Napoleon woke and stretched out his hand to discover nothing. The spot that should have been taken up with Illya was empty. Quickly he checked the bedside clock. It read just a few minutes past three.
"What the hell?" For a moment, he was back in New York, alone and consumed by guilt for what he'd done to their relationship. Then Moutard chirped and rubbed against him. No, not New York, Jackson. He was in Jackson, a small Sierra Foothills community. It was there he'd found Illya after searching for him for nearly ten years. In those ten years, Illya has begun his life anew, this time as a chef. Not just any chef, but one who'd accomplished a feat many other couldn't, he'd won a Micheline star, not just one or two, but four.
Napoleon sat up and looked around the room, thinking that perhaps Illya was in the bathroom, but the door stood open.
He climbed out of bed and gently pulled his robe out from under Berra Noir. "Sorry, kitty, I need this." He hadn't realized just how cold it got here. Now six months since his arrival, he'd seen the hills change from green to gold. He was told that while Jackson didn't get a lot of snow, when they did, it was just as cold and brutal as it was back East.
Napoleon wrapped the robe around himself and knotted it securely. He walked out of the room and saw a light burning in the living room. He went down a few stairs and bent to look out onto the small crowded area below.
The little house was just that, little. Napoleon was amazed at just how small it really was, yet Illya seemed so settled and content there.
The object of his affection was on sitting on the couch, sound asleep. Around him were piles of books and papers. Not far from that, Illya's plate sat, barely touched. At least the water bottle was empty.
Napoleon came down the rest of the way, making no effort to mask the noise. Illya had never been deprogrammed and that made him still a very dangerous man, for all of his UNCLE training was still very much intact. Even though Napoleon didn't remember a lot about his years with UNCLE, he remembered that you didn't surprise a sleeping agent.
Napoleon bumped against an end stand and it scraped the floor. Illya's head came up with a sharp jerk. It seemed to take him a moment to process where he was and Napoleon froze.
"Sorry, I didn't see you sleeping there. Normal people do that in bed, you know."
"Oh, it's you," Illya murmured and stretched, then rubbed his neck. "And since when has anyone accused me of being normal?"
"When you weren't in bed, I thought I'd best come looking for you. What are you working on?"
"I have forty-five pounds of venison pate and its shelf life is quickly ticking away. I am trying to think of something creative to do with it."
"A juniper sauce?" Napoleon read the top sheet as he sat down on the couch beside Illya. "Wouldn't that be a little pungent?"
"Yes, but too much? I don't know." Illya yawned. "I'll have to try it tomorrow."
"You could pair it with some Bombay gin." Napoleon yawned and pulled Illya against him. The Russian didn't protest. "Why not use something tried and true?"
"Tried and true doesn't win you a star, Napoleon, and it just might cost you a hard-earned one if you come to rely upon it too much."
"I thought once you won a star, that was it. It was yours for good."
"No, that's when the fight really starts, for not only do you have to maintain that level but go well beyond that. The best of the best of the best." Illya yawned again, his jaw cracking from the effort. "And everyone is right there, waiting to feast upon you the minute you falter."
"Maybe you should come back to bed and I'll take your mind off it." He kissed Illya's temple.
"As tempting as that sounds, perhaps it would be better just to sleep for now."
"That works, too." Napoleon stood and pulled Illya up by the hand. Illya came and then tugged Napoleon close in a tight bear hug. That was followed by a long lingering kiss. "Come on, let's get you to bed."
"Masher."
However, sleep wouldn't come back to Napoleon. He kept replaying Illya's words in his head. And everyone is right there, waiting to feast upon you the minute you falter. He kept hearing Illya say it again and again. He looked down at Illya's forearm. The tattoo was barely visible in the light and now it was impossible to see. It didn't matter. Napoleon knew it was a horseshoe design of four stars, representing one of the few restaurants in all of California to make that claim. It made Napoleon dizzy to think of all the details that Illya had to maintain, from the sort of china used, to the quality of the chairs and even to the scent used in the restrooms. It seemed to be a never-ending battle.
While Napoleon felt proud of Illya's accomplishments, he also felt guilty. He had been the one to screw up and send Illya into the night. He was the one who made Illya so driven that he couldn't get off the merry-go-round he was trapped on. It was a mighty weight to bear and Illya didn't even have a clue. With as much as they shared, there was some things he didn't dare voice, even now.
After two hours of tossing and turning, Napoleon slipped from the bed and dressed quietly. Illya murmured something in his sleep, but didn't wake. Napoleon wondered when he'd even fallen asleep.
The day was dawning, gray upon gray, reflecting Napoleon's mood. Strangely, he never seemed to have minded overcast days in the city, but New York was a place that never stopped. If you paused, you got out of step with it and that might be the death of you. But this wasn't New York. On days like this, Jackson never seemed to start. Only begrudgingly did it start to come to life around midday, dragging itself out from beneath its covers.
Napoleon thought about his former partner, again lover, Illya Kuryakin. Back in the day, he'd admired Illya's single-minded pursuit of justice. His drive and attention to the smallest detail was what had made Illya a top agent. Now Napoleon was afraid it was killing him.
He went through to the kitchen, remembering to turn on the coffee machine as he passed it. Everywhere he looked here, he saw reminders of the new life Illya had forged. The table was old and scarred, but the stove and refrigerator were new. The floor was permanently scuffed and the white tile had turned yellow, but the countertops shined from constantly polishing. Once upon a time, his and Illya's priorities were the same. Now it was as if the essence of his partner had been syphoned off and replaced by that of a stranger's. There was so much that was still Illya and yet was not.
A chirp reminded him that he wasn't the only living thing awake and hungry. Moutard and Berra Noir were both sitting by their food dishes and looking impatiently up at him.
"You guys sure eat a lot." Napoleon got some dry food from the pantry and refilled their bowls. Two heads regarded it for a moment and then looked back at him. "Would madam et monsieur care to see the wine list instead?" The stares didn't waver. "All right." He found a can of wet food and scooped it into the saucers Illya saved for that purpose. He set them down and instantly both cats were eating. "You are both spoiled."
As he waited for the coffee to perk, he went back into the living room and sat down at the small desk. It was piled with papers, magazines and an assortment of samples for the restaurant. With success came people anxious to tie their cart to a rising star. Napoleon hadn't expected half of the attention that Taste's accomplishment garnered, yet Illya seemed to handle it all with aplomb. Finally, he found the latest issue of Wine Spectator and took it back to the couch.
Settling back into the comfortable cushions, he started reading an article about the wine region of the Shenandoah district of the Foothills. He had no idea there was such a cultivated wine culture here. The first thing he'd done was convince Illya to hire a bookkeeper to take over the day-to-day functions, such as payroll and taxes. It relieved a tremendous burden from Illya's shoulders and for the first time in what seemed to be forever, Taste was turning a tidy profit. It didn't hurt that Napoleon has invested money quietly on its behalf.
He also had taken it upon himself to build Taste's wine cellar into something just this side of phenomenal. What Taste couldn't afford, Napoleon could and he quietly amended the wine list on a weekly basis. Now from what he'd read, he was missing out on a major find right under his nose. He made a mental note to go on a wine tasting in the area soon.
Napoleon was about halfway through the magazine when he suddenly remembered his coffee. Setting the magazine aside for later, he headed back to the kitchen. He poured himself some coffee and took it out into the courtyard off the kitchen. It was early fall and while the days were warm, the mornings were cold. He warmed his hands on his coffee cup and studied the various planters, each filled with an array of herbs. When it rained, it made the air sweet, but this morning, they looked as grey and dull as the day.
A noise drew his attention and he saw Illya's cooking partner and fellow chef de cuisine, Matt Tovey, approaching. Napoleon liked the younger man, even though he and Illya shared a past romance. They'd broken off the relationship, but remained friends. Matt was honest and hardworking, always grinning or laughing. He was the polar opposite of Illya, much as Napoleon was now. Yet there were few people who didn't fall under Matt's spell. He always wore a wild assortment of clothes, throwing caution and fashion sense to the wind. Today, he was wearing a hodgepodge of clothes, looking more like a coat tree than a person.
Napoleon raised a hand in greeting and Matt waved back, bounding towards him, his face nearly split with his grin, reminding Napoleon of an Irish setter he'd known once.
"Cara, how are you?" Napoleon didn't have a chance to answer before getting caught in a fiery hug. Matt was a hugger.
"A little groggy, but the coffee helps. Would you like a cup? It just finished brewing."
"Si, si, perfetto!"
"I'll be right back." Napoleon went into the kitchen, poured another cup of coffee, gathered up the cream and sugar onto a tray and then remembered the pastries in the refrigerator. He took two of Jesus's bear claws out and put them on plates and carried it all out into the courtyard.
"You are mio salavatore." Matt took the nearest bear claw.
"Your savior?" Napoleon laughed and sipped his coffee. "Why is that?"
"That Rocky. He is a good waiter, but he keeps nothing substantial to eat." Matt took a big bite and chewed happily, making a little humming sound. He washed it down with a swig of coffee, his eyes closed in pleasure. "This is good."
"So how are things going with you and Rocky?" After Rocky had been beaten up by a couple of bikers, he and Matt had been nearly inseparable. "It sounds pretty serious."
"Molto bene." A gleam appeared in Matt's eye. "Of course, he is not Chef, but few men are. And you, cara, are you and Chef getting along?"
A flush rose in Napoleon's cheeks. When they had first become lovers, Napoleon was often in instigator of their love making. Now Illya took on that role and often left Napoleon gasping for breath.
"Very… gratifying." Napoleon managed to squash the twinge of jealousy before it could build. "Can I ask you something, Matt?"
"Of course." The redhead finished his sweet roll and washed it down with a swallow of coffee. "But no pillow gossip."
Napoleon touched his chest. "I would not stoop so low. I just wondered why you call Illya Chef."
"Respect, mostly. You lead by being an example. The others hear me addressing him as Chef and they, in turn, do the same."
"But I know Illya respects you as both an equal and a friend, but he calls you by your first name." Napoleon offered Matt half of his pastry.
"Si. It is how I like it." He took the offered pastry and happily began eating.
"And you are both always hungry." Napoleon grinned.
"To be a good chef, you must love food. It is a rule." Matt glanced up at the still-curtained window. "He is still asleep?"
"He just got to sleep. He sat up all night working on a menu."
"Aw, the venison pate. I thought it would cause him incubi."
"Nightmares?" Napoleon drained the last of his coffee. "Why's that?"
"Now that we have four stars, everything is a nightmare. There are times I would like to go back to when we first started and we cooked for love. Now we seem to only cook for our reputations. It is not as much fun."
"Then why don't you just say to hell with it and forget about the ratings."
"No, you don't see. To do that, to lose a star. That is bad… very bad."
"What do you mean?"
"Just two weeks ago, a young chef lost a star. He committed suicide because of it."
"That's crazy."
"That's this industry. To lose a star is to lose your customers. They do not see the weariness in the chef's eyes, the lack of spark, they see a restaurant that used to have this acclaim, but now has paled. The food, she can be the same, but there is no hope. To lose a star is death."
"Couldn't you just win it back?"
"Si, but it is twice as hard and never quite the same."
"Matt, what do you think might happen if Taste lost one of its stars?"
"Chef would probably…" Matt made a hanging gesture. "His ego might not survive such a crushing blow." Napoleon didn't see the teasing smile and wink that went along with the words. Instead all he felt was a blow to his gut and a surge of fear. "Now it is time to work. We have a big day ahead and we have to plan for the conference next weekend."
"What conference?"
"Chef, he said nothing to you?" Matt sighed and shook his head. "He can remember every recipe he's ever cooked, but nothing else. Next weekend, we have a big conference for all the chefs in Northern California. We are even closing Taste for it. Somehow, we will make payroll."
Napoleon made a mental note. "You can be sure of it. Now this conference."
"It is about…" Matt gestured with his hands. "… collegamento."
"Connections?"
"Yes, connections between chefs. We are not enemies; we help each other. This is a way that we can talk and think."
"Sounds like a good thing, then." Napoleon grinned. "I only have one question."
"Si?"
"Who's catering it?"
"A very brave man, I think." Matt gave Napoleon another hug and trotted off towards the restaurant. Previously, Napoleon had no idea how much work went into getting ready to open the restaurant. Now he knew better. He had learned that the kitchen would be buzzing with activity from the crack of dawn. Sauces needed to be made, vegetables and fruits had to be cleaned and sliced, and meats had to be seasoned, marinated, brined or otherwise prepared. Even something as seemingly straightforward as a chicken broth required extensive preparation. Just the thought left Napoleon limp from exhaustion. He much preferred dealing with the wine list.
He gathered up the dirty dishes and carried them into the kitchen. He quickly learned that the first rule in Illya's kitchen was no dirty dishes in the sink. Napoleon washed and rinsed Matt's cup and spoon and placed them in the drainer. He made sure there were no crumbs on the counter or linger in the sink. Illya could walk around a pair of dirty socks in the bedroom for a week, but let a morsel of food cling to the edge of the sink drain and he flew into an hour lecture about safety and sanitation.
He knew his partner was up by the creaking on the overhead boards. It was possible to track someone just from the creaks and groans of the wood. That was one of the good parts about the house. No one could sneak up on anyone here. He poured himself another cup and then one for Illya.
He refilled the tray with pastries and carefully carried it up the narrow stairs. He walked into the bedroom and nearly dropped the tray. Illya was standing in the bathroom, a towel around his waist, and holding a straight-edge razor.
"What are you doing?" He hurriedly set down the tray.
Illya jumped slightly at his voice. "What the hell? Don't startle a man holding a razor, Napoleon." He scowled. "As for what, I think that would be apparent. What else do you do with a razor? I'm shaving."
"With a straight edge?"
"Yes, it gives me a good close shave." Illya returned to the sink and began working lather onto his face with one hand.
Napoleon tried to adopt a causal attitude to cover up his fear. "I just thought you preferred an electric shaver. I've never seen you use one of these before."
"They're okay." Illya quickly began to scrape the lather off his face, pausing in between strokes to wipe off the razor on a towel that clung precariously to his narrow hips. "But this is fast and easier when I'm short on time."
"Why are you in a hurry?"
"I should be in the kitchen."
"You can breathe. Matt is already there."
"That's even worse."
"How is that worse?"
"Have you ever tasted his consommé?" Illya shaved quickly. "I love the man, but he has a heavy hand when it comes to seasonings. He doesn't believe in going light." He finished and wiped the remnants of the foam from his face. He rubbed a hand over his jaw and cheeks. "Smooth as a baby's…"
"Illya!"
The Russian grinned. "Yes, Napoleon?"
"Nothing… it's just… I have coffee ready for you. And some bear claws."
"I was hoping you'd see them." Illya rinsed his face and yanked the towel free to wipe it dry.
Napoleon grinned, admiring the view from his position. "Likewise."
Naked, Illya walked across the room to claim his coffee cup. He sipped, nodded and took a bigger swallow. "Among your many talents, Napoleon, is that you do make a good cup of coffee."
"I do other things well, too," Napoleon murmured, studying the form before him.
"So I've heard but yet to see."
Chef was very late to the kitchen that morning.
Napoleon pulled his suitcase from the closet and carried it to the bed. While they could easily have driven back and forth to the conference in Sacramento, Napoleon had advocated for staying at a local hotel. It had only taken a little convincing and a lot of lovemaking on his part to make Illya see things his way.
He opened the case and stared at the battered interior. Why he held on to this and didn't get a new one was beyond him, except that it was, like Illya, a connection to his past. There were some days he wished he remembered more about UNCLE, but for the most part he was happy to be rid of it.
He went into the bathroom to put together his shaving kit and smiled at the memory. Unpacking it that first time in this bathroom, he was so happy to have finally found Illya and have the chance to right wrongs were all that had driven him for years. It wasn't even a year ago that he'd arrived and yet it felt as if he'd been here always.
He tossed everything he thought he might need into the kit and returned to the bedroom. He pushed it into a corner of the suitcase and considered the remaining space. Even though he'd pretty much gone native in Jackson, he wondered if there would be a dress code for the conference. He knew Illya's wardrobe wouldn't take up much space, but perhaps two suitcases would be wiser.
Whistling, he went downstairs and headed for the kitchen, where he knew Illya was and stopped dead as he came through the swinging door.
Illya was seated at their small kitchen table, bent over and staring at a dozen brown prescription bottles.
"But is it enough?" Illya said, resting his chin on his hands.
"Enough for what?" Napoleon came back to life and walked quickly to his lover's side. "Illya, what is going on?"
"Oh, just taking inventory and wondering if I need to take all of them or if I could get by with one or two."
"I… I don't understand." Napoleon sat and picked up the closest bottle. "This is a prescription painkiller."
"Yes, there are some days when I need it. Being a chef is hard work, but when you pile it up on top of all the abuse we took as agents, and it's a wonder I can get out of bed some mornings." Napoleon was quiet for a moment and realization gleamed in Illya's eyes. "You don't remember, do you?"
"I remember some of it. Mr. Waverly, Del… April and Mark, of course, and that we fought THRUSH, but they all swirl around in this fog. I can almost grasp it at times, but it's like trying to capture air. I see scars and wonder what caused them." He touched his shoulder.
"You were shot there in Paris." Illya took the bottle from him. "Anything you want to know, I can tell you, but you might not like the answers."
"No, I prefer not knowing most days." Napoleon was quiet for a moment. "Are you in very much pain?"
Illya shrugged. "Some days it is worse than others. Some days I get so tired of hurting and I'd like it to stop." Napoleon's stomach lurched at Illya's admission. "Still, it is what it is. Did you have a question for me?"
"I wondered if we should take one suitcase or two."
Illya scooped up the bottles and dropped them into a plastic bag. "Let's go see what we can do."
He stood and Napoleon pulled him into a tight embrace. "You can tell me, you know? Anything and I'll listen."
"I know, Napoleon." Illya shifted awkwardly. "I'm a bit confused as to the need for this declaration. I've always told you everything."
Napoleon released him and studied Illya's face. "Anything?"
"Yes. You are acting quite strange, old friend. Is there something wrong?"
"No, just felt the need to say it, I guess." Napoleon's mind raced. "Just the packing, it brought up unsettling memories."
"You don't need to come. You will undoubtedly be bored out of your mind."
"Are you kidding? I wouldn't miss it for the world."
Famous last words, Napoleon thought as he struggled to stifle a yawn.
"Told you," Illya whispered from behind his program.
"How can so many hotheads get into one room and be so boring?" Napoleon murmured back.
"Practice. Lots of practice, cara," Matt answered and grinned. The speaker finished up and stepped away from the microphone. "Finally." He consulted his program. "What is micro-cuisine, Cara?"
"Twice the price, half the food," Illya murmured, then he frowned. "I know Chef Topps and that's not him.
The man taking the stage moved slowly, as if his entire body was wracked with pain. There were two people on either side of him, making sure there was assistance in case he needed it. Illya sat up and studied the man carefully.
"He's military," Napoleon murmured and Illya nodded. Matt looked from one to the other.
The man reached the podium and adjusted the microphone. "Hello, I'm not your regularly scheduled speaker. Chef Topps agreed to let me address you as a group. My name is Eric Quines and I am a retired Navy cook. Once my wife got tired of me getting under her feet, I got a job at Fishes and Loaves. For those who aren't familiar with us, we provide meals for the needy, elderly, homeless, heck, anyone who wants a hot meal. We serve between 150 and 200 meals a day and for many of these folks, it's the only hot meal they get. The food isn't fancy, as we tend to focus more on nutrition."
"I can't wait to see where this is going," muttered the chef to Illya's left and Illya glanced sharply at him. That was enough to evoke silence.
"About a week ago, my car was broadsided and I ended up in the hospital. I'm out now, but still have some healing to do. The man who replaced me has vanished into thin air and we've had to close our doors." He paused and took a breath, which seemed to drain him entirely. "We need help. I need help and I was hoping that someone here would be able to lend us a hand. We have the food, but we need someone to prepare it. It would just be for a few days until we can find a replacement or I can get back on my feet."
"Cook for the homeless? I don't think so." That was a three-star chef sitting behind Illya. "They are dirty and they wouldn't appreciate fine cuisine if it was served to them on a china plate."
Illya looked at Matt, who nodded and together they stood. "Illya Kuryakin and Matt Tovay from Taste, and we will be honored to help you, sir."
There was a murmur through the crowd and a few heckled Illya. With a snort, Illya made his way to the stage.
"Thank you," Quines said, holding out a hand.
"No, sir, thank you for your service." Illya shook the hand carefully and then turned to the audience. "I must say that I am amazed and a bit ashamed of everyone here. Here is a fellow cook, a chef in his own right, asking us for help. If he'd come from a famous restaurant, I'm certain people would be falling over themselves to help, especially if that restaurant's rating was higher than their own. Instead, because he prepares meals for a segment of humanity that many people prefer to ignore, you refuse him. As far as I can tell, my job is making food for people to enjoy. I'm truly ashamed of all of you for forgetting that and putting your ego ahead of true need." Illya turned back to Quines. "I know what it means to be hungry and invisible. Matt and I will do our best."
"So will I." Another chef stood and then a second and third followed. Then others hurried to follow their example.
Illya winked at Quines. "I think you are going to have all the help you could possibly ask for. When do we start?"
Napoleon rubbed Illya's shoulders, digging into tense muscles and coaxing them to relax. "This was a hell of a day, Kuryakin. That chicken Kiev was incredible and I didn't think people would ever stop eating those crepes. I've never worked as hard or felt so appreciated. We really made a difference today."
"I'm sorry," Illya murmured and Napoleon stopped. He pulled on one of Illya's shoulders until the man half faced him.
"What do you mean?"
Illya reached back to stroke Napoleon's cheek. "That you don't remember how much of a difference you made before. You meant so much to so many, Napoleon. You saved countless from death and oppression. The world owes you an enormous thanks and you can't even remember why. UNCLE had no right to rob you of that"
"But it was necessary so that I could find you. I'd do it again in a heartbeat." Napoleon covered Illya's fingers with his hand.
"And that's why I apologize. If only I'd stopped and thought about my actions, your actions even for just a few minutes."
"Then what we did today would never have happened. You wouldn't know Matt or have Taste. You wouldn't have found cooking or Jackson." One-handed, Napoleon pulled Illya back to rest against him. "I think it was a more than adequate trade."
"I hope you'll always feel that way."
"As long as you are here, I will."
They sat quietly like that for a few moments, each wrapped up in their own thoughts. Then Illya stirred.
"Are you planning to do something with that ramrod I feel in the small of my back?"
"I'd like to."
"I'd like you to."
Napoleon kissed the nape of Illya's neck, nuzzling the blond hair. "Mmm, you smell like Chicken Kiev."
"I suppose it could be worse," Illya said, bending his head to give Napoleon more access. The tip of Napoleon's penis teased the cleft of Illya's ass and he moved encouragingly.
"Always in such a hurry," Napoleon scolded even as he reached for the K-Y jelly.
"I'm a man who knows what he wants." Illya gasped as he was suddenly breached by Napoleon. He hissed at the burn as Napoleon pushed in, not stopping until he was fully sheathed inside Illya.
"Something like that?" Napoleon pulled Illya back and leaned back himself until the bed's headboard supported him. He adjusted their position until Illya straddled him. Then Napoleon found Illya's penis with one hand and began to fondle him as the other hand pinched and teased one of Illya's nipple.
Illya made a noise deep in his throat and Napoleon increased the pressure and sped up his strokes until Illya moaned and Napoleon's hand grew warm and sticky.
Without pausing, Napoleon pushed upward, encouraging Illya over onto his hands and knees. It was time for his own satisfaction and he pulled out almost entirely. Then plunged back in until he could stand it no longer and wrapped an arm around Illya's waist to trap him. One more thrust and he ejaculated.
Illya hissed and wiggled in his embrace and Napoleon realized through a pleasant haze that Illya was having another climax. He made a half-hearted attempt, but his penis was already softening. It didn't matter, though. Illya repositioned himself, balancing on one hand, and finished himself off in a few fast strokes.
Then he toppled back against Napoleon, boneless and limp as a sleeping child.
"Something exactly like that."
"May I ask you something, Illya?"
"Of course."
"What would happen if you lost a star?"
"A star? Well, I'd probably be pissed and complain a lot and then see what I could do about getting it back. If I couldn't, well, I'm sure Taste would continue on just fine and I'd have to find someone to modify my tattoo. Why do you ask?"
"Matt was saying that, well, some chefs are so broken up about losing one that they would kill themselves."
"Matt needs to stop reading The Enquirer. I'm sure some people might react that way. That's a coward's way out and one thing I've never been is a coward."
"Amen to that." Napoleon pulled the sheets up over them and sank back onto the pillows. Illya wiped his hand clean on the edge of the sheet and then turned out the light. He settled back against Napoleon and mumbled, "Good night," as Napoleon draped an arm over his waist.
And to Napoleon's way of thinking it was a very good night, indeed.