Illya frowned at his reflection and tried again to get his bowtie tied. "I give up. This is impossible!"

"What? Did I hear the Great Illya Kuryakin use the words impossible?" Napoleon looked up from his task of getting a knot out of one of his shoelaces. "I didn't think you knew what that word meant."

"Only when it comes to these damned bowties." Illya let his hands drop in disgust. "Can't we just skip this entirely?"

"You are being given a lifetime achievement award from the Beard Institute; no, we can't." Napoleon came up behind him, slipped his arms around Illya and rested his chin on Illya's shoulder.

"When did this happen?"

"I do believe it's called life, partner."

"We're old men, Napoleon. Why is it some mornings I wake up and think I'm thirty?" Illya turned his head slightly to look at his lover.

"You haven't tried moving yet?"

"You're joking, but I'm serious, Napoleon."

"Growing old is a gift in our former profession, Illya. Granted we're not the men we were." He squeezed Illya's waist, now thick with age and good living. "You're twice the man you used to be, Amante."

"Ha, ha."

"We not only have been allowed to grow old, but we've been allowed to grow old together. Almost fifty years, give or take. How many other couples can make that claim?" Napoleon kissed Illya's temple. "And I still see the man who stole my heart and soul from me." He reached up and tied the ends of the tie easily. "Voila."

"Now you are just showing off."

"Yup and who better to show off for?" He offered his hand. It was no longer the hand of a young man. It was old and slightly arthritic. But it was steady, it was sure and it was strong with its love. "Together, my love?"

Illya smiled, took his hand, and nodded. "Always."