You find strange, muddy footprints leading up to your front door. Jkkity mfu

Napoleon Solo whistled as he entered his apartment building. After many weeks away, it felt good to get back. In fact, he was much happier at home, the truth be known. Work was starting to feel, well, like work. He's said that much to Illya as of late, even going so far as to count the days to his 40th birthday. Perhaps Waverly wasn't so far off the money as Napoleon once thought.

He walked over to the elevator and smiled at Dawson. The doorman gave him a cool look, one so cool that it puzzled Napoleon. You would think as the holidays were fast approaching, the man would be a bit more generous. Or perhaps he was having the same laissez-faire problems Napoleon was. Even the most perfect job in the world got dull after a while.

The lobby was empty, but it usually at this time of the night. He got in the elevator and two other folks started to enter and then stared at him with wide terrified eyes.

"That's him. That's the penthouse guy," one woman whispered to the other and they both hastily retreated. He watched them scurry away with frightened children.

Confused, Napoleon selected his floor and rode the elevator up. He got off and stopped, shocked at the sight.

The hallway rug was covered with very odd muddy footprints, all leading to his door. That's when he noticed the walls also bore muddy prints. He dropped his suitcase and just stared.

"What in heaven's name-?"

"That's what we are asking, too, Mr. Solo."

Napoleon became aware of a man, he guessed a detective, since there was a uniformed officer at his side. He reached into his pocket and pulled out an ID badge. "I'm Detective Rehnquist." That's when Napoleon realized there were cleaners, scrubbing the surfaces of the walls and rugs.

"Detective." Napoleon took a deep breath, but didn't move. The policeman looked a bit twitchy and Napoleon didn't want him going for his weapon. "I confess that I am puzzled. What's going on here?"

"These showed up about a week ago, just a few tracks leading to your front door. Your cleaning lady found them and called us. We secured permission to enter your premises and discovered nothing untoward. She cleaned both inside and out. The next day, the prints were back. Again, they were removed."

"And they reappeared… May I?" He indicated one of the prints on the wall. A fingerprint was very obvious. "Have you tried -?"

"We did. It belongs to a dead man."

"What?" Napoleon was becoming more and more confused. "How?"

"That's what we were hoping to figure out. We set up surveillance, thanks to your company. Everything is fine until midnight, there was a burst of static and at 12:01, all of these prints had appeared. There was no sign of tampering or sleight of hand. We set up guards and the same thing. One minute everything was fine and the next…" He gestured expansively to the mess.

"You said the prints belonged to a dead man?"

"According to our records, a Baldwin Sims." Napoleon's hand unconsciously went to his side. His last confrontation with Sims had taken its pound of flesh. "You remember him?"

"Vividly and I have the scars to prove it." Napoleon paused and considered his options. "Has my apartment been tampered with in any way?"

"Not that I can tell." The voice from the penthouse's doorway was as familiar to him as his own. Illya Kuryakin stood there, wiping his hands on a towel. "As far as I can tell nothing has been disturbed."

"What do you make of this, Agent?" Rehnquist took out his notepad.

Illya pulled the door slightly shut behind him and shook his head. "I am beyond explanation. Unless Sims has come back from the dead, something I seriously doubt, even with THRUSH's skill, I'd chalk it up to a practical joke." There was a twinkle in Illya's eye that made him wonder.

Rehnquist checked his notes. "No one has access to this floor besides Mr. Solo and management and there is no indication that anyone has come up here."

"Perhaps now that Mr. Solo is home, we can figure out what is going on."

"We can post a guard outside his door."

"I'll stay, if you don't mind, Napoleon?"

"Of course not." He smiled hesitantly at the detective.

"We're through, Detective." The janitor was a stranger to Napoleon."

"Thank you. As you wish, Mr. Solo. I am going to post someone in the lobby however."

"That would probably be wise. Good night, gentleman."

Napoleon watched them take the elevator down and then followed Illya into the apartment.

It took him two breathes to have Illya pinned against the wall, arms splayed, his knee between Illya's legs, his lips on that of his partner's. For his part, Illya didn't struggle but encouraged until there was nothing to do but do it.

Napoleon stretched out on the foyer floor, drawing deep breathes and listening to his heart pound. He could still taste Illya in his mouth and he likes that.

"Talk about a homecoming."

"No pun intended." Illy rest his chin on Napoleon's thigh. "You were late."

"One of our passengers didn't like the way the plane sounded and caused a huge stink until they checked it out." Napoleon groaned as he sat up. "Bed is going to feel good tonight."

"You don't know how good. The plans I have for you…" Illya followed and stretched.

"You've had some late nights."

"I don't know what you mean."

"Illya…" Napoleon walked to his bedroom, carrying his suitcase with him. "I'm old, I'm not stupid. And I can sense your sense of humor a mile away."

Illya grinned and ran a hand through his ruffled hair. "Well, I was bored, too. I was hoping it would take you a little longer to figure out."

"Not once I saw you. You have a lousy poker face, my friend."

"Fooled the detective."

"You're an UNCLE agent, I would expect nothing else." They entered the bedroom and Napoleon slipped off his jacket. "Now, about those plans."

He didn't want to wake up. Napoleon fought against it, but his bladder was sending other messages. Finally, he managed to get an eye open and view the disaster that was his bed. Half hidden in the tangle of bedclothes, he saw a thatch of blond hair and grinned.

They both given as good as they got last night and the ache in Napoleon's back told him that he was going to need a long soak and some quiet time. He only hoped Illya agreed.

He pulled on his robe and teetered his way to the bathroom. Once relieved, rinsed out his mouth and turned his steps towards the kitchen. The first thing he needed was coffee.

That started, he stretched and headed for the door. It was late enough that two of the three papers he subscribed to should be here.

Napoleon opened the door and stopped. "What the hell? Illya!"

When there was no response, he stormed into the bedroom and grabbed an ankle, yanking it hard.

Illya came up fighting, checking his blows when he realized it was Napoleon. "What are you doing?"

"I can ask you the same thing."

"I was sleeping."

"Like hell you were." That's when he saw Illya's bloodshot eyes. "Why?"

"Why what?" Illya hissed as he moved, his teeth gritted. "I don't know what you mean."

"The hall."

"What about it?"

"What do you mean, what about it?" Napoleon stormed back to the front door and pointed. "Look!"

The hall was covered in muddy tracks and handprints all leading up to Napoleon's door.

Illya's expression was one of shock. He swallowed and took a deep breath. "Napoleon, I think you need to move… right now."

"Why? Because you can't stop once you start."

"Napoleon, I didn't do this, I swear upon my oath as an agent. And I would never have done that."

He pointed and Napoleon cleared his throat. "I see what you mean. Your place?"

Illya nodded slowly. "Go get changed now. I will stand guard until you are ready."

"Do you think that's necessary?"

"I do." Illya's eyes never moved from the door knob and the mud that covered it or the impression of the side of a man's head pressed against the door, listening and waiting.