Trees were budding and some were in blossom, and there was a warm freshness in the air that made Illya feel as if he were coming alive. He had been coming back alive for months now. Two weeks ago Dr Bainbridge had told him confidently that he didn't see the need to talk to him again except for occasional check-ins. Their next appointment was scheduled for a month's time.

Over the past four months Illya had talked his entire being out on the couch in Bainbridge's room, and he couldn't think of a single new thing to say. The last time he had succumbed to a panic attack had been a month ago on a crowded subway car, and there had been none since. Even the nightmares were gone. His reflexes were perfect, his scores on the shooting range were unparalleled, and he passed a barrel of standard psychological tests. Just a week ago, Waverly had trusted a low-level mission to him and Napoleon, a mission involving peril and combat at a small Thrush installation in Idaho, and he had come through it without a single negative mark.

The memories would always be there, but they no longer had the power to control him.

In a rare burst of generosity, perhaps in response to the success of that single mission, Waverly had granted both him and Napoleon a week's leave, and Illya had been insistent on taking it in Paris, for reasons he had yet to disclose to Napoleon. They had strolled through the parks, climbed the Eiffel Tower like any number of normal tourists, walked along the Seine, and spent a day searching for the haunts Illya had frequented while studying at the Sorbonne. Some of them were changed, some of them were gone; but a few were just the same as Illya remembered them. The old jazz club where he had first discovered his love of that music even had the same proprietor, who remembered Illya with effusive fondness.

But for Illya it had all been working towards this day. It had been a risk contacting his old friend in naval intelligence, but it was one that Illya felt he had to take, and in that way he had managed to be informed of the release and subsequent exile of one Ivan Vdovushkin, just two weeks ago. His heart had leapt at the news, and when Andrei had informed him that Ivan was choosing to live in France he had known that it was very, very necessary to see him.

He sat with Napoleon at a café table at the side of a wide boulevard, sipping at his coffee and hoping that his contact had done his job.

'Illya, are you ever going to tell me what this is all about?' Napoleon complained over his tall glass of beer. His shirt front was flaky with bits of pastry, and Illya reached out with a smile to flick them off with his handkerchief.

'You have the patience of a two year old, Napoleon,' he complained. He glanced around for the umpteenth time, cautious about being watched.

'If I were that impatient I wouldn't still be here, mon ami,' Napoleon said tartly. He picked up his pastry and promptly showered himself in flakes again.

Then Illya saw something, and his face lit in a broad grin as he recognised the man walking along the pavement, weaving between pedestrians. Ivan was unbearably thin. He was walking with a limp, and his shorn head was covered with a trilby. His suit was excessively cheap, but clean. He was looking about cautiously, as if he didn't quite trust the situation. But when Illya rose to his feet his jaw dropped, and then reformed into a smile to match Illya's.

'Bozhe moi, bozhe moi,' he uttered, opening his arms. 'Ilyusha! You're so changed, Ilya! You're so well!'

Napoleon stared questioningly at Illya. Illya pushed aside his coffee, dropped some money onto the table, then rose to his feet to gather Ivan into a hug, pulling his head down to kiss him on both cheeks.

'Let's walk, Vanya. Let's walk,' he said in Russian. He felt as if his heart were trying to swell out of his chest with joy at seeing the man.

Napoleon looked between the two. 'Hey, I don't suppose we could find a shared language?' he asked, with the pouting look that Illya so loved. Napoleon hated not to be the centre of attention.

'Ivan, do you speak French?' Illya asked him. 'You don't speak English?'

'French,' Ivan nodded, switching to that language. 'No English.'

'Napoleon is American,' Illya explained quickly. 'But he speaks French.' He looked around again, nervous of watching eyes, and again saw nothing.

'It's all right,' Napoleon assured him. 'There's no one.'

They walked towards the park just across the street and into the green and open spaces. Illya put his arm around Ivan's waist, feeling the thinness of him under his hand through his clothes. He remembered how he had looked just two weeks after his escape. It was too soon to expect Ivan to have thrown off the gaunt look of the camps.

'You are eating?' he asked, though.

Ivan grinned. 'My friend, I'm eating as if there's no tomorrow. Bread and more bread. Imagine that. But please, explain to me, Ilya. How are you here? How are you alive? They said you were killed, that you died in the snow?'

'First,' Illya said, 'My name is not Ilya Leonidovich Lagoshin. My name is Illya Nikolayevich Kuryakin.'

'Illya!' Napoleon said, his eyes widening in shock, and Illya turned to him, deciding to explain to his partner in English, since it was easier for both of them.

'Napoleon, I have had him thoroughly checked out by a trusted friend in Intelligence,' he promised. 'There are no risky connections. Ivan is a good man. I told you about him. He kept me alive in the camp. Please understand that.'

Napoleon looked rather hurt. 'And you didn't see fit to tell me any of this? I mean, meeting like this?'

'Not until I knew it was all right,' Illya shook his head. 'I didn't want to worry you.' He switched back into French. 'Vanya, I work for an international organisation,' he said. 'I had a job to do in the camp. And then I got out.' It seemed simpler to keep the details as brisk as possible, despite his certainty that Ivan was no risk. 'And you got out too,' he grinned, hugging Ivan again. 'Oh, I am so, so glad you got out.'

Then he saw that Ivan was regarding him with a hint of suspicion, and his heart faltered.

'What is it, Vanya?' he asked.

'I – thought you were like me,' Ivan said awkwardly. 'I thought you were – our way.'

'Oh!' The heaviness lifted in an instant. Grinning, he turned to Napoleon and kissed him full on the lips, slowly and languorously, letting his tongue taste each of Napoleon's teeth. Napoleon was briefly startled, but he kissed back, his arms slipping around Illya's body, holding him with his palm just a space above Illya's curving buttock, just the way he loved. It wasn't something he would dare do in New York, but here in a secluded park walkway in Paris everything was different.

'You thought I was this way?' Illya asked wickedly after the kiss, flushed and alive. Napoleon looked gobsmacked. 'Oh, Vanya, I am, I promise you.'

The smile on Ivan's face was genuine as he reached out a hand to Illya's arm, then caught him into a hug, squeezing him with surprising strength. 'I'm glad, Illya. Not, really, that it makes any difference, but I'm glad that wasn't a lie.'

Illya felt an old heaviness entering his chest. 'Very little of it was a lie,' he said.

He hadn't expected to feel so raw on seeing Ivan. Ivan had witnessed everything, as no one else had.

Napoleon put a hand on his arm, asking in English, 'Illya, are you all right?'

He took in a deep breath, steadying himself. The wounds had healed over, but they were still sore when they were poked. But he hadn't succumbed to panic in weeks, and he wouldn't here, now, with Ivan safe and Napoleon next to him.

'Yes, I'm all right,' he said. He switched back to French. 'Ivan, are you all right here? Do you have money, a place to live? Do you have a doctor?'

'Miraculously,' Ivan replied. 'It's as if I have a guardian angel. His name is Andrei. He said he was doing it for a friend – but I didn't know the friend was you. I should have a job by next week, too.'

Illya's heart lightened. What a good man Andrei was. He had explained almost nothing to him about the situation. It had been too risky. But still, he had done all this for Ivan, on trust.

They carried on walking through the park and into an avenue of ornamental cherry trees, which dropped petals like confetti when the wind breathed at their blossoms. Illya plucked petals from Napoleon's hair and then from the brim of Ivan's hat, and laughed when Ivan and Napoleon reached out simultaneously to do the same for him. Napoleon gallantly smiled and waved for Ivan to go ahead, although Illya could read the slight jealousy in his expression.

He leant closer to Napoleon and murmured in his ear in English, 'Napoleon, Ivan was my friend. You are my lover.'

Napoleon straightened his tie with the air of a preening cockerel.

'Vanya, tell me everything,' Illya said, turning back to the Russian. 'Tell me how it went for you. They let you out!'

Ivan smiled. 'Finally they had no more excuse. My sentence ran out and they couldn't find a reason to extend it. I'd been trying so hard to stay straight, and finally it worked.' He grinned. 'Could be they were just sick of my ugly face.'

'I'm glad,' Illya said, patting his arm. 'I mean – not that you have an ugly face. I mean, you don't have a – Oh – '

He was suddenly awkward. Ivan was tall and gangling and especially because of his emaciation his face was not beautiful. But he was not ugly.

'Never mind, never mind,' Ivan grinned, hugging him with one arm. 'Oh, Illya, you'll be glad to know this. Kuznetsov died, not more than a few hours after you escaped. It was the strangest thing. They were felling a tree that afternoon. The logging captain had come back – you know, the half-German guy – hopping mad that you'd escaped, yelling at everyone so much he confused them. He told Sokolov and Orlov to fell one of the big trees and then he told Kuznetsov to work on some logs right in its way. And he saw the tree about to come over, and I think he was trying to push Kuznetsov out of the way, but maybe he was so distracted by the escape. I don't know. He pushed Kuznetsov the wrong way, and the tree came down right on his head. Killed him instantly. I didn't see the German after that day. I don't know what happened to him.'

Illya stopped in his tracks, suddenly oblivious to the falling blossoms and the spring air. Jim had never said a word. He looked across and saw the same shocked look in Napoleon's eyes that must be in his own. He had felt all along that Jim was not a man one would want to anger.

'It was no more than he deserved,' he said simply. It was a dangerous subject to linger on, either in words or thoughts, and Napoleon must have sensed that because he changed the subject rapidly, asking, 'What kind of a job will you be getting, Ivan?'

Ivan looked jerkily away from Illya's face. 'Oh, nothing good,' he smiled. 'Labourer. I'm used to labour. But I'll try to work back towards my old life. I was a teacher of children, you know. I don't want to labour all my life.'

Illya regarded him earnestly, reminded again that he knew so little of this man.

'You'll make it,' he said. 'And, Ivan, if you need anything, if you find yourself in trouble, come to U.N.C.L.E. Paris. That is, th E, on Rue Flaubert.' He gave a quick description of the front for the Paris branch, and explained the place's function. 'If you ask them to contact me in New York, they will.'

Ivan looked at him appraisingly. 'So, Illya, an agent in New York. What a life you have...'

They walked in the park all afternoon, talking and thinking of the future. They took Ivan to another pavement café as evening fell and Illya bought him an enormous croque monsieur and half a litre of beer, and watched him eat the food with more delight than he took in his own. Napoleon had fed him so well in the last months he was in danger of becoming fat. And then they parted, and Napoleon and Illya walked back to their secluded hotel.

((O))

Illya was pensive and withdrawn in the hotel bedroom, and Napoleon was worried about him. He had been quiet ever since they had left Ivan at his lodgings, and Napoleon was afraid that the meeting had brought back too many memories. He could hardly believe that Illya had arranged it at all, but he had to believe that he had acted only with the greatest discretion, and only through contacts that he could trust entirely.

'Hey, honey,' he said eventually.

Illya was sitting at the desk in the room, and he jerked his chin off his hands and looked round, his gaze seeming to come back from far away.

'I thought you'd stopped calling me that,' he complained.

Napoleon smiled suggestively. 'Well, you remember what I called you last time we were in Paris, huh, pussycat?'

Illya's smile showed he remembered well, but he didn't laugh. Napoleon pulled up a chair and sat facing him, his knees touching Illya's thigh.

'Do you think it was wise to meet your friend like that?' he asked seriously.

Illya looked at him, his eyes sparkling. 'Oh, it was wise,' he said with great feeling. 'It was hard, but it was wise. I would have always worried about him.'

Napoleon reached out to stroke a thumb down his lover's cheek. 'No one could have done what you did, Illya,' he said with utter sincerity. 'It – astounds me to think of what you went through.'

Illya turned to smile at him, then took him by the hand and led him to the bed. He pulled Napoleon down onto the bedspread and gathered him in his arms, pressing his face against Napoleon's chest. Napoleon stroked his hands down his back, kissing Illya's neck and trailing his fingers down under his collar in a way that made his lover shiver. He slowly began to peel the clothes from him, until they both lay naked on the wide bed, skin against skin, just holding one another for a while.

Illya was still not able to bear the idea of receiving Napoleon during lovemaking, but he was certain that he would, one day. For now Napoleon was quite content to let Illya take him, and for Illya to stimulate him in every other way under the sun. He had never met a person more inventive in bed.

((O))

This time Illya took Napoleon with a soft growl, plunging into him with a fervour that was close on the edge of tears, before collapsing over him and just lying along the sweat-sheened heat of his body, the stickiness of Napoleon's come between them. He kissed Napoleon's chest and neck in tired little nibbles as he caught his breath, and then just lay there, hearing Napoleon's heart under his ear as it slowed to a languid rhythm of ease. This warmth and this closeness were the most perfect things in the world. The feeling of total relaxation through his body was unparalleled. There was only one dark regret in the whole thing.

'Oh, Napoleon, I wish I could let you – ' he began.

Napoleon's broad hand stroked the length of his spine, stopping in the hollow of his back just above his buttocks. 'It doesn't matter, Illya,' he promised. 'If one day you can, that would be lovely. But if you never do, it doesn't matter. I promise you. This is enough.'

Illya shivered a little, and Napoleon scrabbled to drag the bedspread up over them both.

'I suppose we should get in the shower,' the American commented.

Now he was warm again Illya had no incentive to move.

'Hmm, not yet,' he murmured.

He closed his eyes in this safe place and tested his memories. He had talked about everything that had happened in the camp for so long, so many times, with Dr Bainbridge, that it all seemed like a tired folk tale, recited by the fire until it had lost almost all meaning. It wasn't just the rapes; it was the horrific month in the cattle wagon, the constant near-starvation, the mistreatment, the cold, the exhausting work, the dehumanisation, the fear of death. All of those things had crowded like demons in the dark, like little nightmares trying to deconstruct his soul. But finally he felt at ease. He could draw back those memories and they were safe, blunt-edged, just a piece of the past. Only the memory of those penetrations still had the power to make him clench into himself and shake, but that power was fading too. One day he would be able to let Napoleon come into him, and the last demon would be gone.

He finally levered himself off Napoleon and took him into the shower, where they washed one another, and he took Napoleon in his mouth under the running water, taking care of his almost insatiable need. Then they dried and dressed and ordered dinner to the room, and sat in the bay window with their view of the Eiffel Tower in the distance, rising above the lower buildings around.

'Back to normal tomorrow, I guess,' Napoleon said with a long sigh of regret.

'Yes,' Illya replied. He couldn't feel regret. He had been waiting for too long to be trusted again, and he thought the trial mission in Idaho had been enough to settle Waverly's doubts.

As Illya forked the final remains of a sweet and crumbling roulade into his mouth, Napoleon's communicator warbled, and he took it from his pocket with a roll of his eyes.

'Uh, Mr Solo,' came Waverly's aged voice. 'I trust you have Mr Kuryakin at your side.'

Illya grinned and nodded.

'Er, yes, sir,' Solo replied, his voice thick with suspicion.

'Ah, good. It's the last night of your holiday, isn't it? Well, no need to pack, gentlemen. I've just had word through of a most diabolical Thrush plot sabotage the cheese makers of France. So I want you both to – '

Illya leant back in his chair listening to the unfolding plan with a feeling of deep satisfaction. This was the way life should be.