Well, you never know when it might come in handy.”


Napoleon removed the gun and set it on the side table and took off the holster tossed it after the jacket.  He began by pulling off Illya’s tie and then went on to unbutton his shirt thinking that it wasn’t that much different from undressing a woman.  He couldn’t help but notice Illya was wearing a tee shirt and decided to leave it on. Strange how just doing this was turning him on.  He unbuttoned Illya’s trousers and noticed that he wasn’t wearing any underwear at all.  His breath caught and he found himself pushing Illya back down on a nearby chair.  Pulling up his legs and grabbed the ends if the trousers he pulled them off tossing them to join the other clothing.  He stood there taking in the sight of his partner slumped in the chair his erection hard and his legs splayed, dressed only in his tee shirt and socks.  His breath was taken away; he had never realized just how erotic Illya looked. Going down between those legs he pulled Illya to him for a soul-searching kiss.  Thinking this might be a time to try Solo Technique number three, he put his hands under Illya’s ass cheeks to pull him up to carry him… when he fell over and Illya came to rest on his chest.


 “Did you know you were heavy,” Napoleon gasped looking into Illya’s amused face.  “Since evidently my way isn’t working, why don’t we try yours.”


Illya just sat there with his cock pointing in Napoleon’s direction and grinned.  He could feel Napoleon’s erection nudging at his backside and came to a decision.  “What do you use to wet yourself for your female paramours?” he asked breathing hard.


Gasping for breath Napoleon responded, “I use a lubricated condom.” 




“Wallet.” Was all he could say as he pointed towards the bedroom.


Illya got up with difficulty and went to the bedroom.  He located Napoleon’s wallet on the dresser and removed one of the condoms.  On his way back he stopped at the bar for another drink swallowing it in one gulp.  Settling himself on Napoleon’s legs he opened the condom and with shaking hands put it on Napoleon’s large dick. 


“Illya, I’m not so sure…” Napoleon was unable to finish.


“What?” asked Illya as he impaled himself on the throbbing cock.


“Nothing?” he gasped, this was not too unlike having a woman, except Illya was so much tighter and looked so very sexy sitting on him in nothing but his tee shirt. As Illya started to ride him, Napoleon couldn’t help but stare at the cock directly in front of him and lick his lips.  Illya had sucked him so how hard could it be, but how to reach it.  In between breathing hard and trying to concentrate he requested, “Illya could you throw the pillows off the chair to me?” 


Illya slowed down, his eyes glazed, and he just managed to reach over for the cushions and toss them to Napoleon who promptly put them behind his head bringing him up enough that as Illya started riding him again his cock entered Napoleon’s mouth.  Ecstasy took over as Illya was both taken back and fore, Napoleon’s groin rising to meet each downward thrust.  Too soon it was over for both of them.  Both men climaxed at the same time and though Napoleon tried to swallow all that Illya had to offer he wasn’t able to, so some splattered on his chest.  They lay there for some time, and as Illya rolled off Napoleon suggested a shower.  Illya carefully got up and helped Napoleon up, started for the bathroom.  Napoleon following removed the condom and threw it away as Illya started the shower. 


Entering the shower, Napoleon quickly washed himself down than turned to lather up Illya.  “I can do this myself” was the indignant response he got.  But he was insistent and as he gently soaped up and started with the front going down to the genitalia, causing Illya to moan in gratification.  When he went to the back and into the crack in the Illya’s cheeks he was gratified when Illya let out a gasp of pleasure.   Working his way down the legs he got Illya to lift his feet so he could lather them and received a, “that tickles.” 


Hummm, time for Solo Technique number five, looking over at his shaving kit he removed his new shaving gel and applying some to his finger came up behind Illya and gently worked it up his ass.  Reaching around he started rubbing Illya nipples.  Even though there was no comparison with a female breast, what worked on a female evidently worked very well on a male.  As Illya moaned and groan while he worked more fingers into the anal opening gently going in and out.


“What are you using?” came the breathless voice.


“Some new gel shaving crème I got the other day.”  Napoleon was a bit breathless himself even more excited than if Illya had been a woman.


“You’re using shaving crème on me?”  Suddenly with a growl, Illya removed himself from the shower toweled himself off.  Taking the gel crème with him, he grabbed Napoleon and pulled him into the bedroom throwing him on the bed.  Taking the crème and pushing Napoleon’s legs to his chest he thrust his finger into the opening.  Napoleon squirmed. “Illya?” not sure he was ready for this.


“What?”  Illya looked evilly into his face as he positioned himself.


“Couldn’t we talk about this?” he gasped.


“Time for talking is over, you tease.”  Illya swiftly entered the man under him


Ahh, Napoleon was so tight and so delicious that he knew he wouldn’t last long.  Napoleon on the other hand was wondering if this was what it felt like for a woman when he entered them.  Watching Illya’s face and seeing how turned on he was, was exciting in itself, he lay back and relaxed, letting himself go.  Soon he was thrusting up to meet Illya as he went in and out of the ever so tight sheath.  He had never felt anything so erotic before, not even with Serena or Angelique.  Soon he felt a hot gushing of liquid in his anus and both men went limp.  After some time Illya gently pulled out and Napoleon’s legs fell over the side of the bed.  Illya went into the bath to get a cloth to wipe up Napoleon and the mess he had made on the comforter.


This comforter is ruined thought Napoleon, oh well,  I can always buy a new one.  Than maybe not, this would be a reminder of a wonderful eventful and painful night.  He knew he would be sore for days.  Illya got up to leave and Napoleon tried to stop him, but his legs gave way and he fell to the floor.  However he managed to grab Illya before he got too far and pull him down. “No way, this is no Wham, Bam, thank you M’am.”


“What?” Illya looked at him puzzled


“I mean this is not going to be love ‘em and leave ‘em.  Here, help me pull this comforter off.”  As the comforter was removed he grabbed Illya and pulled him onto the bed covering him with his body.  “Stay.”


“Napoleon, fun time is over, you are much too sore for anything else.”


“Oh yes, I’ll probably be sore for some time to come.  But I want you to stay and when the soreness is gone I want to us to try this frontwards, backwards, sideways, and every way there is.”  Looking into the astonished blue eyes of his now lover.  He pulled him into a firm embrace, and covering them up, they both fell asleep.


The end.

yumyumpm: Napoleon and Illya (Man from UNCLE)

Alarm Bells

By YumYumPM

Originally written in 2003 revised


Act I-Rue the Day


Napoleon whistled as he wandered into his office, not surprised to find Illya already there.


“Have an enjoyable time last night?” Illya asked, not looking up from his report.


“Ohhhh, yes.  It was very invigorating,” Napoleon said as he sat down.


Illya smirked.  Invigorating – an interesting choice of words.


Napoleon glance up, noting the satisfied smile on Illya’s face and alarm bells went off in his head.  “So how was your evening?” he asked not sure if he wanted to know the answer.


Illya thought about it for a moment before replying, “Invigorating.” 


The alarm bells were going full tilt.  Napoleon cleared his throat to ask casually, “Just how invigorating?”


“Really, Napoleon.  Just….invigorating.  Can we drop the subject,”  Illya answered.


Napoleon felt a tightness in his chest, though he wasn’t sure why. Something was wrong. Illya wasn’t looking him in the eye. 


George Dennel walked into the room just then.  “Hi, Napoleon.  Here’s the report on the latest….blah..blah..blah.”  Napoleon wasn’t really listening his eyes were on Illya who was studiously ignoring him. Dennel finally turned to leave.  “By the way, Illya.  Did you and Mark have a good time last night?”


Napoleon’s eyes widened.  Illya’s face turned red, and then his expression turned placid.  “Yes, thank you,” he answered politely.  Illya sent a quick glance Napoleon’s way and turned pale at the fury he saw directed at him.


Dennel left the room never knowing about the havoc he left behind.


Illya and….Mark?  Perhaps he had heard wrong.  But one look at Illya’s face confirmed it.  The Russian could hide things from others, but not from him.  Napoleon went livid, the pen in his hand snapped as he kept his eyes on his partner.  He threw the pen aside and got up from his desk.  He wasn’t thinking he was just reacting as he headed for the door.


“Napoleon, no,” Illya said as he got between Napoleon and the door.


Napoleon didn’t stop, brushing the Russian hard enough to one side that he fell over his chair onto the floor.  Outside the door, Napoleon quickly set the lock, making sure he could not be followed.  Then he set out briskly down the hall. 


He and Illya were partners and friends and after stressful missions they were even lovers.  Yes he was selfish. There was no way on God’s green earth that he was going to share what he felt was rightfully his.   He worked hard keeping that sorry bastard alive for him and him alone. 


As the door to Mark and April’s office slid open, his only thought was that Mark was going to rue the day he’d been born.


Act II: Having Your Cake and Eating It Too


Napoleon stormed into Mark and April’s shared office.  Grabbed the back of Slate’s jacket and forcefully pulled him from the room.  April ran to keep up with him, pausing as they entered the Men’s room.


Napoleon opened a stall door; thrust Mark roughly in, then brought his livid face inches from the startled Brits.  “What the hell have you been doing with my partner?”  Napoleon snarled.


Illya, his appearance a bit bedraggled, appeared as April stood at the door, uncertain as to whether to enter the bathroom or not.  He gently pushed her aside and entered the bathroom.  “Napoleon, stop.  It’s not his fault.”


Napoleon’s eyes burned into the young Englishman’s before he hurled him out of the stall and stood there, his fists clenching and unclenching.


“Mark, leave,” Illya requested quietly.  His eyes remained focused on the American’s back as Mark, with amazing speed, slipped out the bathroom door.


“Why?  Just tell me why?” Napoleon demanded, anger evident in every word, his back still to his partner.


“Why?  Why do you feel the need to bury yourself in every woman that passes your way?”  Illya asked reasonably.  “You have no more claim on me then I do you. You weren’t there, Mark was.”


Napoleon worked hard to control the hurt he felt from showing as he slowly turned around.  Illya was right as always.


“Why didn’t you call me?” Napoleon asked.


Illya looked away. “It is not in me to beg.  Besides would you have come?”


Napoleon walked up to Illya, taking his face between his hands and looked deep into the troubled azure eyes.  “If you need me…call.”


A shy smile lit the Russian’s face.


“Promise me never again,” Napoleon demanded.


Illya considered.  Mark had been very, very good.  He was no Napoleon, but then who was.  Illya had enjoyed being the domineering one for a change and who knew when Illya might need to be that again.  “Perhaps,” he replied, hedging his bets. 


Napoleon pulled him into a warm embrace, satisfied for now.  After a moment the two men exited the Men’s room, surprised to find several fellow agents blocked from entering by April, Mark being nowhere in the vicinity. 


With a look of gratitude toward her, Napoleon pushed Illya ahead of him down the hall toward their office as he called over his shoulder ordering his fellow agents to carry on. 


Illya stopped after two steps. “I’ll be with you in a moment,” he told his partner.  He turned and flashed a wicked smile back to the stunned April.


‘Who said you couldn’t have your cake and eat it too,’ he silently mouthed before turning and continuing on his way down the hall.



Act III-Jealousy


Napoleon started for their office, and then changed his mind.  Needing to get away, to think over his actions, he roamed U.N.C.L.E. headquarters until he found the deepest, darkest spot he could find, a dimly lit circular metal stairway that was so remote he doubted if anyone remembered it was there anymore.


One bulb at the top of the stairway lit the passage as he stopped halfway down and sat running his fingers through his hair wandering what had possessed him.  He should never have lost it like that, especially here at U.N.C.L.E. headquarters. He had no right to make demands of Illya, no right at all.  Illya was right, he had no claim to him and it was slowly eating away at him.


He remembered Illya’s responses to his demand.  Perhaps.  A word that stuck in one’s throat and ate at his gut. He folded his arms across his knees and rested his head upon them.  Here in this dark, dank stairwell he admitted to himself what the problem was.  The fear of losing his partner.    If Illya was finding pleasure with someone else, how soon would it be before he didn’t need him anymore? Perhaps it was already too late; he may have already lost his friend and partner.


The more he thought about it, the more he realized his actions had been motivated by jealousy.  It was not a sensation that he was used to feeling.  No one had ever managed to get close enough to him to evoke the emotion.   It had reared its ugly head and refused to be brushed away. 


He clamped his lips tightly together as he worked felt his eyes prickle.  He was an U.N.C.L.E. agent and agents did not cry.  Hell, he hadn’t cried at the death of his parents nor his wife’s all those many years ago.


Napoleon raised his head as footsteps sounded on the narrow metal steps, stopping behind and above him. Napoleon didn’t have to turn to know to whom they belonged to.  Who else would have the tenacity to come looking for him, and the ability to find him?  He could hear the swish of cloth as Illya sat down, one foot resting on either side of him.  “I’m sorry,” Napoleon croaked in a low voice.


“You should be,” Illya stated calmly.


Napoleon would have laughed, but his eyes were burning, a tear threatening to escape.


A hand lightly stroked the back of his head, down his neck to rest on his back, a small sigh escaped.  “Napoleon, you are my partner.  Not my keeper.”


The simple touch sent shivers down Napoleon’s spine and he remained silent waiting for the denouncement he knew was coming.


“Mark will undoubtedly be staying out of your way for some time.  You should not have scared him like that,” Illya chastised lightly.


Napoleon’s rage had been such that if Illya had not stopped him he would have done serious damage to the Brit and that scared him.


“You will apologize to him, will you not?” 


Napoleon nodded not trusting his voice.


“Ah, Napoleon, what am I to do with you?”  Illya’s voice was light with a tinge of amusement.  It was the straw that broke the camel’s back and try as he might not to a sob escaped Napoleon’s throat.


“Napoleon?”  Illya asked. His palm reaching to turn his partner’s face toward him met with wetness.  Shocked he let out a sigh and rested his head against Napoleon’s back.  “I’m sorry.  I didn’t know,” he said softly.


With an intake of breath, Napoleon replied equally low, “Neither did I.”


Illya kissed the top of the dark head, patted Napoleon on the back and got up.  “When you have composed yourself we will talk, yes?”


Napoleon nodded, listening as Illya turned and slowly walked back up the stairs.  Away.



Act IV-Mine


Illya was worried, he checked his watch.  It was way past time for Napoleon to have stopped sulking.  He was tired and wanted to go home.  Putting away his work he started his search in Napoleon’s office only to find he was not there.  He sat on the desktop and called downstairs, thinking that Napoleon had left without him and was relieved to hear that the records showed that he was still inside the building.


He began his search in the most obvious places.  The bathrooms, the commissary, the secretarial pool, the gym.  He even contacted Mr. Waverly’s secretary.  If Napoleon was doing this to get back at him…it was working. 


Fear gripped him as he decided to check the stairwell where he had last seen Napoleon.  The closer he got, the more his fear grew.  He opened the door, noting that the stairway was in darkness.   Flicking on the light, his heart almost stopped as he saw a body lying crumbled at the bottom of the stairway.  Rushing down, he grabbed hold of the stairwell, having almost slipped as his foot skidded on something slick. 


He reached the bottom and checked Napoleon’s neck, relieved to find that there were signs of life.  Removing his jacket he bundled it up placing it under Napoleon’s head the pulled out his communicator to make his call for help.  “Agent down.  Stairwell 3B.”


Sitting down on the nearest step he actually began breathing normally again.  The questions of how Napoleon had ended up at the bottom of the stairwell would have to wait.  He frowned as he noticed all the blood pooling from beneath Napoleon’s head.


The doctor arrived first almost skidding down the stairway himself.  He looked up and yelled.  “Careful, there’s something slippery on the stairway.”


Illya moved to one side, making room for the doctor, having no idea how they would manage to get a gurney down.  He shivered as a slight breeze swept through him.


The doctor knelt down and pulled out his stethoscope to check for a heartbeat.   His eyes were sympathetic as he looked up at Illya, before calling to the male nurses.  “Take your time, there’s no rush.  Just throw me down a blanket.”  He caught it and spread it over Napoleon covering his face.


‘Nooooo!’ Illya screamed inside his head. 


Two weeks later Illya sat in Mr. Waverly’s office.  The report on Napoleon’s death sat in front of him.  The slippery substance on the step had been identified as blood, Napoleon’s blood and Napoleon’s death ruled a suicide.  Illya could not believe it, true Napoleon had been…not himself.  But to end it all?  No, that Illya could not, would not believe.


The door slid open and Mark Slate entered the room.


“Mr. Kuryakin, I have decided transfer you to our London Office along with another of our agents. You have worked with Mr. Slate before I believe.  I’ve made the decision to pair the two of you together. ”


Illya blinked in disbelief.  Napoleon wasn’t even cold in the ground and they were making plans to replace him?


“It will be a pleasure,” Mark said warmly.


Looking up behind Waverly’s shoulder Illya spotted a saddened Napoleon dressed in a white linen suit.  He clutched his chest as a sharp pain hit him.   Darkness descended and he slumped forward.


The next thing he knew he was looking down, his body having been pulled from the chair to lie flat on the floor.  Waverly was shouting over the intercom system for medical while Mark was attempting mouth-to-mouth respiration.  The door swished open and four men along with a gurney rushed in. 


“What happened?”  The lead doctor called out as he pushed Mark out of the way to begin examining Illya’s body.  Waverly gave a concise account of what had occurred.   In short order the room turned into a madhouse as he called for a set of defibrillators and hurriedly ripped the white shirt opened. 


“Am I dead?”  Illya asked calmly.


Napoleon shook his head and moved closer to his partner.  “You’re in transition.  Soon they’ll be able to restart your heart and after a couple of month recuperation you’ll be shipped off to London with Mark as your partner.”


Illya sent a sharp look to Napoleon, who looked angelic.  “Tell me you did not kill yourself,” he demanded.


Napoleon sighed.  “It was stupid.  I realized it the moment you left.  I was on the way back up to tell you how sorry I was about the way I behaved when the lights flickered and I slipped.  When I tried to catch myself, a sharp edge of the railing dug into my wrist.  I hit my head on the way down and never felt a thing.  The rest is history.”


A slight smile lit Illya’s face.  The fact that Napoleon’s death wasn’t intentional came as a big relief.


“It was my time,” Napoleon offered.  “That does not mean that it is yours at least right now.”


“And just when is my time?” 


Napoleon looked away not wanting to answer.




“You survive.  You and Mark go to London.  You pull away from all your friends, then one day while on assignment in Yugoslavia, Mark will arrive too late.”  Illya could see tears glistening in Napoleon’s eyes.  “That has always been my greatest fear that one day I would arrive too late to save you.”


The doctor was working frantically squirting gel on the almost hairless chest.  He checked the paddles and ordered the minimum voltage while a tech did CPR.  He called “All clear.”  And everyone backed away as he applied the paddles.  Illya’s body jerked but nothing happened.  The doctor called for an increase in voltage and was ready to try again.


“Do I have to?”  Illya asked.  “Do I have to live?”


Napoleon’s smile spoke volumes as he snapped his fingers and the lights went off.


“Shit,” yelled the doctor.


When the lights came back on Illya and Napoleon were floating above everyone.  Illya looked down seeing his dead body on the floor surrounded by medical personnel.   He wanted to feel sorry for causing everyone pain, but he couldn’t find it in himself.


Napoleon reached out his hand and Illya took it.  Soon they were moving in a slow circle, their clothing having disappeared.  They came together and kissed, their bodies clinging tightly together as they twirled faster and faster, their kissed deepened until they rose upward into a bright light.


yumyumpm: Napoleon and Illya (Man from UNCLE)
 After the Fifteen Years After Affair





Illya Kuryakin sat at the bar in the Russian Café, fingering the rim of his glass and wondering why he was here to once again bid farewell to his former partner.  In his mind he was certain it was the wisest course of action.  The safest course.  The only course.


They had just successfully completed an assignment after a fifteen year separation.  It had been exhilarating, but perhaps they were too old for this, he thought as he brought his drink to his lips.


Fifteen years.  It was a long time to go without keeping in touch; but in a city the size of New York City, perfectly understandable.  Considering their former profession, it had been the only option.  Each had gone their own way, he to successfully found Vanya’s, a world renowned fashion house.  Napoleon Solo to start his own computer company.  Illya shook his head.  Computers, who would have thought.  It made him wonder about all the times Solo had finagled him into doing the research for their assignments, insinuating that Illya’s computer skills were better.


It would seem that ‘those times were over’ as Illya had once mentioned, and while he’d taken care of Janus, something he didn’t want to think about, it hadn’t salved his wounded pride.   The assignment was just a one time deal as far as Illya was concerned.  He had a business to run.  A highly successful and lucrative business. 


Neither man had managed to find time during this affair to discuss their reasons for leaving U.N.C.L.E.   There were still a lot of unanswered questions.  What had Napoleon been up to all these years? 


Fifteen years earlier, after having put Sepheran away and virtually wiping out Thrush, Napoleon Solo had decided he’d had enough, or so he said.  It had been at a time when retirement from the field was his only option.  He could have moved up into the policy section, yet he had decided not to.  Why had he opted to leave U.N.C.L.E. and more or less vanish?  Illya sat there, not wanting to think about his own reasons for leaving the world of espionage behind.  He’d sworn he would never go back to U.N.C.L.E, but all it had taken was “I need you, Illya” from Napoleon and suddenly he was back in the game, he thought in disgust as he drained the last of his drink and poured another.


The one thing he’d missed over the years was the camaraderie the two had shared.  During the last few years of their partnership before Napoleon’s departure, the two former agents had often ended up working the same case from different angles.  This mission had been no different.  Except for a few cryptic messages over their communicators, the two had not really had a chance to sit down and talk.


Illya sensed Napoleon’s return before he actually saw him.  Spying him from the corner of his eye, Illya called out to the bartender in Russian.


As the American slid into his seat, Illya asked.  “Did you say goodbye to Andrea for me?”


 “What do you think I’ve been doing for the last five minutes?”  Napoleon responded as the bartender surreptitiously slid a glass in front of him.


Illya’s “I appreciate it” was almost lost as Napoleon reached for the bottle, sneaking a peek at the label.


Illya’s curiosity got the better of him and as he watched Solo pour himself a drink from the bottle he asked, “By the way what did happen with Sepheran?” 


“He disappeared,” Napoleon reported as he picked up his glass and sniffed his drink. “But I’m certain Sir John will be hearing from our Thrush again.”


“And the ransom?”  Illya persisted.  He watched in fascination as Napoleon sniffed at his drink yet again, still not taking a sip.


“Converted back to cash and returned to the banks.”

“Pity.  Three hundred and fifty million in jewels would be nice to hold in your hand...just for a moment.”  Illya couldn’t resist the tone of naked greed that crept into his voice as he imagined the possibility.


Napoleon made a face after finally taking a small sip of his drink and cautiously asked, “Did you settle your account with Janus?”


Illya looked down at his drink. 


“I settled it,” he responded curtly, not wanting to go into detail.


Napoleon must have sensed his reluctance because he quickly changed the subject. “How about young Pennington-Smythe?”


“His performance out of town was very good.”  Illya smiled in remembrance, then he paused for just a second before venturing, doing his best to sound casual.  “Enjoying the computer business?’


Napoleon seemed uncomfortable, drumming his fingers on the countertop.  “Hmmm,” he said, distracted.  “Oh yes.  Great.”  It struck Illya that his friend didn’t really mean it.  “Truly fascinating,” Napoleon continued, fingering the rim of his glass. “However I’m finding it increasingly more difficult to have a meaningful relationship with a machine.”  


The two chuckled and Illya wandered if it was it possible that Napoleon had missed their partnership as much as he had. 


“You enjoying the frock business?” Napoleon threw out, almost as an afterthought.


“It’s wonderful.  I make a great deal of money,” Illya answered, his eyes going upward, his response less then totally honest.  “But there are a few…weird people in it.  At least when someone is shooting at you, you know where you are,” he finished ruefully, taking a gulp of his drink.


Someone had turned up the sound up on the TV behind the bar, catching their attention. “There is still no further word on the disappearance of Air Force One carrying the Secretary of State to the Paris oil conference.  We will interrupt this program with an update.”  Both men were listening attentively when a two-tone beep of a communicator sounded as the announcer continued. “We will now return you to your regular program.”


Napoleon glanced around before pulling the noisy communicator from his inside pocket and activating it.  “Open Channel D.”


“Mr. Solo?”  Sir John’s voice sounded hesitant over the speaker.


“Yes, Sir John.”


“Is Mr. Kuryakin still with you?”


Napoleon looked questioningly at Illya, who gave a confirming nod.  “He is.”


“I was wondering if the two of you are doing anything for the next few days.”


Illya, who had every intention of refusing, found himself shrugging along with his partner instead.




Two weeks later found Illya Kuryakin, dressed in khaki battle fatigues, standing on tarmac in remote Iceland, watching as Napoleon Solo and Benjamin Kowalski received kudos for a job well done.  Once again the two men had allowed U.N.C.L.E. to lure them into another job.  Once again they had separated.  He had headed out, alone to the other side of the Atlantic, while Napoleon and Kowalski worked the case from their side.  True, he had better connections in France, thanks to Vanya’s, and Kowalski with his brash manners would not have been of any help in getting the information that led to U.N.C.L.E.’s  locating Air Force One and safely returning the Secretary of State.  But still it, not exactly infuriated, more like irritated him that his partner preferred working with the younger man, or so it seemed to him.


Illya had better things he could be doing.  Like preparing his new fall line.  It was time he returned home.   He turned away, heading for the taxi standing nearby no more then ten steps away.   He was surprised to find a hand on his arm, holding him back as he moved to step into the cab. 


“Where do you think you’re going?”  Napoleon asked.


“Home.  You don’t need me,” Illya stated flatly.  He jutted out his chin in Kowalski’s direction.  “You have him.”


Napoleon’s hand was still firm on Illya’s arm, he nervously glanced back to where everyone stood.  “Have him…?  Not need you?  That’s ridiculous.  Who was it that got us the information we needed?  ” Napoleon rubbed his forehead with his free hand.  “Look, we need to talk, but not here.”  He patted Illya’s arm.  “Wait for me.  I’ll only be a moment.” 


Illya stood in the doorway of the waiting taxi and watched as Napoleon walked back to Kowalski and spoke to him.  Kowalski looked his way, shrugged then gave a curt nod before turning back to the many reporters who were congratulating him on the success of the mission.  Illya slipped into the taxi as Napoleon strolled back and climbed in after him.


As the cab took off, Illya gazed out the side window before turning to address his former partner. “There is nothing to talk about, Napoleon.”


“Not now.  When we reach the hotel,” Napoleon responded tersely.  The two lapsed into silence as their ride continued.


Illya entered his room, found his empty suitcase and tossed it on the bed, wondering why he had even bothered to unpack.  He opened it and angrily started throwing his clothing inside.


“Did you ever wonder why I left U.N.C.L.E.?” Napoleon asked calmly.


Illya glanced over to where Napoleon was leaning nonchalantly against the door jamb, and then he went to the dresser to pull clothing from it.  He continued to irritably toss items into his suitcase.  “If I remember correctly, you gave me some cock and bull story of the job being too much,” he answered with some resentment, before heading toward the bathroom to gather his shaving kit.


“And you didn’t believe me for a minute, did you?  Didn’t you wonder why during our last year as partners, we spent more time working assignments apart then together?”  Napoleon’s voice called after him.


Illya paused as he gathered up his toothbrush and toothpaste and put them in his shaving kit along with the sample shampoo and lotion.  Of course he had wandered why, he thought as he returned and tossed his kit into his bag.  “I was too busy being shot at.  Besides I assumed that was the way you wanted it.”  Illya slammed the lid down on his suitcase and locked it, unaware of the sadness that lurked in Napoleon’s eyes.


“No,” Napoleon voiced quietly.  “It was the way Waverly wanted it.”


“Waverly?  Why?”  Illya looked at him in astonishment.  Napoleon was looking pensive, rubbing his forehead and unable to meet Illya’s eyes.


“Because Waverly felt I was getting too dependent on you,” Napoleon finally confessed.


Illya sat down heavily on the bed next to his suitcase.  He shook his head in disbelief.   “That’s ridiculous,” he scoffed.


“No…no it wasn’t,” Napoleon said weakly.  “I was – did depend on you too much…more then I should have.”  He was pacing the small room, rubbing his hands over his face.  He stopped and faced the astonished Russian.  “Not only that but he somehow got the idea we were more than friends.”  He was taken aback as Illya fell back across the bed laughing hysterically.   “It’s not funny,” Napoleon scowled, sending gales of laughter through his partner once again.


“Of course it is.  You can’t be serious,” Illya choked.   He paused to wipe the tears from his eyes, his anger dissipating.  He noted the serious expression on the other man’s face.  “But you are, aren’t you,” Illya said softly.  Then more strongly. “I never thought of you in that way and I’m fairly certain you did not think of me that way either.”


Napoleon tilted his head, first to one side then another as if reluctant to respond.  “Not before then.”


“What!”  Illya sat up, astonishment widening his eyes as he took that admittance in.  “Was it something I said or did?”


“No,” Napoleon assured him.  “It’s just that Waverly always thought you were a little queer.”


“Queer?”  Illya’s voice squeaked.  “You mean as in…gay?  I always thought he meant I was a little strange.”


“That too.”  Napoleon couldn’t help but smile before proceeding more seriously. “You were right.  I never considered us…and then once he mentioned it I couldn’t stop thinking about it.  I started obsessing and it was affecting my performance.  That’s why I left.”


“Performance?  Job or sexual?”  Illya’s eyes glinted with amusement.


“Both,” Napoleon admitted reluctantly.   “Working with you was increasingly difficult.  In retrospect I see that I should have stayed, then whatever happened in Yugoslavia might never have occurred.”


“No.  If what you say is true…about Waverly, then nothing would have changed.  If you are feeling guilty, there is no reason,” Illya hastened to reassure his old friend.  Then on consideration he felt constrained to ask, “Is that why you are working with Kowalski?”


“Not at all.  That’s a matter of self-preservation.  Yours,” Napoleon answered frankly.  “I’d hate to have to inform Sir John of Kowalski’s demise, should he tick you off.”


“Perish the thought.  You’ve ticked me off many a time and I never tried to kill you.  Well, almost never.”  Illya couldn’t help but remember the time he’d been programmed to kill Solo and had almost succeeded.   “You have given me much to think about.” He picked up his suitcase and headed toward the door.   Opening it, he paused to ask, “I will see you back in New York, yes?”


The American stood there, his expression wistful.  “We’re still friends?”


How could Napoleon doubt it?  Would he have entered into this venture if they were not?


“Yes.  Still friends,” Illya assured him as he walked out the room.




Several weeks later in the main workroom at Vanya’s the sound was deafening, but Illya was use to it.   Models in various stages of dress swirled around him.  His assistant ran to and fro.  The makeup person chased after someone, trying to finish the job of alteration.   His shirtsleeves rolled up, Illya grabbed a dress off the rack, looked at it, frowned and shook his head.  This one wouldn’t do, he thought as he tossed it aside and grabbed yet another.


Someone tapped him on the shoulder. “Ah, Illya?”


He smiled as he recognized the familiar voice.   “Napoleon!”  Pleasure welled through him. “So glad you could make it.”


Napoleon looked uncomfortable, his eyes covered to avoid the half-dressed females that moved around the two men.    Napoleon was not nearly the sex maniac most people thought him.  “You, ah, wanted to see me?”


Illya looked around at the pandemonium going on around them, seeing it with new eyes.  He’d never really paid much attention to it before. 


“Come,” he insisted, leading his old friend away. The two men wove their way through the crowd, until the sounds receded and passed through an outer office to reach Illya’s inner sanctum.  “Hold all calls,” Illya ordered his secretary.  “I do not wish to be disturbed.”


Illya watched in amusement as Napoleon took in the contrast between his inner sanctum and the outer office.  The outer office looked like an office, with its large desk and comfortable chairs.  Illya’s inner office was more his work space.  A large drafting table lined one wall, with several large sheets of paper showing his latest designs scattered across it.  Hanging on the wall above it were various fabric swatches, hanging here and there.  Along another wall underneath a hideous picture was a credenza, fine crystal and various bottles on it.


“So what was it you wanted to see me about?”  Napoleon asked, after he had finished his appraisal.


Illya’s mouth went dry, now that he had Napoleon here; he wasn’t sure how to broach the subject.  “Why don’t we have something to drink first,” he suggested, moving nervously toward the credenza.


Napoleon stood there waiting, overdressed in his three piece suit and tie a sharp contrast to Illya with his white shirt, open at the neck, and his sleeves rolled up to the elbow.  Several weeks had passed since their last encounter following their returning of Air Force One.  They had talked over the phone several times since then, but with their busy schedules neither had time to actually get together.


Illya handed Napoleon his drink and walked past him, his back to his former partner.  “I’ve been thinking a lot about what we discussed in Iceland.”




“Yes, and I think I would like to try it.”


“Try what?”  Napoleon was truly puzzled.


Illya turned back to face his friend.  “You know.  Our having sex together.”


“What!”  Napoleon’s mouth dropped opened in surprise.  Not his most attractive look.


“You know, we could be…what do you Americans call it…fuck buddies?  That is the term, yes?”


“Illya!” Napoleon said, shocked.  “Why?”


How could Illya explain it?  The loneliness he felt, even surrounded as he was by employees and associates.  Ever since Napoleon had brought the subject up, it had somehow festered in his mind.  Somehow after hearing Waverly's mistaken belief of their relationship, Illya realized that as he got older he longed for someone to care for, to hold, to touch…to get off with.  So far no one he had met had fit the bill, he was forever alone.  Unable to put these thoughts into words, Illya merely shrugged.


“But…but you have all these beautiful women you work with,” Napoleon reasoned, flustered, “You’re surrounded with half-naked women on a daily basis.  Most of who would be more than willing I’m sure, to take you to their bed.”


Illya began to grow irritated.  Sure, if you looked at it that way, he had lots of opportunities and not only with women.  After all there were a lot of weird people in the industry and he’d had his share of offers.  But the morning afters were what worried him.  What would happen if he did take action on his desires and it didn’t work out?  He felt sure that with Napoleon there would not be that problem.  With Napoleon he could write it off as a bad experiment if it didn’t work out and go on.  With one of his models or associates, there would be bitterness and jealousy. 


“Illya?”  Napoleon called out, bringing his attention back.


“You are right of course, but for some reason they do not ‘turn me on’,” Illya said, realizing it was true.


“And I do?”  Napoleon sounded intrigued.


“Oddly enough, yes.  I would not have believed it before our talk,” Illya mused.  “I’ve felt for quite awhile that something was missing in my life.  I didn’t know what until now,” he admitted.  “Sometimes I find the garment business to be more stressful then being a spy.”


Napoleon drained his drink in one swallow.  Stress was something he could relate to.  When he’d been in the field he had used sex as a great stress reliever.  He wasn’t really adverse to having sex with Illya, after all those thoughts were what had led to his leaving U.N.C.L.E. in the first place, but that was fifteen years ago.  They’d been younger then.  “You really think that at this stage of our lives we could…”


The telephone rang just then and Illya snatched it up, snapping, “I thought I told you I was not to be disturbed?”  He paused listening.  “Very well, I will see him for a few minutes.”  He slammed the receiver down and turned apologetically to Napoleon.  “This will just take a minute.” 


Napoleon watched as Illya went to the door and let a young man in.  The young man, a clipboard in his hand, was standing close to his blond friend.  Too close in Napoleon’s opinion.  He appeared to be in his early twenties, with dark hair and dark eyes that were looking worshipfully at his old friend.  Illya, as usually, seemed oblivious to the young man as he flipped through the papers on the clipboard, marking here and there.  A flash of jealousy hit Napoleon as Illya handed the clipboard back, flashed his rare smile and pushed the boy from the room.


“Where were we?”  Illya turned back as if nothing untoward had happened.  “Ah yes.” He moved toward the credenza and pulled on the picture over it to reveal a safe. “I have been doing some research.”  He opened it, pulling out a bundle wrapped in plain brown paper and dumped out a stack of videos over his workspace.


Napoleon set his drink down and rifled through the videos.  “Porn videos!” he said, shocked.  “Where did you get these?” he asked as he looked at the photos on the covers.  Photo’s of men having sex with each other. 


“Actually, from your company,” Illya replied with amusement.


Napoleon dropped the video he held in his hand, his eyes wide with shock. “What!”


“See,” Illya said pulling a slip of paper from under the videos and handing it to his old friend.  “You did not know?”


Napoleon grabbed the paper and studied it.  It was an invoice, the logo of his computer company.  Reeling with shock he looked at the name on the invoice.  “Buddington Smith?”


“Well you did not expect me to use my name did you?”  Illya responded reasonably.  “I have a catalog if you would care to look.”


“Yes.  Yes, I think I might,” Napoleon said, holding in his temper.  His company supplied a lot of software, but to the best of his knowledge porn videos were not one of them.  He would definitely have to investigate this.


“This one I found of particular interest,” Illya said wickedly as he pulled one from the stack.


Napoleon was beyond being shocked by now or so he thought.  The picture on the video bore a striking resemblance to himself.  His jaw tightened with anger.


“Napoleon?” Illya’s hand was on his arm, his eyes worried.  “I did not mean to make you angry.”


Napoleon patted Illya’s hand, finding that he enjoyed the contact and wanted more.  “It’s not you I’m angry at,” he assured him, with a sigh.  “Are you sure?  About our having sex?”


Illya smiled uncertainly.  “Not really.  Have you got anything better to do?”


Napoleon gazed fondly at the Russian, an unusual thought coming into his mind.  “Mr. Waverly was right.  You are queer…strange,” he teased.


Illya shrugged. “I prefer to think of myself as a pragmatist.”


“We wouldn’t have even considered this fifteen years ago.  Why should we now?”  Napoleon asked thoughtfully.


“Because I want to.”  Illya replied as if that said it all.





Illya passed the Alexandria Park Hotel plaque and continued to the door.  Napoleon’s call had caught him at meeting with a prospective client.


“Can I help you, sir?”  The deep voice brought him up short.  His eyes traveled up the broad body to the doorman’s dark face.


“I’m here to see Mr. Solo,” Illya said politely.


Dark eyes looked him up and down.  The doorman turned to the phone on the wall and dialed.  He nodded and hung up.  With great courtesy he opened the door and bowed.  “Elevator to the penthouse is on your left.”


He rested his hand on the elevator wall and looked down at the floor as it slowly inched upward to the penthouse.  He wasn’t sure what to expect once he got there.


The door slid open and he looked up to find Napoleon standing inside his doorway.


“Welcome,” Napoleon said with a smile, then he turned and led the way inside.


This was the first time in years that he’d stepped into what had once been Napoleon’s Aunt Amy’s apartment.  The changes were subtle, Amy had very good taste.  The only thing he recognized from Napoleon’s previous home was the global bar in the corner.  A relic from the sixties.


Illya didn’t have a chance to linger as he was led into a formal dining area.  The dining table was set with china, crystal, and lit candles.  Napoleon moved to the iced champagne bucket and popped the cork.  Flowing liquid poured over the sides as Napoleon poured the bubbly into two elegant crystal flutes.


“I see you didn’t make many changes,” Illya commented as he took one of the glasses.


“Why change perfection,” Napoleon stated as he raised his glass in salute.  “To the good old days.”


Illya did likewise.  “To better days to come.”


Napoleon’s set his glass down and pulled out one of the chairs, waving Illya to sit.


Illya glared back, making it clear he would not be treated like a woman.  He deliberately moved to the only other chair with a place setting.  He snapped his napkin and placed it across his lap.  “You do know that you don’t have to feed me.”


Napoleon raised an eyebrow.  “You never turned down a meal in the old days.”


Illya couldn’t disagree.  A half-smile crossed his face as he attacked the food on his plate.  The meal was excellent and he had every intention of enjoying it.


Halfway through the meal Illya asked, “So what happened about the video’s?”


“I settled it,” Napoleon responded shortly.  He didn’t want to talk about finding the person, someone whom he trusted and had held a responsible position in his company.  He’d been floored when he did the responsible thing and fired the man, only to be threatened with a lawsuit.


“You are only doing this because I’m gay and you’re not!”


That had shocked Napoleon, up until that time he never would have believed it.  The man had a wife and kids.  It had taken him a few minutes to gather himself together.  “Whether you are or not is none of my business.  What is my business IS this company and the unethical use you made of it.  It is for that and that alone that I’m forced to let you go.  Did you think I wouldn’t find out?”


The man visibly shrunk after that.  Napoleon wasn’t cruel; he gave him a month’s severance, two weeks' vacation pay and a reference. 


Illya began to fidget; maybe this wasn’t a good idea.  Napoleon’s eyes were hard in a way that Illya had only seen on the job.  He wiped his mouth on his napkin and rose from his chair.  “Perhaps I should leave.”


“No!” Napoleon leaped from his chair.  “Please don’t go.  I’m sorry; it just wasn’t a very pleasant experience.”  He shook his head trying to rid himself of the memory. 


Illya looked at him leery.


“Besides, you can’t leave now, there is chocolate for desert,” Napoleon cajoled.  He must have done a good enough job, because Illya returned to his chair. 


Napoleon disappeared and returned with a crystal goblet which he set before Illya.  A goblet of chocolate mousse.


Illya licked his lips.  Even after all their years apart Napoleon still remembered his weaknesses.  He looked up.  Napoleon was leaning back in his chair, trying to hide a small smile with one hand.


“Aren’t you going to have some?”  Illya asked as he brought a spoonful to his lip.


“No, I don’t think so.  I have to watch my girlish figure.” Napoleon grinned.


Illya raised an eyebrow and swallowed a spoonful of mousse, then for good measure he stuck his tongue out and slowly licked seductively around the spoon.   He smiled inwardly as he heard Napoleon suck in a deep breath.


“Why did you agree to this?” Illya asked waving his spoon around.


Napoleon leaned forward and looked down at the tabletop, almost as if embarrassed.  “It’s not that I’ve done without, you know.  I can’t count the number of times I’ve slept with a woman.  It’s just that at night…when I get home?  There’s nobody here.”


Illya nodded.  He knew exactly how Napoleon felt.


“It’s hard to explain…the loneliness.  Then there’s the fact that I’ve never been with a man before.”   Napoleon’s eyes slip upward to watch Illya’s reaction. 


“And you think I have?”  Illya voiced his indignation.


“No, no,” Napoleon hurriedly tried to placate him.  “But you have to admit with being in the fashion industry you’ve had more chances…”


“That’s it!”  Illya flung down his napkin.  “I didn’t come here to be insulted.”


“Sit down.” Napoleon took in a deep breath.  “It’s just I’m new to this and I thought we’d take it slow.”


“By slow do you mean dinner and dancing?” 


“Dinner – yes.  Dancing - no.  I thought maybe…a little cuddling?”


The two men stared at each other incredulously, then burst out laughing.


By the time the meal ended, however, Illya had given up on anything at all happening.  He got up from the table with the intention of helping clear it.  He wasn’t expecting two hands to grip his upper arms and every so gently turn him so that he was face to face with Napoleon.  One of Napoleon’s arms moved to cradle Illya’s neck while the other wrapped around him embracing him firmly.  At first the kiss was just two lips pressed together, but Illya soon warmed up to it.  His eyes closed as he wrapping his arms around Napoleon’s neck and melted into the kiss all the while opening his mouth so Napoleon’s tongue could do some exploring.


He began to feel lightheaded, then he heard Napoleon speak softly.  “I’ve missed you.”


The walls he’d erected around his heart came crashing down.  This was no longer about getting off or staving off the loneliness that he’d felt for years. 


The next thing Illya knew, he was being maneuvered into the living room and his jacket was sent flying towards one of the chairs.  His necktie followed suit and the buttons on his shirt were undone one by one.  He knew that Napoleon was a passionate man, his one fear was that Napoleon would follow his past experience and give him a wonderful night before moving on to someone else. 


Napoleon was looking at him, that smile that had always infuriated him on his face.  The smile that said ‘Trust me; I know what I’m doing’.  Illya’s pride flared.  He wanted to be the aggressor. 


He grabbed Napoleon by the lapel, closed his eyes, and pulled Napoleon to him.  He wasn’t exactly sure what would happen next, but he was going to give it one hell of a try.  Their lips came together roughly, but Napoleon pulled away slightly, gentling it, for which Illya was truly grateful.  Napoleon had his hands on his butt and they were grinding away to a primitive rhythm.


Suddenly Illya saw stars, and the next thing he knew, Napoleon let him slide down upon the sofa and then back away.  He appeared to be looking pensively down at his expensively made trousers.


“I appear to have made a mess.”   His brown eyes crinkled with amusement and he seemed to be holding back a smile.  “So have you.”  There was that grin.


Illya could feel the stickiness in his trousers.  Just the thought of what they’d done started him chortling and soon Napoleon slipped down next to Illya and was laughing hysterically too.    Soon they both had tears running down their faces. Neither Illya nor Napoleon could remember when they’d laughed this hard.


Napoleon got up first, still chuckling, and took Illya by the hand.  “We’d best clean up.”


The bathroom was big enough for two.  It consisted of soaker tub, huge shower, separate water closet, full length mirror as well as the usual sink.  The dark woods giving it a masculine feel.  Illya quickly stripped off his clothing while Napoleon started the shower water and got them clean towels and robes.


Napoleon’s jaw dropped along with the towels.  It had been over fifteen years, but Illya’s physique wasn’t that much different from what Napoleon remembered.   A few more pounds…maybe?  But those abdominal muscles?  “How do you keep in such good shape?”


“Exercise.”  Illya answered impishly.  “And you?”


Napoleon’s sigh held a bit of distress.  He’d put on a bit of weight, not a lot, but he’d never fit into a forty-two tux again.  “I travel a lot.”


Illya helped Napoleon off with his clothing.  “Hummm,” he said as he spied Napoleon’s cock.   Is it possible that his penis had grown over the intervening years?  He blushed remembering that he’d never seen it fully erect before.


Napoleon’s eyes followed his gaze.  “Touch me,” he ordered hoarsely.


Illya licked his lips and did just that, shocked when it twitched at the touch of his fingers.  Boldly he wrapped his hand around it, feeling it pulse against his palm.  Napoleon let out a gasp. 


Damn, Illya, if you don’t stop now, we’ll never get cleaned.


He pushed Illya away, not because he wanted to, but they were supposed to be cleaning up.

Surely they could manage this.


Illya pulled away with disappointment, but Napoleon used one finger to pull his chin up so that they were eye to eye.   “It’s not that I don’t want it.  I want it too much.  Why don’t we start fresh, after all we have all night?  You where planning to stay the night?”


“I hadn’t really thought about it,” Illya said, though the twinkle in his eye said otherwise. 


Napoleon smiled a truly happy smile, one he hadn’t used in years.  He decided he didn’t want to rush this phase, so he shut off the shower and opened the faucets to the soaker tub then added some bath oil.


“After you, Alphonse,” Napoleon waved Illya in first.  Illya shook his head and slipped into the tub.  Napoleon tossed in a couple of wash clothes and slipped in behind him. 


Bathing took a sensuous turn, the likes of which Illya had never experienced.  The tub was big enough to maneuver in as they explored each other’s body from top to bottom.


The water was cold by the time they felt clean enough to get out.  Words were unnecessary when drying off turned into another new experience as their lips caressed skin made soft by the oils. 


By mutual consent the two decide to take this slowly, learning as they went along.  The large bed made for some interesting experiments, trying positions that men of their age shouldn’t try.  They ended up laughing hysterically and feeling young again.  As it turned out it was almost dawn when they finally fell asleep. 


Napoleon kept his eyes shut and stretched, feeling better than he had any right to considering all the gymnastics they’d participated in during the night.  He reached over to pull Illya closer and closed in on…nothing?  Then the scent of freshly brewed coffee floated nearer.


“Did you think I had second thoughts?”  Illya demanded to know as he set a tray down on the end table.  Wearing one of Napoleon’s old robes, that pretty much engulfed him, he bounced on the bed with the grace of a man much younger.  “Have you even thought about how much we do not have in common?”


Napoleon reached across him to pick up his grass of coffee. “I thought we might move in together?  I’ve just found you again and I’m certainly not going to lose you.”


“And just how had you thought that we would make this work.”


“Let me get this straight you just though we would have some fun?’


“I’m not saying it wasn’t fun. There is just more to this then I want.”

Napoleon pulled up the sheet to cover his naked body and sipped on his coffee.  “Do you even know what I want?”


“Great sex?”


An irritated frown passed across Napoleon’s face.  This was something that he had thought a great deal about this since their parting in the Russian Café two years previously.  “I want…” Napoleon said slowly, wanting Illya to understand that this wasn’t a whim.  “My partner back.  Someone to come home to, to share my life with.”


Illya looked doubtful.


“To argue with if need be.  I’ve missed US.  The sex is just a bonus.”


“Napoleon, I am not the easiest man to get along with.”  Illya shook his head and looked away.  “My business takes me away…a lot.”


“So does mine.”  Napoleon reached out and put a hand on Illya’s knee.  “There has got to be a compromise in there somewhere.”


Illya shook his head.


“I’ve been thinking of retiring.  Not totally, just pulling back, letting others take up the slack.”


Looking thoughtful Illya nodded.  “There is a lot that I could delegate that I’ve been putting off.”


Napoleon cleared his throat.  “As much as I like Aunt Amy’s penthouse, it has always been hers.  I’ve been actively looking at other properties.”


Illya’s eyes narrowed.


“There are a couple of places I was hoping you’d be willing to look at with me.”


“Are you saying what I think you’re saying?”


“Yeah, Partner Mine.  Twenty Years after our partnership went kapoot, I’m asking you to be my partner to have and to hold and live together for rest of our lives.”



yumyumpm: Napoleon and Illya (Man from UNCLE)




                                       A Turkey Tale

                                                       By YumYumPM

Originally posted 2003Raven’s Lair

Revised 6/10/09


Napoleon had slept in late that morning and was in his living room, still in his pajamas and robe, reading the newspaper when a knock sounded on his door. Going to answer it, he was taken aback to see a giant turkey standing before him.  The turkey entered the apartment babbling in half a dozen different languages, all the words bad, and finally took off its head revealing the face of his partner, Illya Kuryakin.

"Whoa there, slow down what's the matter?" he asked trying to calm his partner down.

"Mr. Waverly!!! Section IV told him they were sure THRUSH was going to try something at the Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade and he ordered me to wear this stupid turkey outfit and keep an eye on everything," Illya spouted as he began removing the turkey suit.

Napoleon looked at him, eyes wide. "Illya, you don't have any clothes on."

Illya looked down at himself puzzled."Was I supposed to?"



yumyumpm: Napoleon and Illya (Man from UNCLE)

A Moment of Madness

Originally posted File 40 2004-revised


Napoleon discovers feelings for his partner that could lead to madness.


Napoleon Solo stood by the window, his hands in his pocket and tie undone, wondering how the hell he’d managed to get himself in the fix he was in.  He was the top agent for U.N.C.L.E. New York.  Ruthless, merciless, and heartless, okay, maybe not heartless; and here he was acting like a lovesick fool.  Not that anyone would know to look at him, but deep on the inside he knew.  He sighed.


“Napoleon, Na-po-leon!”


“What, Illya?” he asked, his voice tired.


“You have been a million miles away.  What’s wrong?” his irritated partner asked.


What’s wrong?  I’m having definitely indecent feelings for you and you ask what’s wrong?  “Nothing,” was all he said.


It wasn’t even as if Illya had done anything to encourage these feelings.  Hell, he’d probably kill him if he ever knew.  Well, maybe not kill, but seriously maim would be closer to the point.  If only he knew why he was having these feeling?  He sighed again.


He turned away and left the room saying, “I’m going to go get some air.” 


“Say hello to her for me.”  He heard Illya call after him.


Instead of using the elevator he went over to the stairwell, down three steps and stopped.  Sitting down he wrapped his arms around his knees and rested his chin on them as well.  Her?  There was no her, every time he tried to think about anyone of the female persuasion, Illya got in the way.  He would see himself kissing a beautiful red head and suddenly it would be Illya.  He’d imagine himself with a naked blonde and suddenly it would be a naked Russian. When had he gotten so obsessed?  He wasn’t into men, though half of U.N.C.L.E. probably thought he was.  His reputation was going to be the death of him yet.


Illya headed for the elevator intent on getting something to eat when he glanced into the stairwell and saw his partner just sitting there.  He changed direction and walked down to sit beside his friend. 


“Napoleon, something is obviously wrong?  Tell me what is bothering you.”


Solo would not look at him. 


“Is it something I’ve done?”


Solo shook his head no.


“Is it something you’ve done?”


Solo hesitated before shaking his head no again.


Twenty questions was not Illya’s favorite game.  “Is it something you want to do?”


Napoleon lifted his head and looked intensely at the blond Russian.


Illya held his breath; there was no mistaking that look.  Surely, Napoleon could not be serious.  Napoleon turned his head and hid his face.  Damn. 


“Napoleon...” he started.


“Would you please just go away?” Napoleon muttered into his hands. “Please before I do something we’ll both regret?”


Illya slowly got up and left.  Napoleon stretched out his legs and leaned back against the stairs.  After a while he got up and headed back for their room.  He opened the door to find Illya spread out naked on the bed.  He stood there, the key still in the lock, in a state of shock.


“Close the door,” Illya commanded. “This is what you want isn’t it?”


Napoleon closed the door and went and sat down on the other bed.  “What on earth… Illya, what I want and what I get are two totally different things.”  He pulled the blanket from across the foot of his bed and threw it at Illya to cover him up.  “I’m having problems, but that’s no reason…”


Illya took the blanket and wrapped himself up in it.  “Napoleon, if you have problems, we have problems. I thought this was what you wanted.”


“I do…I don’t…I don’t know what I want.”  Napoleon realized he wasn’t making any sense.  The two men just looked at each other for the longest time, neither saying anything.  Napoleon finally broke the silence.  “I’m sorry; my imagination is getting the best of me.  If we actually acted on it we’d both regret it.”  He frowned.  “At least I think we’d both regret it.  Maybe only you’d regret it.”


“I’m willing to take the chance,” Illya offered.


“But I’m not.”  Napoleon was adamant. “I care for and respect you too much, and that’s the problem.”  Illya looked at him puzzled.  “It’s not even as if I were in love with you,” he said thoughtfully.  “Though, maybe I’m in lust with you.  I can control it….I think.”


“Napoleon, you are not making any sense.”


“Tell me about it.”


“Why don’t we just take this one step at a time?  From the beginning,” Illya suggested.


Napoleon looked at him questioningly.


“When did all this start?”


Napoleon tried to think back. “I’m not sure.”


“That’s reassuring,” Illya said sarcastically.  “When did you realize you wanted to fuck me?”


Napoleon winced. “I’m not sure I’ve gotten that far yet.  Mostly it’s a very strong desire to kiss you.”


“Is that all?”  Illya asked in surprise.  “I have no problems with that, in Russia men kiss all the time.”


Napoleon glared at him. “Not the way I want to kiss you.  Besides what happens if I get the strong desire to…ah…you know?”


“The word is fuck, Napoleon,” Illya said exasperatedly.  “We could take it one step at a time.”


Napoleon considered the offer, it sounded like a good solution.  But he still wasn’t prepared to act on it.


“Why don’t you just fulfill the fantasy of kissing me, maybe you won’t like it,” Illya whispered.


Napoleon debated with himself mentally, surely one kiss wouldn’t hurt.  He got up from the bed and sat next to the Russian, wrapped up in a blanket, and looked him in the eye before taking Illya’s face with his hands and pulling his mouth upward for what he’d plan to be a quick kiss.  Unfortunately it didn’t work out that way. The softness of the mouth and the sweetness of the kiss was so intoxicating that it stretched on endlessly.  Soon they were both breathing hard.  Napoleon forcefully broke himself away. “This is not going to work.”


Illya, the blanket dropping from his shoulders, reached out and grabbed Napoleon by the base of his neck. “Who cares,” he said before initiating another breathtaking kiss.  He lay back on the bed pulling Napoleon down with him, their mouths never leaving the other.


Napoleon finally gave in and uncovered the body beneath him as if unwrapping a Christmas present.  He let his passion take him as he reached for the face of his associate and started kissing first the forehead, the eyelids, then the nose, on to the mouth.  From there he went to the neck, causing Illya to arch his head, followed by the chest, his tongue making patterns on the body beneath him.  He moved back up to nip at first one nipple than the other and listened to the moans of pleasure his partner was making.  It was obvious that the attention he was receiving was arousing him, so Napoleon worked even harder to arouse him more.  His hands were everywhere, his mouth was everywhere and soon, much too soon, Illya arched and climaxed forcefully.


Trying to get his breath back, he lay there completely sated.  Napoleon moved over to one side and lay next to him, his head resting on his hand looking smug.  Illya tried to get up but found he didn’t have the strength.  “So, now what?”


Napoleon’s hand went down to the flat abdomen and lightly stroked it.  “I think, that if you let me do this ever so often, I just might be all right,” he whispered.


“And what about you?  Do you not wish for me…?”  Illya queried.


“Nope, I think it was all about needing to please you.  Which pleases me.  If I need anything more, I can find it elsewhere.  I have no intentions of burdening …” Napoleon was unable to finish due to Illya’s fingers on his lips.


“What if I said it was no burden?”  Illya asked. “What if I need…?”


“Illya, whatever you want, whenever you want it,” Napoleon replied.  “But now, you need to rest.”   He gently covered his partner with the blanket and pulled him close.


Illya closed his eyes, blissfully aware of the change in their partnership, and oddly enough welcoming it.  Sleepily he muttered, “I’ll protect your back, if you protect mine.”


The End.




yumyumpm: Napoleon and Illya (Man from UNCLE)
 A Memorable Thanksgiving

By YumYumPM



Sitting at his desk, Napoleon Solo idly contemplated which of the four – make that five, if you counted Aunt Amy’s standing one – invitations to Thanksgiving dinner he should accept.


The door to his office slid open to admit U.N.C.L.E.’s only Russian agent.  “Here is my report on the Aubry Affair,” Illya Kuryakin said, handing it over.


Napoleon took it and began glancing through it.  With his mind still on Thanksgiving he asked as Illya turned to leave, “What are your plans for Thanksgiving?”


The Russian shrugged.  Thanksgiving was just another day to him.  “Unless an assignment comes up, I will probably stay home. Maybe have a TV dinner.  A turkey TV dinner,” he added when he noted a look of disapproval on Napoleon’s face.  Giving a polite nod he exited the room.


Napoleon sat for awhile staring contemplatively at the closed door.  It was a shame that the Russian had no friends here as yet that he could spend Thanksgiving with.  He thought of the four invitations he had.  Maybe he could ask one of them to let Illya – but no, the Russian might not appreciate that.


He thought about it a little more, then putting it to the back of his mind he turned his attention back to his report making sure it dovetailed with Illya’s.


Ten minutes later an idea flashed through his thoughts.  He caught it, played it back and smiled.  Thinking it through, he nodded.  It just might work.  Pulling out his little black book he started making calls.


First he called the four ladies, apologizing for being unable to accept.  They were most disappointed, but once he offered to make amends by setting them up with a couple of his friends they each reluctantly agreed, at least their meals would not go to waste.


 Next he considered which of his many bachelor friends would match best with each lady.  His luck held.  He found each free for Thanksgiving. It wasn’t much work to talk them into calling the girls, the guys well aware of the type of women Solo attracted.  His mother would have been proud of him.  It was her constant matchmaking that had forced Napoleon, at an early age and out of self defense, to actively pursue female companionship.  A habit that he would in all probability carry to his grave.  That taken care of, Napoleon only needed to place one more call.


Thanksgiving Day


A loud banging at his door forced Illya Kuryakin to snag a robe, only to find Napoleon, dressed in a mohair jacket, his hands encased in leather gloves, standing outside his door. 


“Do you know what time it is?” the Russian asked grumpily.  He pulled Napoleon’s arm up to check the watch on it to verify the time. “It is three o’clock in the morning.”


“Time for certain Russians to dress and come with me,” Napoleon assured him.


Illya hesitated for a moment before he turned away heading for his bedroom.  A fellow agent showing up at his door could only mean an assignment.  Though why he wasn’t notified before hand was beyond him.


Napoleon entered closing the door behind him.  One glance around the room showed a worn sofa, a coffee table littered with books and a box of half-eaten pizza.  No pictures, no trinkets - unless you count various gadgets here and there as trinkets.  Napoleon turned at the sound of footsteps coming from the bedroom.  Illya carried his holster preparatory to putting it on.


“You won’t be needing that were we’re going,” Napoleon said, pointing to the holster before Illya could put it on.


Illya put the holster back where he’d gotten it from. “I take it we are not on an assignment?”


“Ask me no questions and I’ll tell you no lies,” was the enigmatic reply Napoleon gave Illya as he held out a jacket for the Russian.  They headed down the stairs, Illya wondering where, not to mention why, they were out at this time of the morning if not on an assignment. 


Napoleon led the way, the Russian following to the nearest subway station.  The fact that his friend was clueless to his plans pleased him.  He kept expecting the Russian to pepper him with questions, but Illya had evidently taken his words to heart for he asked none.


There were not many people out at this time of the morning, so it was not long before they reached Central Park.  Napoleon had chosen the subway rather then taking his car, so they could get as close as possible.  A light mist was falling as they exited the station to find a crowd of people milling around.  Napoleon wove his way through them, not checking to see if the Russian was still with him, confident that he would be. 


Napoleon stopped as he felt a tug at his sleeve.


“Napoleon, why are so many people out at this time of the morning?”  Illya asked.


Napoleon didn’t respond, he just smiled and gestured for the younger man to follow.  Scanning the area he hoped to spot a specific person in this crowd. 


“Napoleon!”  A pert brunette shouted and waved.


A wide smile crossed the American’s face as he waved back and headed in her direction. “Hi, Diane,” he called to the shapely young lady.  As he got closer he wrapped her in a warm embrace and kissed her on her cheek.  “I thought you could use a hand today.”


Diane was standing behind a large table loaded down with a great many coffee machines, cups, sugar and cream, transferring them to smaller carts. 


“We can always use the help,” she said with a smile.  Then she cocked an eyebrow at the blond who stood behind Napoleon. 


“Diane, I’d like for you to meet Illya Kuryakin.  Illya, Diane Trabush.”


Diane turned her brilliant smile toward the puzzled Russian and greeted him, “Welcome to the starting line of Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade.”  


“What can we do to help?”  Napoleon asked.


Diane pushed a filled cart toward him.  “Just go around and make sure the volunteers get a hot cup of coffee.  Coffee’s in this one, hot chocolate here,” she said as she pointed to the different machines.  “Extra cups, sugar, cream, spoons are down here.”  She pointed to the well stocked shelf below.  Her attention was diverted by the approach of several more people and the chilling wind blew the dark curls into her face as she waved Napoleon off with a nod.


The Russian looked expectantly at the American.


“Every year, on Thanksgiving Day, Macy’s department store puts on a parade to welcome Santa Claus to New York.   Macy’s employees volunteer their time to make this parade possible,” Napoleon explained as he took charge of the cart and wove his way through the crowd, Illya close behind.  “Diane is one of the many volunteers from Macy’s that make this parade possible.”  He stopped to hand out coffee to a group that was surrounding a large blob lying on the ground.  “Bands, floats and balloons –like this one,” Napoleon said as the blob slowly began to take shape. “take to the streets. It has become an American holiday tradition.”


The two agents spent the wee morning hours, as the sun came up, shifting through the crowded area offering hot coffee and hot chocolate to the workers.  Illya, of course, had a hundred questions, which Napoleon tried his best to answer, until he realized that Illya was putting him on.  In fact the Russian knew almost as much about Thanksgiving as he did.  Napoleon watched Illya as he took in all the wonder and delights that surrounded them.   


Sometime during that morning, Napoleon realized that he quite liked the young Russian.  They had finished handing out hot chocolate to a bunch of young band members.  Illya, his blond hair flattened by the rain, his blue eyes bright, took turns playing a horn with one of the horn players. 


Diane showed up, checking on their progress.  “Your friend seems to be enjoying himself.”


“Ummm, yes.  He does, doesn’t he,” Napoleon said. He noticed the Russian blowing on his hands to keep them warm.  Since he had on a pair of leather gloves, he had not realized just how chilly it was.  Turning to Diane, he whispered something in her ear. 


“Come on, Beethoven,” Napoleon called.  “We have more coffee to pass out.”


“Beethoven never played the horn,” Illya replied with a grin.


Just then a hearty, “Ho! Ho! Ho!”  was heard behind them.   They turned around to find the Macy’s Santa and a twinkling eyed Diane giggled behind them. 


“You must have been a good boy this year,” Santa said in a loud jovial tone, as he held out a bag to the Russian.


Illya took the bag, casting a suspicious look at Napoleon, then looked inside.  A knit hat, muffler and gloves were withdrawn by the astonished Russian.  “I don’t understand?”


“Never refuse a gift from Santa,” Napoleon advised.


With a shy smile, the Russian thanked the beaming bearded man and pulled on the hat and gloves, feeling warmer inside and out.  Napoleon took the muffler and wrapped it around his neck, then stood back to admire his handiwork, while Diane planted a kiss on the Russian’s cheek and another on Napoleon’s. 


“Hey, can we get a hand here?”  Someone called and the two rushed over to help out.  A huge balloon was going up and every hand they could get was needed to help hold it down. The rain and wind kept shifting the balloon as it went up. 


“What is it?”  Illya shouted.


Napoleon squinted through the rain. “I’m not sure.  I think it’s Bullwinkle,” he shouted back.  With all the noise going on around it was the only way to be heard.  Once he was sure everything was under control, Napoleon pulled Illya off to one side.  “Bullwinkle is a cartoon character.  He is also a moose.”  At the incredulous look on Illya’s face he continued.  “His best friend is a flying squirrel named Rocky.  They were constantly fouling the dastardly plans of two evil-doers, Natasha and Boris.


Illya groaned, “Now I know why so many people dislike Russians.”


“Hi, guys.”  Diane inserted herself between the two men, weaving her arms with theirs.  “The parade is about to start.  Why don’t you to go some place warm and dry and watch?” 


“I was just going to suggest that,” Napoleon said as he bestowed a kiss on her cheek.  “We still on for Saturday?”


“Absolutely.  And thanks for all the help,” she said, before bustling away.


“If you need nothing more from me, I will go home,” Illya said.  He turned away to leave when he felt a grip to his arm.


“Oh no you don’t,” Napoleon said, pointing in the other direction and heading off.


Illya caught Napoleon by his sleeve.  “Just tell me why?”  He took an involuntary step backward when Napoleon whirled on him. “Not that I didn’t enjoy myself.  I just want to know why I shouldn’t go home rather than following your lead?”


“You’ve got something better to do?”  Napoleon countered with a shrug.


With a heavy sigh, the Russian admitted to himself that he didn’t and the two men walked side by side down Central Park West through the crowd.  Illya was more than a little surprised when they turned into number 15 Central Park West – The Mayflower Hotel.  He gave Napoleon a strange look as they walked across the lobby to the reservation desk. 


“Why don’t you go up to room 644?”  Napoleon suggested.  He’d caught the look Illya had given him and was more or less surprised when the man, dripping from the rain, headed toward the elevator without asking any questions.  As Napoleon approached the reservation desk, a man off to one side could be heard complaining. 


“What do you mean you have no rooms?”


“I’m sorry, sir,” the young man behind the counter said.  “But this is Thanksgiving and as we are on the Parade route we are booked solid.”


Napoleon gave his attention to the young lady in front of him.  “Is my room available?”


“Of course, Mr. Solo,” the attractive clerk said as she pulled a key from its slot. “Who is she this time?”


“You wound me to the quick, Maureen,” Napoleon said, looking hurt as he took the key from her fingers, letting them touch.  “Just put it on my bill.”


“Ahuh,” said Maureen, fluttering her eyelashes at the dashing agent. 


“I’ll have you know it is an associate of mine who has never seen the parade before.”  Napoleon sounded indignant, though there was a smile on his face.  After all it was the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth.  He turned away hearing the disbelieving laugh and headed toward the elevator.


Room 644, actually Suite 644 had a wonderful view of Central Park.  That was one of the reasons Napoleon liked it.  It would be perfect for watching the parade go by in comfort, though that was not usually what he used the room for.    Of course they could have just gone to the Café, but it would have been crowded and Illya was dripping wet.


Illya was standing beside the door, water pooling at his feet as Napoleon opened the door, pocketing the key. He wasn’t sure what to make of the inscrutable look the Russian was sending him.


“Why don’t you go take a shower and dry off?”  Napoleon ordered, tossing his own outer jacket down on the sofa.  “The parade will be starting soon.” 


Illya hesitated, unsure of Napoleon’s motives.  He was surprised with himself for still being here.  In spite of the earliness of the hours, he had enjoyed himself and wasn’t really ready to go back to his solitary apartment alone.  Giving Napoleon, whom he knew to be a ladies man, the benefit of the doubt he went through the bedroom into the well appointed bath. True they shared an office and the American was friendly enough, but still.


Napoleon, hearing water starting in the bath, looked around the room with approval.  They could take the two comfortable wing chairs and pull them up to the windows facing the street.  From there they would have a good view of the parade as it went by.  Napoleon didn’t know about Illya, but he was hungry.  Calling room service, Napoleon ordered a large breakfast for two.


Napoleon was pushing a food laden cart to the chairs he had strategically placed in front of the windows when Illya came into the room, wrapped in a white terrycloth robe.  Napoleon didn’t even look at him, as he fussed with the dishes. “Why don’t you spread your wet clothing out to dry?  I ordered us breakfast and we can watch the parade in comfort.”


Illya turned back to do as he was bid.  The smell of hot coffee and fresh eggs proved too much and he realized he was indeed hungry.  He sat down and reached for a cup of piping hot coffee before serving and digging into the rest of the food.  If Illya was uncomfortable with the situation he did not show it.  Napoleon’s actions so for were no different from when they were at headquarters.


The two men sat eating and watching as the parade slowly went by under their windows.  They exchanged observations on the floats, marching bands and Napoleon named the balloons as they floated by, trying to put it into a context the Russian would understand. 


It was two stuffed agents who leaned back in their chairs as the last float; featuring the star of the parade – Santa Claus – went past.  “We shouldn’t have eaten so much,” Napoleon said with chagrin.


“Why not?”  Illya wanted to know, wondering what was going to happen next.


“Go get dressed, your clothing should be dry by now,” the American ordered.  “We have a Thanksgiving dinner to attend.”  When Illya returned, Napoleon looked him over with a critical eye.  “Maybe we should stop at Del Floria’s and have him press those trousers.” 


Illya looked down at his slacks, which were still slightly damp.  “Why don’t I just go home?”


“Oh, no.  You’re not getting out of this.”


“Out of what?”


“Thanksgiving dinner.”


At the Russian’s puzzled look Napoleon explained, “Every year, my aunt Amy invites me to Thanksgiving dinner.  This year you are coming with me.”


“I wouldn’t want to be in the way,” Illya protested.


“Don’t worry.  You won’t be,” Napoleon said firmly, glancing at his watch.  “We had better hurry if we don’t want to be late.”


Napoleon called downstairs for a cab and they exited the hotel on the opposite side from Central Park West.  The cab arrived just as they reached the door and Napoleon addressed the driver as he ushered Illya in. “Alexandria Park Hotel.” 


The drive was made in silence.  Illya getting more and more uncomfortable as time went on.  Why was Napoleon being so nice?


The Russian balked, once they had arrived and the doorman had looked down his nose at the rumbled blond, at the elevator door.  “Perhaps it would be best…”


Napoleon gripped him by the shoulder and all but tossed him into the elevator.  “Penthouse,” he said to the elevator operator.  “If you think I’m going through this alone, Tovarish…”


The door to the elevator opened at the penthouse floor.  Napoleon walked to the double doors, seemingly bracing himself, and knocked.  The door was opened by an elegantly dressed elderly lady, which was the only term one could use for her, leaning on a cane.  She stepped aside, letting the two men in.


Napoleon leaned in, giving her a peck on her wrinkled cheek.  “Hello, Aunt Amy.”


Aunt Amy promptly whacked him on the shin with her cane.  “You’re late.”


“Owww!” Napoleon yelped as he rubbed the painful site.  “Aunt Amy, I would like for you to meet Illya Kuryakin, an associate of mine.  Illya, my Aunt Amy.”


Illya took the elderly lady’s hand in his, bowed slightly and pressed a kiss on the tips.  “Madame.”


“Finally,”  Aunt Amy proclaimed. “You have brought home a gentleman.” 


Napoleon squelched his nose at the Russian. “Sorry we’re late, Aunt Amy, but I wanted Illya to see the parade.”


“Very commendable of you, I’m sure,” Aunt Amy said, as she turned to lead them into the dining room.  The room, like the rest of the apartment, was immaculate.   The table was a work of art, with its crystal and fine china. Aunt Amy sat at the head of the table, after Napoleon pulled her chair out for her, and regally rang the small bell lying beside her plate.


Illya stood at the doorway, feeling uncomfortable.  He pulled Napoleon to one side and whispered.  “Perhaps it would be best if I left.”


“Nonsense, young man,” Aunt Amy said, startling both men.  Her hearing was better then they had assumed.  “You will sit down and enjoy yourself.  That is an order.”


Napoleon shrugged and pointed to the place opposite his.  A servant, carrying a platter with a large turkey on it entered through a side door, and an assortment of maids followed with platters of side dishes. There seemed to be enough food to feed twenty people, not just three.


“Napoleon, would you do the honor of carving the turkey?”  Aunt Amy asked majestically.


“Yes, m’am,” Napoleon answered politely, taking up the knife and fork.


Once the turkey had been carved, the wine and various other dishes served.  Aunt Amy turned to scrutinize the young blond.  “Illya Kuryakin?  Is that Russian?”


“Yes, m’am.”


“I knew a Kuryakin once.  Such a bore, though he was magnificent in bed. A relative perhaps?”


Napoleon, in the act of taking a sip of wine, spit it out.  “Aunt Amy!”


“Really, Napoleon.  What is the good of being old if one cannot say outrageous things once in a while?”


Illya, whose face turned an interesting shade of red, said, “I really couldn’t say, Madame.”


“Oh, well.  It was just a thought,” Aunt Amy said, as she went back to her eating.


“Please, Aunt Amy,” Napoleon pleaded.  “I have to work with him on a daily basis.”


“I suppose that means I cannot discuss the misdeeds of your youth?” Aunt Amy mischievously questioned her nephew.


“I would rather you didn’t,” Napoleon stated firmly.


Aunt Amy gave his an innocent smile and turned the conversation to more mundane topics.


The meal progressed nicely, the food being wonderful and plentiful, the conversation interesting if not titillating as Aunt Amy charmingly mentioned this lover or that one.  She had evidently known many men, many of who’s names were recognizable.  Illya now knew where Napoleon got his promiscuity from.


As the meal came to an end, Aunt Amy’s energy seemed to lag.  Napoleon noticed and gently suggested that he and Illya leave, a suggestion to which she acquiesced.  Escorting them to the door, she gave Napoleon a hug and lifted her cheek for him to kiss. Then she turned to the Russian and bestowed a kiss on each of his cheeks.  “Do come again, young man.”


As the two men waited on the elevator, Illya remarked, “Your aunt is very nice.”


“Yes,”  Napoleon said absentmindedly.  “But now you see why I wanted someone with me.  She’s quite a handful.”


They entered the elevator. 


“How’s your ankle?”  Illya asked to make conversation.


Napoleon grinned.  “I’ll live.”


When they reached the street, Illya asked hesitantly, “Napoleon?”


“Hmmm?”  Napoleon said, waving down a taxi.


Illya took a deep breath. “Thank you.”


“Your welcome.”


“Can I ask you a question?”  Illya asked.  When Napoleon nodded, he continued.  “Why did you… do all this?”


Napoleon smiled at the man who shared his office.  “This is your first Thanksgiving in this country.  Right?”  At Illya’s nod of confirmation, he went on.  “I just wanted it to be a memorable one.”




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