The water sluices over Illya's shoulders in a warm waterfall, slipping down his skin, easing out the bruises and aches of a long mission. It is so good to stand here and relax, so good to finally be able to let go. Napoleon is gone, maybe in the bar, maybe gone to pick up a girl. The hotel door is locked, the bathroom door is closed, all their opponents subdued, loose ends tied up, mission reports waiting to be typed up.

He leans against the cool tiles, eyes closed, tilting his face up to the water. The need is aching in his balls. It's like that after a mission, some kind of animal instinct perhaps that makes his mind turn from vanquished enemies to sex. First you face death, then you celebrate life.

He touches his hand between his legs, his fingers slick with soap. He strokes his fingertips over his own balls. It feels so good. It feels so good to stroke his hand along his cock, teasing it towards hardness, taking it as it thickens firmly in his fist and stroking up and down.

God, it's so good. Safer like this than doing it Napoleon's way, finding some random girl and spending the night with her. Too often random girls are on the wrong side. Maybe Napoleon doesn't care about that as long as he gets what he wants, but it's different for Illya. It's not so easy to relax in the company of strangers.

Napoleon… The image of him is clear in his mind. Raven dark hair. Dark eyes that hold so much expression. The sound of his voice.

He feels the flush all through him. It is terrible, this thing. What would Napoleon think if he found out? When he hears his partner's voice, something melts in him every time. When they brush hands he feels electricity straight through his body.

There's no one here now, though. He leans in the falling water and strokes over and over at the hot hardness of his cock. He thinks of Napoleon in there with him, naked in the falling water. This could be Napoleon's hand on him. Napoleon could kneel down in front of him and sink his hot mouth over Illya's length. He could suck and stroke and – oh god –

'Napoleon,' he gasps through gritted teeth. He is exploding, everything coming together as his cock jerks in his hand, jetting his seed against the shower wall. 'Oh, god, Napoleon...'

The shower door shatters into a thousand pieces.

Sudden cold billows in. The water is still spraying, and he's blinded and caught and confused. There's a man in the bathroom, holding a gun in his hand. Illya's hand is still around his softening cock, his face is flushed, his hand is wet and sticky with his own come. There's blood on his arms, mixing with the water. Blood flecking his chest and legs from all those small splinters. His hand is wet and sticky. He feels like a creature under a rock, suddenly exposed.

'Well,' the man says.

The man has a terrible bruise, a mass of purple that spreads like a poppy around his left eye, but Illya recognises him. Illya was the one who gave him that bruise. He's the one who shot him – and the man is sporting a bandage roughly wrapped around his arm. He'd thought he was dead, a torso shot, but he must have missed and hit his arm. He'd thought they were all dead.

He turns off the shower water, and is instantly cold. That man is standing there, his gun pointing at Illya's chest, and he feels so naked. He wants to clean his hand. God. He needs to clean his hand.

'May I get a towel?' he asks, keeping his voice smooth. There's no point in being anything but smooth.

'Get into the other room,' the man says, so he doesn't reach for a towel.

He steps out of the shower cubicle, onto glass. His foot sears, and he limps, but if he's not permitted a towel he won't be permitted to do anything about this. He refuses to be shot while bending over.

He walks, dripping, into the hotel bedroom, where his and Napoleon's cases are standing at the ends of their beds, where the bedlinen is smooth and perfect, where the curtains are open at the window, but no one can see in, because they're too high up. He leaves wet footprints mixed with blood on the carpet. Housekeeping will go spare.

'Sit,' the man says.

There's a chair, a fancy dining chair with a satin seat and back and gilded scrolls of wood. He sits and rests his arms on the arms of the chair, because what's going to happen is inevitable. Maybe when the man comes forward to tie him up he can act; but the man doesn't come forward. He tosses him four sets of handcuffs and says, 'Ankles to the chair legs – above the struts, please. Wrists to the arms.'

He takes the opportunity, when he bends to cuff his own ankles, to pull the biggest bit of glass out of the sole of his foot and toss it aside. He wonders if there's a way he can make it look as if the cuffs are closed, without closing them, but of course he can't. He's no more vulnerable to a bullet with clothes or without, but he feels more vulnerable, and he doesn't want to do anything to prompt that man to shoot. So he cuffs his own ankles and then his own wrists, with a little difficulty for the last one. Then he sits, and waits.

The man stands there and regards him. Then he spits. The globule lands on Illya's cheek, and slips down. He clenches his fists, and releases them slowly. The fingers of his right hand are sticky still, and the smell of come is strong in the air. There are little trickles of blood on both his forearms from the shattering shower screen, little trickles on his chest and legs. A thousand little cuts that all sting.

The man pulls up his own chair, and sits. He's facing Illya, but far enough away that Illya couldn't easily lurch at him. He's holding the gun limply, but ready to raise and fire. A wounded animal is the most dangerous kind.

'That was a hell of a performance,' the man says after a little while. 'You could have sold tickets.'

Something prickles all through him. It's as if every hair on his body is trying to stand on end and then lie flat again. It's a miserable feeling, like the feeling that shivers through you when you're cast down with diarrhoea, a hot and shivering flush.

It's not the nudity. He's been seen nude by his enemies before. He's formed a facade of nonchalance where his own body is concerned. It's not worth the fuss. But there's a vast step between nudity and being caught in the kind of intimacy this man has seen.

He doesn't reply to the man, because there's nothing he can say. He feels the stickiness on his palm, and tries to resist flexing his hand.

'Napoleon,' the man says, making it obvious, in his diction, that he is quoting. 'Oh god, Napoleon. Now, either you have some kind of bizarre fetish with dead Frenchmen, or – '

He leaves the rest unspoken for a moment. He's reading Illya's face. Illya knows he's going red. He can't control the capillaries in his face. He can't control how they're racing blood to the surface of his skin.

'Napoleon Solo,' the man says. 'There's an irony there, isn't there?'

He wants to swallow. He can feel it in his throat, as if he's got a rock stuck in there. There is such an irony in Napoleon's name. Solo, his partner. Solo, who never sticks to anyone longer than a few nights, a few weeks if she's lucky. Solo, who is only ever a duo when –

He drops his eyes, and the man laughs.

He tries to cling onto something. The man didn't see him, at least. Not through that shower screen. A blur behind the frosted glass, maybe. The hiss of water, the water droplets beading all over the screen. He might have heard him, but he couldn't have seen much, not the climax. Not that moment of coming to the thought of Napoleon's touch.

Solo, he thinks. Oh, Napoleon...

'Well, then,' the man says. 'There are a few facts I have now. Firstly, Kuryakin, the great, cool Russian spy, is a fag. Kuryakin, the fag, gets hard-ons for his partner. Kuryakin, the fag, has an unrequited love, which I dare say he doesn't want anyone else to know about.'

Heat follows cold follows heat, running through him like waves. His mind feels dizzy. The thought of it ripples out in concentric rings. Closest to his heart, there's Napoleon. Napoleon mustn't know about this. Napoleon can't know about this. Then there's Waverly. Good god, Waverly must not be allowed to know. Then there's the whole U.N.C.L.E. organisation, the tendrils which reach out beyond Waverly and the New York headquarters. Then there's the American government, the people who graciously allow him to live in their country. Then, there's his own government…

It comes over him again and again, crashing, drumming in his ears. He can hardly hear. Napoleon. His government. Waverly. God, god, god. What will happen when his government finds out? Recall? The most brutal of debriefings? Then what? A bullet? The labour camps? Oh, god…

So, what possibilities are there? Confession? Suicide? Running away? How do you run away from an organisation whose job it is to spy? How do you run away from the Russian authorities?

'What do you want?' he asks, because that's what this is all about. It's not just a sadistic desire to torture him, he's sure. Some might be like that, but he thinks there's more to this man. More than just the desire to belittle him, then shoot him in the head.

'We understand each other, at least,' the man nods. 'Yes. I didn't come in here expecting this, I have to admit. I just wanted a little fun. A little revenge. But you handed me something on a plate. You do see that, don't you? You handed me your darkest secret on a silver salver. Kuryakin, the great Russian prize, is a fag.'

'All right,' he says. He snaps more than he meant to. He hadn't meant any inflection to enter his voice. 'All right. You have established that. What do you want?'

Suicide is the only option, he thinks. He can play along with this man, just long enough to get home. He can put his affairs in order. Then death. It's all he can do.

He feels sick at the thought. He has survived in this business for so long. Agents die every day, but not him. He has a miraculous knack for survival. How can he survive this? He must make an attempt, he supposes, to kill his captor as soon as he's released, but the man probably won't release him. He'll probably leave him for Napoleon to find, and retreat to blackmail him from afar. Then two people in the world will know his secret, himself and this sadistic Thrush opportunist. He won't have a way of finding him to kill him, and his knowledge will hang over Illya like a bomb ready to drop. Suicide will be the only way.

'I want everything,' the Thrush man is saying. 'I want you to be U.N.C.L.E.'s biggest leak. I want you to report to me at the end of every day. Missions, plans, codes. Everything.'

He pulls in breath and lets it out again. Of course that's what he wants. Of course it is. He will have to play along, for now – but not too easily. The Thrush won't expect him to give in that easily. He has be get to the point where he is let go. He wants to be master of his own death.

'I can't give you that,' he says. 'You know I can't give you that.'

'Well, I can so easily give my own information to U.N.C.L.E.,' the man says smoothly. 'So easily. What will they say when I tell them you're queer, and you're gone on the ladies' man of U.N.C.L.E., the great Napoleon Solo, your own partner?'

'Why do you think they'll believe you?' he asks then. It's a bluff, but a valid one. It's easy to smear someone without evidence.

The man smiles. He draws something out of his pocket. A little dictaphone, tape running. The hot and cold washes through him again. Stupid. So stupid. He hasn't exactly admitted it out loud, but he's said enough. So, there's a tape. It's proof enough. It will be proof enough for U.N.C.L.E. to investigate. If it's sent to the G.R.U., it will be proof enough for his recall, his torture, his exile or death.

There's a small noise, a little crack. For a moment, the Thrush man looks surprised. Then he pitches forward on his chair, dark blood welling from somewhere, spreading out over his knees, pooling onto the carpet. He sits slumped, and then he slides, falls, and lies still on the floor.

Napoleon is coming into the room. Suddenly, Illya feels dazed. Suddenly he realises he's shivering. He feels the sting of all the little glass cuts on his body. Napoleon is kneeling, pushing a key into the cuffs, freeing his wrists and then his ankles. Illya tries to stand, hisses as he discovers there's still glass in his foot, falters backs. He sits, shaking, back on the chair.

'It's okay,' Napoleon says. The first thing he does is grab a big bath towel and drape it round Illya's shoulders, pulling it carefully, decorously, over his lap. 'It's all right.'

Illya clutches at the towel like a person in shock.

'How – long were you – ?' he begins.

'Let me look,' Napoleon says, lifting Illya's leg, supporting it under the ankle. He scrutinises the sole of his foot for a moment, then says, 'This might hurt.'

Illya hisses as he draws a shard of glass from the wound.

'Napoleon, how long were you there?' Illya asks. He's starting to recover strength in his voice.

Wordlessly, Napoleon picks up the dropped dictaphone, pulls out the cassette, and unspools the tape into a brown tangle in his hands. He crumples it, puts it in an ashtray, and holds a lighter to it until it is melted to black lumps.

So, that's how long he was there. Illya doesn't know what to say. He feels – He is a whirl. Unspeakably angry. Ashamed. Sick. He wants to lie down and to run away. He can't do either. He wants to say something bitter and furious, but he can't think of the words.

'Illya,' Napoleon says.

'Did you enjoy it?' Illya asks, finally finding speech. 'Listening?'

Napoleon's lips press together, and go white around the edges.

'No,' he says gently. 'No, Illya, I didn't enjoy listening. I didn't listen for very long. I listened for long enough to work out where the two of you were in the room, to open the door quietly enough that he wouldn't hear it, and to aim my gun.'

Illya lifts his gaze. Suddenly he can look at Napoleon, because it's like looking through a thick glass screen. Somehow his mortification and shame has become a shield sheltering him, forged together with fury that no longer has a target.

'You heard my great confession,' he says. 'That I, Illya Nickolayevitch Kuryakin, am such a deviant as to fall in love with my partner.'

Is that a blush he sees, through the glass plate in front of his eyes? Napoleon – is he blushing?

'I – heard enough to grasp that, yes,' Napoleon says softly.

Illya drops his eyes suddenly. Sick again. Shaking again. He's naked, clutching a towel around him, bleeding, his hair still dripping down his back.

'Illya,' Napoleon says, and his voice is like silk. 'Can I make a few points that might help you?'

A snort escapes Illya's nose. What can help?

'I'll take that eloquent answer as a yes,' Napoleon says. 'Point one. When I slope off to find myself a warm body for the night, I don't always look for a female body.'

His ears are singing. Is he hearing correctly?

'Point two. If you have fallen in love with your partner, you're certainly not the first.'

'Napoleon, don't – ' Illya begins miserably. This is the worst of platitudes.

Napoleon puts a hand on his knee, on the bare flesh that isn't covered by the towel. He feels so, so naked under that towel.

'Do you know how long I've hidden these feelings for you, Illya?' Napoleon asks.

He feels as if he's going to be sick. He doesn't know how to parse those words. It takes a moment to parse them. He hears Napoleon talking about how long Illya has hidden his own feelings, before his brain clicks, and he understands the words. It doesn't seem true. Isn't this what he's supposed to be saying to Napoleon, not the other way round?

'You – ' he begins.

'I,' Napoleon says. 'How long I have hidden these feelings for you, Illya. Do you mean to say we've both been tiptoeing around each other, and neither one of us has had the balls to say a word?'

'You – ?' Illya asks again. He doesn't know what else to say.

'Me,' Napoleon says. 'Me. You.' He smiles. His smile is so warm. 'You and me, like we have been for a long time. We've been together a long time, haven't we?'

'I – suppose – ' Illya says.

Yes, they've been together a long, long time. Together, but not together. Together, but not –

He feels like he needs a drink. He needs to be dry and dressed, with a drink in his hand.

'I have a little cleaning up to do,' Napoleon says. 'And so do you.'

He ruffles his hand in Illya's wet hair, and wipes a drip from the end of his nose with the corner of the towel. It's such a familiar gesture, so Napoleon. It's such a gesture of ease that Illya starts feeling a little less frozen inside.

'I suppose we'll have to call housekeeping in and make profuse apologies for the shower screen, and the blood on the carpet,' Napoleon continues. 'But when all that is over, there's a bottle of wine with your name on it, and my name on it. I think we need to sit down and talk.'