Official slash from here on out. Heads up for any readers who may be offended.

The agents landed the plane in a small, little-known airfield commonly used by smugglers a few kilometers from the outskirts of San Alamar. Illya was still remaining enigmatic, and Napoleon had to remind himself more than once to focus on the mission. But—he grinned—he could treat Illya's secret as secondary mission. For the good of their relationship, perhaps, as a justification. That would be fun.

"Should we check into a hotel, or proceed directly to the photography lab?" Illya asked suddenly. Napoleon was startled at the abruptness of the question, but recovered quickly.

"Well, if we do, we can relax a little. It's not a good idea to be tense for too long, and we can check in with Amy before we go after that disk." Illya's shoulders stiffened at the name.

He responded tonelessly, "That makes sense." And that was that. There was none of the wit and energy that Illya normally possessed, no banter and light insults swung back and forth. Perhaps that was what bothered Napoleon the most, the fact that he wasn't behaving like himself. Perhaps that was what drove his actions.

Perhaps he just knew what needed to be done.

The hotel was a sandstone construction, washed yellow on the inside, with a soft, wide bed and a desk and chair set, and mercifully microphone-and-bug-free. Illya flopped onto the bed, as he always did, and wrinkled his nose. "Surprisingly, the blankets are washed."

Napoleon raised his eyebrows. "Really? They must've heard we were coming."

Illya lay back and stretched, body taut against the bedframe. "You have no idea how long I've wanted to lie on this bed. First the car, then the plane, then the walking. I've probably ruined this pair of shoes before their time."

Napoleon smiled. One of the many things he admired about his partner was his remarkable ability to bounce back from lows within a matter of minutes. Sure enough, after complaining a minute longer about the condition of his feet, he sat up and stretched, then relaxed, flopping backwards again with pleasure. "What shall we do next? I for one would like a meal at some point in the near future."

"I thought checking in with Amy would be a wise thing to do," Napoleon replied. "She may have some information on the stewardess."

"I really do not like that woman," Illya muttered, more out of habit than any other reason. He was feeling optimistic, like the mission would be a success, that he could get back to his books in New York before…

"Amy or the stewardess?" Napoleon prodded gently. There it was, he was almost at that point…

"Either. Women in general. Blondes in particular," Illya said thoughtlessly, finally relaxing enough for banter. "They distract you from me. I'd much rather have your atten—" His voice trailed off as he realized what had just come out of his mouth.

There was silence in the room for a second. Illya's face was white as paper, while Napoleon's seemed to be blank, or at least relatively unemotional as he sorted through his various responses.

After several more seconds, each like an eternity to the Russian, Napoleon sat down next to him on the bed. "So that's your secret, then?" he said softly.

His partner's face was almost entirely devoid of color. It was locked in a mask of—Napoleon squinted, and realized in empathy—terror. "I…I can't stop you if you want to kill me now," he said, his voice barely more than a croak. "When my commanders in Russia find out, they'll certainly end me themselves."

Napoleon sighed. "Illya, if I wanted to kill you I would have done it years ago. We're partners, remember? And…" He swallowed uncomfortably. "I…I've noticed it for a while, to be honest."

Illya passed a hand over his eyes. "Черт возьмиi, was I so obvious? Napoleon, I will be arrested the moment I return to UNCLE, returned to the USSR, interrogated, tortured and chemically castrated. As it is, I will end up serving hard labor in northern Siberia and die at the age of forty from lung failure or something." As he sat up and began to fiddle with his tie, a sure sign he was stressed, Napoleon stretched out a hand and held his, preventing him from adjusting it further. Blue eyes, startled and strong, looked into soft brown ones designed for acuity in other things than vision.

"You know," Napoleon said conversationally, "While women are interesting, you'd be surprised how few of them actually come to bed with me when they realize I'm after information rather than casual sex. Gentlemen prefer blondes, after all, don't they? I happen to like blondes myself of the same gender, and one in particular."

"Napoleon," Illya began, but his companion held up a hand and began to unbutton the Russian's shirt, gently, slowly.

Illya drew back, flinching from his touch.

Napoleon stopped, taken aback. "I didn't realize that would bother you," he said quietly.

Illya stood and paced distractedly. "For twenty-five years, before I joined UNCLE, I lived in constant fear of discovery, that I would at any minute be taken back to the USSR. My loyalty lies with Mr. Waverly, never have any doubt about that. But there are ways to discover my—situation. You and I both know that."

Napoleon nodded wearily. He did, only too well. "Well, what do you propose to do? We won't be able to hide it forever. And I do mean we, Illya. It's not one-sided, if that's a worry to you." He stood, and stood toe-to-toe with Illya, and stroked his blond hair softly. When it came down to it, Illya was one of the most appealing men Napoleon had ever encountered, and not just aesthetically. "When you're ready, I—"

Illya grabbed the American agent's tie and pulled him into a hard, long kiss. Napoleon was half-expecting it, and wrapped his arms around the other man's leaner frame. Illya responded in kind, digging his hands into his partner's shoulder blade area, still not satisfied. When Napoleon finally broke the kiss, panting slightly, Illya's eyes were burning and his face was flushed with the level of emotions pounding through his blood. "Napoleon, help me," he whispered. "If we become…whatever we will be, will you help me keep pretending?"

Napoleon leaned forward and kissed the younger man's forehead. "Of course. It'll be just as hard for me. We'll do it together, all right?"

Illya took in a deep, shaky breath. "Of-of course."

Napoleon ran a hand down his partner's back; the shiver in response was one of fear, not of pleasure. Napoleon bit his lip, and realized that 'Where were we?' would probably earn him a swift right to the jaw. Instead, he tightened his arms. The physical comfort alone was enough to make him feel slightly better.

Illya tucked his head under Napoleon's head, and the blond hair in Napoleon's vision smelled of pine and sweat and typical Russian soap. "Just…just hold me," the Russian said miserably. Napoleon held him, and kissed the top of his head, and waited until his shoulders stopped shaking, and another minute after that. It was one thing to be caught; it was another to be caught crying.

i Roughly, "damn it."