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Napoleon resisted slamming his apartment door, but he punched the security system’s keys with almost enough force to damage the delicate sensors. His nerve endings were jangling with adrenaline, and it didn’t help his state of mind that Illya appeared as calm and cool as though he’d enjoyed a solid eight hours of sleep last night.
The opposite was true: neither of them had managed more than a few minutes of uninterrupted rest in the past two days. They’d barely avoided contributing to the start of World War III while neutralizing the latest Thrush threat, and they’d escaped a heavily guarded satrapy with seconds to spare before it was destroyed by the massive explosion the blond agent had ignited.
What Napoleon needed, and the sooner the better, was a warm and pliant body eager to help him burn off excess energy. That way, when he finally closed his eyes, his tense muscles and hyperactive brain cells would shut down, too. What he’d gotten, instead, was two hours of watching a beautiful blonde innocent make sheep’s eyes at his uninterested, if not oblivious, partner. Napoleon might as well have been a piece of office furniture for all the attention the girl paid him.
He could have found someone else, of course, but he’d been unwilling to leave Illya alone with that particular girl and her shy but persistent overtures. If he was completely honest with himself, which he tried to avoid unless he was someplace where no one would notice the physical reactions those thoughts inspired, he was reluctant to leave Illya alone with any attractive girl. Such had been the case for most of their partnership, and the feeling had only grown stronger over time.
Napoleon relaxed his stiff shoulders and took a deep breath as he turned away from the door, consciously assuming the suave, unruffled veneer he showed the world. Fifteen seconds of facing his partner’s implacable countenance, though, caused all good intentions to evaporate like dew under the desert sun.
“Are you regretting not taking Sarah Timmens up on her oh-so charming offer?” he asked, purposely misinterpreting his friend’s slowly deepening scowl. “A little action under the sheets would do wonders for that dour Russian soul of yours.” He waggled his dark brows suggestively but cringed inside at how crass the words sounded.
Illya, standing in the middle of the room with his hands in his pockets and his head canted to one side, gave the comment exactly as much consideration as it deserved. “The girl was barely of legal age, and she was naive and traumatized. It would have been ungentlemanly to take advantage of her infatuation and need for comfort.” He pointedly avoided voicing any doubt that Napoleon would have yielded to such scruples, if he had even felt them. “For me it would have been a one night tryst to satisfy a temporary urge; for her it would merely have added to the distress of a harrowing encounter with an evil she didn’t know existed a week ago.”
“You’re not giving yourself enough credit,” Napoleon said, trying to sound offhand but certain he was failing miserably. “I’ve never heard any of the girls at the office complain after an evening in your company. In fact, as selective as you are with your, ah, favors, I imagine any girl lucky enough to spend the night with you gets considerable bragging rights around the water cooler.”
Illya’s glare could have set ice ablaze without the benefit of vodka as an accelerant. Water cooler gossip was a touchy subject at the best of times for the private and reserved man. “Why don’t you tell me why you insisted on having me accompany you home this evening,” he finally said, a huff of discontent the only evidence of the temper he was holding in check. “I would think, in your present mood, that one of your regular dates from the secretarial pool would have been a better choice of companionship.”
Napoleon sighed, unable to explain the chasm between what he needed and what he wanted to himself much less to his often prickly partner. “Sorry,” he finally said, knowing how lame the word sounded but having nothing better to offer. “I’m just, ah, keyed up.”
Illya studied him silently for several long moments. Then his voice softened although his scowl remained firmly in place. “Were you that smitten with Miss Timmens?”
In normal circumstances, Napoleon would have bristled at the remark, his competitive streak too strong to admit he couldn’t win any girl he set his mind, and his considerable charm, to winning. He knew, though, that the annoyance coursing through him was no more than a defense mechanism in this case. Despite his efforts to convince himself otherwise, he had no interest at all in the pretty and winsome Miss Timmens. Exhaling roughly, he admitted part of the truth. “No. You’re right. She was a bit too innocent for my taste, and wooing a date seems more work than it’s worth tonight.”
Illya’s expression shaded from irate to puzzled. He shook his head, his blond hair gleaming in the fading sunlight from the window behind him. “I don’t understand, Napoleon. If this … sulk of yours is not about Miss Timmens or about your overactive libido, what is bothering you?”
Napoleon almost objected to the accusation that he was in a sulk, a state of mind much more typical of his partner’s irascible temperament than his own outwardly mellow one. After a few seconds of contemplation, though, he decided it might be better for his ego if his true feelings were misinterpreted rather than outright scorned.
He tried to deflect the question, strolling across the plush carpet toward his well-stocked bar. “Nothing that a smooth Scotch won’t cure,” he said, waving one hand casually in the general direction of his kitchen. “Help yourself. The vodka is in its usual spot in the freezer if you want a drink.”
Illya intercepted him halfway across the room, stopping his forward progress with a firm hand on his bicep. “What I want, my friend, is honesty. You have something you need to get off your chest, and all the single malt in Manhattan isn’t going to help you unwind until you’ve done it.”
Napoleon stared into his partner’s concerned blue gaze and his resistance drained away. No matter how drunk he managed to get, he couldn’t hide from Illya, nor could he lie. Candor was the only remaining option.
“You know how they say, when you’re about to die, that your life flashes in front of your eyes?” Napoleon breathed the words out, barely managing more than a whisper. When Illya remained still and silent, he swallowed and continued. “Well, it doesn’t happen quite that way. I’ve faced death a dozen times, and I’ve never even thought about my own past experiences. But this afternoon, when you stepped in front of that Thrush rifle and went down, I thought you were the one who was going to die.”
The words came out more harshly than Napoleon intended, almost accusatory, but for once Illya didn’t rise to the implied criticism. “I had to flush the guard out, Napoleon,” the Russian said in his most reasonable and matter-of-fact tone. “He was blocking our only available exit, and we had no time to find another route.”
He didn’t state the obvious: one of the UNCLE agents needed to make it back to headquarters with the information they had acquired and Illya would never hesitate to sacrifice himself for the mission or Napoleon’s survival. That unquestioned willingness to die for the cause, or for his partner, was at the heart of Napoleon’s current torment.
“I know that,” Napoleon said, sighing deeply. “But you asked me to be honest, so I’m trying to explain.” Although he was facing his partner, he tried to look inward, to remember and re-experience those few life-altering seconds. “My life flashed in front of my eyes when I thought you were gone. But what I saw wasn’t my past, it was my future … without you. It was unbearable … I’d never even …..”
Napoleon closed his eyes, unable to face the dawning comprehension in his best friend’s gaze. He took several deep, slow breaths that did nothing to calm his racing heartbeat or still the slight tremble in the arm Illya was gripping.
He felt his partner’s rough fingers trace slowly down his cheek and leaned into the unexpected touch. Before he had a chance to reach out and pull Illya closer, though, the hand holding his upper arm tensed and released, and he felt the Russian take a step back.
When he braced himself and forced his eyes open, there was still a flash of heat in the blue ones, but Illya’s expression was otherwise as phlegmatic as the one he wore during their frequent chess games.
“I won’t pretend to misunderstand you,” Illya said, his voice not quite steady, one hand still stretched toward Napoleon, fingers curled almost beseechingly. “We’ve known each other too long and too well for such subterfuge.” He paused, and for a long moment he granted Napoleon the gift of seeing the maelstrom of emotions behind his impassive façade. “I’m also not saying what you are offering is unappealing or unwelcome,” he added, the words husky almost to the point of seductive, “but it would be … unwise.”
Napoleon moved forward, close enough to feel the warmth of his partner’s body but not quite touching. “I know there are risks. I think the rewards would make the risks worthwhile.”
It was Illya’s turn to close his eyes, breathing deeply as though looking at Napoleon was more temptation than he felt capable of resisting. “You may not completely understand the risks, my friend.”
“You think Waverly would separate us if he knew? We’re his best team … and that’s because of our closeness not in spite of it.”
“Perhaps Mr Waverly wouldn’t care,” Illya said, speaking slowly, choosing his words with care. “As long as we are efficient field operatives, I agree he would be inclined to look the other way. However, if the more personal aspects of our relationship became general knowledge, or even widely suspected, he would have little choice but to respond.”
Napoleon started to argue, but Illya cut him off, the words bordering on angry. “UNCLE is a law enforcement agency, Napoleon. The organization cannot allow it’s operatives to flaunt the laws of its member countries. There are few places in the world where the actions we are contemplating would be legal, and New York City is not one of them.”
Napoleon forced his mind away from very specific actions his partner might be contemplating to focus on the bigger picture. He knew the legal and the social implications of a homosexual relationship. He’d witnessed, from a disinterested distance, the disdain and prejudice directed at men and women who failed to conform to society’s rigid expectations. But standing here, so close to something he’d dreamed about more often than he liked to admit, those vague hazards didn’t seem so insurmountable.
“I don’t care,” Napoleon said decisively. “I’ve given more than a decade of my life to UNCLE. I put my health, my life, my sanity on the line every day. If the reward for that is to be fired for not conforming to some arbitrary standard of morality, then maybe I’ve given enough.”
“Over a decade, Napoleon.” Illya repeated the words as though his partner might have said them without understanding them. “You’ve always assumed your future, if you are lucky enough to retire from the field reasonably intact, will be in Section One. What would you do if you were discharged from UNCLE?” From the tone, it didn’t seem that the Russian could even imagine the American’s life outside the organization.
Napoleon shrugged. He knew Illya had an ingrained dedication to duty that he would never be able to fully comprehend. To some extent, his own identity and even his self-worth were intertwined with being an UNCLE agent, Chief Enforcement Agent of the entire Northwest region. But being accustomed to the prestige that position provided didn’t mean he was dependent on it, and he was a little offended that his partner apparently thought he was. “There are always alternatives, Illya,” he said a bit more harshly than he’d intended. “I’d find some other job. Working nine to five, without the constant threat of being shot or tortured, might not be such a bad thing.”
“What do you think I would do?” Illya asked, his eyes straying to a spot beyond Napoleon’s left shoulder and his voice no more than a whisper.
“The same basically. You shouldn’t have any trouble finding a job. With your PhD, you could teach or do research at almost any university.”
Illya shook his head, his sigh heavy. “No, Napoleon. You have not thought it through. I am not a citizen of your country. I am allowed to live here only due to my employment with UNCLE. If I were discharged, my Visa would no longer be valid, and I would be deported immediately.”
The Russian was silent for several long seconds to give Napoleon time to process an idea that had, frankly, never crossed his mind. “The laws of my country are much more harsh than the laws of yours,” Illya continued after a lengthy pause. “If I were to be fired and return to Moscow in disgrace … ” The stiff shoulders slumped almost imperceptibly. “There is a possibility, due to my education, I might be taken to a remote facility and given some kind of work to do. There is a much stronger probability that I would be immediately shot.”
Napoleon’s breath caught, the enormity of Illya’s words hitting like a physical blow. “I would never ask you to —”
“I would accept the risk to myself,” Illya said, meeting his eyes again with the air of one who had never expected to survive his field career and, therefore, had less to lose, “but you would never know with any certainty what my punishment was, whether I was dead or alive. The official version might not even be the truthful one. And you would feel guilty. Don’t even try to pretend otherwise; I know you too well.”
Earlier in the day, when he’d watched in horror as his partner dropped and rolled before a blast of machine gun fire, Napoleon’s world had shifted under his feet. Now it shifted again as he realized that it was Napoleon’s feelings about his death, rather than death itself, that was weighing on the stoic Russian.
“If you ever —” Napoleon paused, uncertain how to continue. He’d started to say ‘if you ever change your mind,’ but Illya wasn’t consciously rejecting him. He was — at least in his own way of thinking — protecting Napoleon. And while the senior agent might have been inclined to argue the reasoning before the risk had been laid before him so clearly, he couldn’t do it now.
Napoleon wasn’t the one in actual danger. Overcoming Illya’s instinct to protect his future would put the Russian’s life in jeopardy … and that was a risk Napoleon simply wasn’t willing to take.
Illya was watching him with an odd combination of longing, regret and determination. “If you ever find yourself in a position where you don’t have to be concerned about anyone else’s definition of right and wrong,” Napoleon said, reaching out to ruffle the golden hair and relieved when Illya didn’t back away from his touch, “we’re going to continue this discussion.”
The tiny smile he knew so well appeared on Illya’s face. “I’ll keep that in mind,” he said softly. “In fact, I may find it difficult to think of anything else.”
“That makes two of us,” Napoleon said, returning the smile. “In the meantime, we’ll have even more motivation to keep each other alive.”
The End, at least for now