Napoleon looked at the man stretched out on the bed in front of him. Calm eyes regarded him with an amazed and also fond expression. Despite being stark naked, Illya Kuryakin felt completely at ease. The man watching him had the opposite effect of making him want to hide or attack; actually, he was drawn to the American like to no one before.

Last night had been an eye-opener. He had discovered emotions within him that he had thought had died a long time ago. He was reluctant to give them a name, almost as if that would jinx it, but he felt them. He shivered at the memory of Napoleon tracing his numerous scars, old and recent, knowing where they had come from.

"Deep thoughts?" he teased his watcher.

Napoleon smiled, all ease and charm. "Appreciative ones."

A thrill ran through him. He could appreciate Napoleon, too. Had already. In detail.

And he didn't want to ever be without him again. Illya felt the connection, the anchor point, humming with him.

His partner suddenly straddled him and Illya looked up into the bright eyes, the playful expression, the happiness radiating from the so unlikely Guide.

No, he wasn't a Guide.

It was something he needed to get out of his mind.

"Comfortable?" he rumbled as he ran his palms along Napoleon's side, toward the broad back.

He hadn't had such an encounter in too long. And never with a man like Solo. Never with a man who was an agent, trained and lethal, and especially not an American.

"You have no idea."

Illya felt playful. It was a new feeling, one he wanted to last, wanted to explore. And he wanted to do so much, try more with this man.

"Thank you," the Sentinel murmured, reaching up and tracing random patterns over the muscular arms of his partner. His bonded partner.

The thought alone had him want to shout it at the world.

He was happy.

He couldn't remember being happy since… Yes, since he had been ten.

"For…?"

"Your trust. Trusting yourself… with me."

Napoleon's face shifted from playful to stunned, slightly shocked, then he slowly relaxed again. He leaned down and kissed Illya, nipping at his lower lip, teasing and loving.

"I always trusted you."

"You didn't want this bond," he reminded him. "You feared me. The Sentinel."

Napoleon exhaled softly and dropped his head against Illya's shoulder, his back bowed. The Russian threaded his fingers into the dark strands, scratching over soft skin.

"You're an Alpha, Peril," he said evenly, voice muffled. "All five senses. You're insanely powerful. That psychic energy inside you is… terrifying. I… I didn't think this… this bonding thing would work. Your mind is self-contained. It doesn't need anyone. You never sought out anyone." He raised his head and met the blue eyes. "You could have erased me. Like you did with the others."

"No," Illya contradicted softly.

"And what if I had given in?" Solo continued as if he hadn't hear the denial. "What if I had opened up and let an Alpha Sentinel connect to me? You would have been saddled with a below-average excuse for a Guide."

Illya tightened his hold on the dark head and pushed Napoleon to meet his eyes. "You are so powerful, Cowboy, you don't even know it. Never did, am I correct?"

"I was tested," Napoleon replied neutrally, face carefully bland.

Illya gave an inelegant snort. "Tests are… tests."

Napoleon raised his eyebrows at the simplistic statement, the old teasing light back.

"Only the Sentinel knows," the blond continued. "I knew. I felt you. So very strange and still familiar. So unlike anyone. My match. Alpha strong, just not anything… normal." He twitched a smile. "Never normal. Now you're mine."

Napoleon's lips curved into a warm smile. "Mine," he echoed the sentiment.

Illya flipped them around, hovering over Napoleon, who didn't actually struggle to free himself. The man was a bundle of issues, but so was Kuryakin. Both damaged, both used by their agencies with no regard to their actual status. Napoleon had hidden what he was since he had come online, wrapped in so many shields no one had been able to catch a glimpse.

Illya had.

Because he matched.

A KGB agent and a CIA operative. No one could have predicted that. It had been fate and Illya, who didn't believe in any higher powers, thanked them anyway.

"I'm glad you were tested negative," he told the American. "Very glad. Happy. I met you because you aren't a Guide."

Napoleon's expression softened, so very open. This was the real Napoleon Solo, not one of the roles he played. It was an honor to see him, to be allowed so close to the other man's true self.

"Unconventional. Thief. Liar. Cheat. Gambler," Illya continued, voice low and no more than a rumble. "You would have made a terrible Guide, Cowboy."

Solo gave a soft chuff of a laugh. "I would have been the perfect Guide, Peril. I excel at everything I do."

"Except being a spy."

Illya grinned at the mock scowl, feeling downright adventurous. Napoleon reflected the grin, his own insufferable.

"But you are my anchor. Only that. No more needed. It's all I ever wanted, not knowing that I needed you."

"You, my friend, are a closet romantic," Napoleon quipped, but he kissed him, his shields dropping slowly.

Illya surged forward, physically and across the open connection, enveloping the other man in an embrace. He inhaled his scent, listened to his heartbeat, to his breathing, and ran explorative fingers over the naked skin, every puckered ridge of a scar, every jagged line.

He brushed gentle fingers over the vulnerable throat where Bragg had left his marks in form of bruises. They were gone, invisible to the human eye, but a Sentinel could see the faint traces.

Napoleon swallowed and Illya stilled, then pressed a kiss against where only he could see the marks.

"Won't hurt you, Cowboy," he murmured against the sensitive skin. "Ever."

"I know."

Their lips met in an open kiss, Illya enjoying how Napoleon pushed closer, sliding over his thighs.

They wouldn't be getting out of bed any time soon.

UNCLE*UNCLE*UNCLE*UNCLE*UNCLE*UNCLE*

Exhausted, breathing hard, his whole body reflecting the passion they had shared, he had nothing left. Arms closed around him and Illya, who had never been a cuddler, snuggled into the embrace. Warm eyes regarded him, the depths of the emotions taking his breath away.

Possessive.

Reflecting what the Sentinel felt.

"Who would have thought," Napoleon rumbled and pressed his lips against Illya's head. "Big bad Alpha Sentinel agent – a cuddler."

He made a warning noise.

It got him a soft chuckle. "Who would I tell? Gaby? She wouldn't believe me."

"She would."

Napoleon gave him a quizzical look. "Something I need to know, Peril?"

"What?"

"You? Gaby? Eternal make-believe fiancée and wife?"

The confusion doubled and he sat up, dislodging the arms. "What are you talking about?"

Napoleon laughed, shaking his head in fond exasperation. "Oh, Peril!"

"Gaby and I never slept together!" he protested.

Napoleon cupped his face and placed a pecking kiss on Illya's nose, derailing his thoughts for a second. The man was unpredictable.

"I know," he murmured. "Even if you had, I don't care. I'm just not sharing you any more."

The Sentinel wrapped his fingers around those hands and squeezed them. "I am faithful."

"So am I," was the solemn promise.

"I trust you."

Napoleon swallowed, looking suddenly shy, almost embarrassed.

"The job is the job," Illya said, knowing what this is about. "This isn't the job."

"No, it isn't."

Illya listened to the strong heartbeat, so familiar, so intimate. There was no lie in Napoleon's words. Even without his senses he wouldn't have missed how serious the American was.

Napoleon pulled him back down. "Sleep," he murmured. "Tired."

"Man of many words, Cowboy," he replied, amused.

"You wore me out."

"Hardly."

Napoleon gave him a one-eyed, calculating look. "How often did you bug my room?"

"Enough."

"Kinky, Peril. Very, very kinky."

Illya laughed, feeling light, at ease.

This was his.

All his.

UNCLE*UNCLE*UNCLE*UNCLE*UNCLE*UNCLE*UNCLE*UNCLE*UNCLE*UNCLE*

Two weeks.

They had two weeks to work out the kinks and smooth out the edges, to let Illya settle himself in this new situation and for Napoleon to understand what had happened.

Two weeks.

It sounded about right.

He might not be able to walk straight, but Napoleon didn't care. Illya might have to wear turtlenecks wherever he went. Not that Napoleon cared about that either.

UNCLE*UNCLE*UNCLE*UNCLE*UNCLE*UNCLE*

Illya learned that Napoleon could cook.

Quite well, actually.

Extremely well.

The man had a taste for the expensive, sure, but he did a mean beef casserole and his lasagna was amazing. No fancy ingredients needed.

He also didn't need much of a kitchen.

UNCLE*

He also got to see the man out of his tailored suits, without perfectly coiffed hair, clean-shaven and absolute smooth in every way. In Rome, even with just pajama pants and the hotel's bathrobe, Napoleon had looked absolutely suave.

Now Illya was allowed to see the man who could wear just a simple pair of jeans pants and a regular t-shirt or shirt. He saw him unshaven, hair in disarray, locks of it hanging into his forehead. His fingers itched to run through those dark strands and usually he gave in, drawing an exasperated eye-roll from his partner.

It was a privilege.

Something curled in his stomach. Warm and longing and intense.

The Sentinel knew that Solo had funds to his avail, not just U.N.C.L.E.'s. Napoleon had squirreled away enough money to live comfortably for the rest of his life, but he needed the thrill. He needed to apply his talent, test his limits, and feel… alive.

Illya knew what that was like.

He had started to feel the same ever since meeting the man.

Just how much Napoleon had on the side was unknown. Maybe even the man himself didn't know.

And he never stopped.

Always the criminal, Illya mused.

He let it slide. It was nothing he would be able to stop, as Napoleon's Sentinel or just a fellow agent. And Waverly didn't bat an eye at the exploits either.

Illya's own money, the little he had earned as a KGB agent, had been frozen and probably reallocated after he had become useless to the agency. He had never had much use for the money, aside from buying clothes and food, since he had always been on assignment, had belonged to his handlers. They had given him what he needed, never what he wanted.

No private pleasures.

It showed in how little he truly called his own. His father's watch. And now… Napoleon Solo. Both were treasured for different reasons.

UNCLE*

Napoleon discovered that Illya wasn't just good at chess, but all kinds of card games. Anything that required rules and concentration, applying himself, his mind, to the game.

And he was pretty good at spotting a cheat.

Which Solo tested.

Repeatedly.

"Sentinel senses," he finally said after another one of his moves had been discovered. "That's cheating!"

Illya raised an eyebrow. "No more than you, Cowboy."

"I do not cheat, Peril."

"You cheat all the time."

"You wound me," he replied with humor dancing in his voice.

"You'll recover."

Napoleon only gave him a smile, enjoying the banter, and dealt anew.

UNCLE*

He didn't manage a single sleight of hand. But he didn't mind. It was training. For him and for his Sentinel.

That Illya could win a game of chess with pieces missing was just more proof of how insanely good the man was. That steel ball of a mind hid a keen intelligence, a tactician and strategist. Of course, Napoleon had noticed it before, especially throughout their first collaboration, taking down the Vinciguerras. Illya just lacked a little refinement, which was where Napoleon always came in.

He dropped the two missing pieces in Illya's hands when the Russian held it out to him, palm up, brows rising with a silent demand.

"You're not human, Peril."

"And you could do better if your mind was on the game."

He smirked. "It's always on the game."

"Then prove it."

"Next time."

There would be many more next times. He was looking forward to them.

UNCLE*UNCLE*UNCLE*UNCLE*UNCLE*UNCLE*UNCLE*UNCLE*UNCLE*UNCLE*

The sun rose to a bleary, gray morning, the rain still there, though just a drizzle now. It was foggy, the sight into the garden obscured, the other houses shrouded into anonymity.

Napoleon gazed into the quiet morning, for the first time in his life feeling absolutely content. There was a soul-deep quietness to him, so relaxed and easy. There was no rush, no pressure, no need to move. There was nothing but this feeling of being home.

Somewhere in the fog a shadowy thing moved lithely, jumping the wall and hunting for breakfast or just entertainment. The shadow disappeared from sight before Napoleon could really see it. Might have been a cat. He thought he saw something bigger slip bay in the back of the garden, moving through the bushes.

Napoleon watched it, the eyes of a spy scanning for likely danger. Even a safehouse could be compromised.

But it didn't feel like an attack.

His instincts didn't flare, blaring at him to get out of here.

A solid presence seemed to settle next to him, behind him, around him.

"Good morning, hot stuff."

"Don't call me that."

Napoleon gave grinned quirkily.

"Problem?" Illya asked, eyes on the foggy outside.

"Nope. Cat, I think."

The Sentinel seemed to scan, his eyes tracking through the garden, head slightly tilted as he piggy-backed sound to sight. Napoleon watched him, fascinated and intrigued, feeling the intense concentration.

"Nothing," Illya said after a moment. "Animals. No one else."

He nodded.

"I've been thinking." Napoleon raised a quick finger. "No comment about hurting myself, Peril."

"Wouldn't think of it." The words were tinged with amusement. "You were thinking?"

"Yeah. About us. We kinda went about this in reverse," he said and craned his neck a little to look at his blond partner, who stood behind him without touching.

No touch was needed. He felt Illya, right there, deeply settled in his soul. Napoleon's shields were still down, trusting in the Sentinel to protect him.

He wouldn't have done that before; ever. With anyone.

But it also confused him that the Sentinel wasn't more touchy-feely. Those teams he had run into in the past, those working for the CIA or other agencies, were different. The Sentinel would always be all over their Guide and the Guide usually touched, petted or just brushed close by.

Illya… didn't.

Napoleon thought of it as a puzzle that he wanted to solve.

"You think?" Illya rumbled. There was a flash of a smile.

"And I think that we missed a few handbooks along the way."

"In what way?" the blond asked, a small frown scrunching up his otherwise smooth face.

An open face, so much more on display than before. And he looked so much younger then. It caught Napoleon by surprise every time.

"I'm no expert on this whole Sentinel-bond thing…"

Illya had the gall to snort. Napoleon elbowed him, connecting with hard muscle.

"But I thought Sentinels imprinted on the prospective Guide when they first meet. That would have been in East Berlin, right? Well, okay, we never touched when I rescued Gaby, but later, in that public men's room."

"True."

"So something is triggered, the pair is locked away to bond for a few days, and when they don't surface the handlers take a peek to see if they haven't fucked themselves into oblivion."

"Crude," the Sentinel rumbled, his mouth just a breath away from Napoleon's ear. "Truth to a degree, but crude. And yes, usually there is the surface connection at the first encounter, the need to take and imprint, then the bond is established by physical closeness."

Napoleon turned away from the garden view and gave the other man the raised eyebrow.

"But you are not a Guide, Cowboy," Illya said, mouth twitching, repeating Napoleon's angry words from before. "You, my annoying friend, are a Shield. I functioned before we met and never craved control. A Guide was a hindrance. A ball and chain."

Napoleon looked into the so bright blue eyes, so much more warm than ever before, the ice nothing but a memory and still it was present.

"We didn't feel anything because of it. No surface bond, no imprint, no primal desire."

"I wouldn't say we lack primal desire, Peril…" Napoleon chuckled.

Illya crowded closer. "No lacking there. You aren't lacking, Cowboy. You are what I need."

"The reverse," he murmured.

It got the American a nod. "You."

Napoleon smiled before he could stop himself. "Me," he echoed.

Him. The aberration. The faulty Guide. The reverse Guide.

"And I think we… bonded quite nicely. Without primal impulses. Without intervention." Illya's grin was downright dirty. Yes, the man could do dirty.

"Not at it like rabbits."

The light in the glacially blue eyes was unholy, promising something wicked and powerful. It licked along the edges of Solo's mind, had him bury his fingers in the thin sweater his partner was wearing.

"Tease," he breathed.

Who would have figured? There had been a few moments throughout their first mission, between Gaby and him, that had given Napoleon a glimpse at Peril's depths. That he might just have a softer side.

"Not so much."

And Illya sank down on his knees, unzipped Solo's pants and proceeded to prove him wrong.

UNCLE*

Napoleon found out that kitchens were really good places to get laid.

Repeatedly.

Even if they had to clean up a lot afterwards.

Damn, the Sentinel was relentless.

He loved it.

UNCLE*

And he loved this man.

The realization came by the end of the first week. It was nothing shockingly new, but it was still a revelation.

Napoleon was reading the morning paper, feeling pleasantly sore in all the right places and very at ease. Stretched out on the couch, feet up on the low coffee table, he was the picture of a leisurely gentleman. He was perusing the daily news, soaking up the information like a sponge. He might need it later or never at all.

When the thought hit, he lowered the paper and tilted his head, a thoughtful expression crossing his features.

"Huh."

Illya looked up from his game of chess.

"Cowboy?"

"I think I love you."

The Russian raised his eyebrows, a smile twitching at his lips. "You sound surprised, Cowboy. New revelation?"

"Uh, yes. No. Kinda."

Napoleon shook his head, running the words through his head again. It didn't feel wrong. Actually, they were absolutely right.

"It's… new."

Illya watched him, that mountain of strength and iron control. His expression gave nothing away, though his features were relaxed, young, so far away from the field agent and trained killer.

"It is real."

Not even a question.

Another thoughtful pause.

The blond met his eyes, serious, so very real in his presence in this room, it derailed Napoleon's thoughts for a moment. Illya had that effect on him. He was… a fact. Solid and absolute. There was no overlooking it… or him. Sure, he was tall and imposing to begin with, but this wasn't about size.

It was the psychic energy that coiled around him, that inner strength that had had him function without the help of a Guide for all his life. Now it felt… free… roaming around, brushing by Napoleon almost playfully, tendrils of black, sharp blades of ice, and still of no danger to him.

Yes, he loved this man.

It was a sensation he hadn't felt all too often before and that was a far cry from infatuation or mere physical attraction.

"I think I love you," Illya echoed Napoleon's words, a small smile playing around his lips.

Teasing.

A touch of roguish.

He shouldn't feel so… so warm. So amazed.

But he did.

It was the first time in his life that these words meant something.

"Not just as a Shield?" Solo heard himself ask.

Illya got up and walked over to him, expression so absolutely serious now. He knelt down next to the seated man.

"Never as just my Shield. Never."

Napoleon drew him into a quick, dirty kiss. He grinned at the expression in the Russian's face. It was a good expression, one that was very, very human.

"Can we work with this?" he asked.

"We have already. This changes nothing, Cowboy. Nothing at all."

No, it didn't.

Then again: it changed everything.

They were agents. Personal relationships were discouraged. Anything closer than a temporary partnership was frowned upon.

What Napoleon and Illya had…yes, it would change everything.

tbc...