Title: Interlude of Shadow

Author/pseudonym: Lokemele

Fandom: The Man from U.N.C.L.E. / Star Wars:TPM

Paring: Qui-Gon Jinn/Ilya Kuryakin

Rating: NC-17

Archive: Yes please.

Series/Sequel: Not at the moment.

Other websites:

Disclaimers: Star Wars characters are copyright LucasFilm LTD. The Man from U.N.C.L.E. characters are copyright MGM. No infringement of copywritten characters is intended, and no profit is being made.

Summary: A heartbroken Jedi Master journeys to Earth and runs into a battered, amnesic Russian UNCLE agent.

WARNINGS: Graphic descriptions of sexual and non-sexual torture; consensual and non-consensual sex; SLASH

By Lokemele

Prologue 1

Qui-Gon Jinn stepped down the ramp of the transport he’d taken to this small, backwater planet. Because of ongoing political turmoil and low technical development, it was decided when the Jedi first discovered the planet to not reveal their off-planet origins except to a few members of the world’s only sentient lifeform. Thus the ship had come in at an odd trajectory to avoid the planet’s crude satellites, landing at an underwater base off one of the southern continents.

Yoda had sent him here, saying, "Take some time, you should. Healing you need. Visit old friends and see what you have wrought." The ancient had tapped with his gimmer stick. "Something there is, that needs you to do it. No other will. Important, this; I sense it." So off he had gone, hoping the distraction would take his mind away from Mace and Obi-Wan.

He was met at the base of the ramp by one of the cultural liaisons who’d devoted their lives to studying the planet’s diverse and conflicting social and political systems, languages, and lifestyles. "Welcome, Master Jinn. I see by your records you’ve been here before, so we can skip the basic briefing and language courses."

"Yes," he replied with a sad smile, "I was first here some forty years ago, just after I’d been knighted. In fact, I was part of the original survey team." He wondered if the friend he’d made during that first visit was still living, and if the organization he’d founded was still extant. During the brief visits he’d made here over the years, he’d established a network of companies to aid his friend’s efforts; he’d have to check them to see they were still serving their purpose. The liaison’s voice cut into his reverie.

"Forgive me for saying so, Master, but if you’re going into any of the developed areas, you’ll have to cut your hair to blend in. Conservative fashion dictates hairstyles for men that are close-cropped, especially on the sides and back of the head, and not more than a few inches on the top. Short as a padawan’s, but without the braid." He surveyed Qui-Gon’s more than shoulder length tresses and shook his head.

The Jedi master frowned at him. "I’m not about to cut my hair to suit the prevailing notions of fashion!" His eyes turned thoughtful. "Hmm, let me think. Most of the things I have in underdeveloped areas are agricultural.

I have it; the tea plantation, if it’s still there. I can re-establish myself there and just braid my hair and tuck it inside my collar if I have to go anywhere ‘civilized’. Yes. Rich eccentrics are often forgiven their foibles, if there’s enough money involved, and my investments on previous visits should have netted me no small sum in assets."

The liaison continued to update him on current events involving all major world powers, with special attention given to the area where he said he was going, as he led the way to his accommodations. He left Qui-Gon in his rooms after showing him the amenities and insuring himself the Jedi master would be fine on his own. Qui-Gon unpacked the few belongings he’d brought, placing them about the room, and took a shower before lying down to rest from his journey. Tomorrow would be soon enough to draw appropriate clothing and other items he needed to fit himself into this planet’s culture.

Prologue 2

Ilya Kuryakin knew he was in trouble; he didn’t yet realize how deeply.

It was supposed to have been a simple fact-finding mission: low risk, no pressure, just have a look around and do a little researching in the local library. Easy as pie.

This particular pie had held more than it appeared. Instead of the four-and-twenty blackbirds of the nursery rhyme, however, it was full of THRUSHES; far too many too evade, no matter how he tried.

He’d been dragged, bloody and half-conscious, into the satrapy’s HQ after he ’d been captured, and taken not to a dingy, unfurnished cell but to what appeared to be a dentist’s office. He tried to fight the mask they placed over his face after they strapped him down, even tried holding his breath against the gas, but a punch to his solar plexus had him gasping it in by reflex. His last conscious thought had been that it didn’t smell or feel anything different from nitrous oxide.

He awoke some unknown time later in the dingy cell he’d envisioned earlier, chained wrist and ankle and clad in nothing but his boxers. Added to his previous injuries was the feeling he’d just had a lot of dental work. He slid his tongue around the inside of his mouth; his teeth didn’t feel quite right. Before he could reach in with his fingers to confirm what he suspected, the door opened and a well-dressed gentleman walked in, followed by two hulking, well-armed guards in THRUSH coveralls.

"Ah, I see you’ve noticed. If you’re looking for the additions your UNCLE made to your dentition, I’m afraid you’re simply out of luck: they’re no longer there." His captor reached out, left-handed, and brushed the hair from Ilya’s forehead, letting his fingers trail down the side of his face. "Not to worry; we found them a very good home. One of my former minions was fortunate enough to have the same height, build, and coloring as yourself; I think he even had the same exquisite cheek bones. Too bad he didn’t have anything else going for him; he might have survived a little longer. By now, he’s had a little accident with his car, wearing your clothes of course; off the road and over a cliff, with a fire to obscure details."

He stepped around the Russian, letting his arm curl around his neck and leaning in close enough to whisper in his ear. "They won’t be coming to rescue you." The fingers trailed down his neck and over his chest to toy with a nipple. "We have all the time in the world to get acquainted."

His captor leaned forward, pressing against his body, and nibbled his ear. "But we haven’t been properly introduced," he murmured, continuing to kiss and nibble Ilya’s neck. "My name is Clarence Phillips." His other hand slipped down the Russian’s flank and under the waistband of the boxers. "I’m looking forward to getting to know you much, much better."

Part 1

"You’re a whore. You’ve always been a whore. You’ll always be a whore"

The words echoed in his mind as he staggered through the alley. His latest "client" had not only taken what he wanted without payment, he’d beaten the young man bloody and stolen the money he’d been able to earn tonight. He wouldn’t be able to replace his lost wages with his face looking like it did now, and his pimp would have no sympathy for him; he’d probably add to the bruises marring his features. That wasn’t his main worry, however: the lost wages were needed to buy his supply of heroin to keep away the pain that even now nibbled at the edges of his awareness. In a few hours he knew he’d be a shuddering, puking ball of pain; it had happened before and would doubtless happen again, unless someone took pity on him (unlikely) or he died, either from withdrawal or at the hands and feet of whoever his moans disturbed.

He could not for the life of him ('Bozshe moi', he thought to himself, 'what a choice of phrase') understand why he kept going instead of lying down to die. He could remember no time when he had not sold himself to survive. He had no prospects for the future; in the shape he was in now, he doubted he had a future. Tonight was far from the first time he’d been beaten; the only time he wasn’t in pain was just after he’d shot up, and his pain-free time had been getting shorter and shorter as his body developed a tolerance to the slow death he was shooting into his veins. What then was the voice in a small, quiet corner of his mind that whispered 'keep going, be patient, it will get better'? Some last bit of self-preservation? Life was cold and lonely and painful, and he wanted it to end.

He reached the mouth of the alley, and leaned against one of the buildings that formed it, trying to catch his breath and get his bearings. Some part of his mind registered the large, dark sedan speeding his way. Whether by design or accident, he pushed himself from the alley and into its path.

Interlude of Shadow Part 2

John Quinn, known elsewhere as Qui-Gon Jinn, was reviewing the papers he'd received from his accountants. He hadn't wanted to come to the city, but there'd been problems with some of his holdings that required his presence to clear up. He was aware his driver was going too fast for the area, and was about to request he slow down when his Force-sense warned him.

"Stop!" he howled at the driver, fearing the word was already too late. He saw a flash of blond hair and pale skin at the same moment he heard the squeal of the car's brakes. He was out the door and around to the front of the car with Jedi speed, checking the crumpled, bloodied form for signs of life.

" 'Ere now, I didn't do all that!" the driver said in his lower-class British accent. "I barely touched the guy!" He didn't want to lose his job; Quinn was a generous and forgiving employer.

"No," Quinn agreed, having a closer look and seeing the nature of the young man's injuries, "you certainly didn't do any of this." He pulled off his overcoat and started to wrap the young man in it.

The battered youth was having nothing of it. Weakly pushing the coat away, he murmured, "Please, if you have any humanity in you, finish me. I can't go on anymore."

"That ain't some stray cat you've got there," the driver advised. " 'Is pimp'll be looking for 'im. For all we know, that's the one what did this. They're a nasty lot, and they don't like people muckin' about in their business."

"You can't be certain -- " Quinn began, but the driver cut him off with a snort.

"A bloke like that, in this area? Dressed like that?" He wrinkled his nose. "Smellin' like that? I know what 'e is and so do you. You want some o' that, I know places where you'd find cleaner and 'ealthier ones." He bent down to grab the man under the shoulders. "Jus' lemme get this out o' th' way and I'll take you to a place I've 'eard about; nice boys, pretty, clean, and with no strings attached."

"I don't want a boy!" Quinn snapped.

"Yes, go," the man breathed, crying out and curling up in a ball as pain hit.

Quinn ignored them both, wrapping the youth in his coat and carrying him to the back of the car. He directed the driver to a private clinic north of the city while he spoke to the admissions desk over his car phone, arranging for a private room and speaking to the physician on duty.

"No need o' that," the driver told him, "there's a 'ospital jus' down the street. We can drop 'im off and be on our way."

"And I'm sure they'll be falling all over each other to treat a beaten-up prostitute going through heroin withdrawal who doesn't have two half-pennies to rub together," came the reply from the rear. "You drive, I'll plan; it's why I'm the boss and you're the driver."

By this time the young man had given up speaking in the local language and reverted to European Russian; Quinn thought it must have been his native tongue. 'How did you get so far from home?' he thought to himself. He started to gag and Quinn grabbed the ice bucket that had conveniently been provided with the car and held it under the man while he brought up what little was in his stomach. Most of it was a pink milky color, but the older man was horrified to note chunks of what looked like raw liver and were almost certainly blood clots. He ordered the driver to go as fast as he could, and damn the consequences.

They were met at the clinic door by an orderly with a gurney, and the patient was quickly bustled into an examination room and stripped. Fortunately the on-call doctor was an OB/GYN specialist with surgical experience, and an old friend of Quinn's. He'd arranged for the money to send her to medical school but even she shook her head at the damage she'd be required to repair.

"I don't suppose you could have gotten him here any sooner?" she said while palpating his belly. "He's going to need surgery, ASAP." She turned to the orderly. "Prep him."

"I only ran into him this evening; literally, with the car," Quinn replied. "Are you going to need any help with the surgery? I can stand in as a scrub nurse, if you need."

The doctor shook her head. "We have a full surgical team on standby at all times for just such emergencies. Go to the lounge and wait: it's all you can do now."

So Quinn found car and driver, got his briefcase, told the driver to go home and wait for him to call. No use both of them being uncomfortable. Settling in with a pot of tea scrounged from the staff lounge and the paperwork he was reviewing earlier, he waited for the doctor to come tell him if his newest project would survive.

Interlude of Shadow Part 3

Meanwhile, in the Surgery the operating team was working on the patient and discussing their problems treating him.

"What’s his BP?"

"90/50, holding steady. I have more whole blood standing by."

"OK, going in. Damn! Suction! I need retractors. Where’s he bleeding from? Never mind; I see it. Sutures."

"That’s probably not the only spot. God, what happened to this guy?"

"He’s lucky to be alive. I usually see this kind of damage only on corpses." From a nurse who did occasional work in the Coroner’s Office.

"I’ve seen cases like this myself, usually female. The people who do this kind of work tend to kill their victims after they get bored with them, if the victim doesn’t die before then."

"I suppose that explains the burns."

"And the pins; are you sure you got them all?"

"I hope so, but we can always check later with an X-ray. I’m more concerned about loss of function and sensation. Poor bastard’s probably never going to be able to make love."

"It looks like we got the bleeding stopped; how are his vitals?"

"He’s weak but stable."

"OK, I’m closing him up."

# # #

Quinn looked up as the door opened. "Will he live?"

"It’s too soon to tell; he lost a lot of blood, he’s undernourished, he’s been beaten, burned, tortured . . . I’m not sure why he’s alive now, considering what he’s been through in the last 6-8 weeks. Not to mention what withdrawal is doing to him," the doctor said. "If he’s still alive in 12 hours, he might make it. Might."

Quinn looked at his watch and sighed. "I have a meeting I’m needed at in two hours. May I use your phone to call my driver, and then may I see him?" The doctor nodded and led him to the nurse’s station where he made his call, and told him which room the young man was in.

John Quinn, international businessman, entered the room, but it was Qui-Gon Jinn, Jedi Master that approached the bed and its occupant. He placed one hand on the young man’s forehead, sending healing energy and trying to get a sense of his emotions. Pain and despair hit him like a storm wave, and he shuddered trying to control his reaction and calm the other man. His other hand moved to the place the pain was worst, and he was unsurprised to find it was the man’s genitals. His senses noted the surgeons had missed one of the many safety and straight pins which had been embedded there, and he used his powers to gently ease it out. He also noted other injuries the doctors had missed, probably because it hadn’t occurred to them to check for internal burns where there weren’t any external ones. He wondered how on Earth, or any other planet for that matter, the man had managed to sell himself repeatedly on a daily basis when any sort of penetration deeper than one or two inches should have had him screaming in agony. Qui-Gon drew deeply on the Force and healed the delicate tissues of penis, testicles, colon, and prostate so there would be no scarring or loss of sensitivity.

Footsteps in the hallway alerted him to move his hand before the nurse saw him, and when she told him his driver had arrived, John Quinn was firmly back in place.

###

He cleared up the problems with his holdings and spent some time making overseas telephone calls to check other potential trouble spots. Having discovered everything would run smoothly without his personal attention for the next few weeks, he returned to the clinic and spoke at length with the doctor about how her patient was doing, if he’d awakened yet, and what sort of long-term care he should arrange for him.

"I haven’t got the lab work back yet, but we’re pumping him full of antibiotics anyway, due to all the infections and septicemia we found," she told him. "From the symptoms he was showing, he probably gave his customers more than just pleasure; VD’s an ongoing problem with the city’s whores of both sexes. He’s not awake yet, and as much as I’d like to see it, part of me’s glad he can’t feel the pain of withdrawal. As for long-term care, you’ ll want to remember his mind will need as much, if not more, care than his body. You’ll want to hire a nurse/therapist; he’ll be bedridden for several weeks, and need time to regain his full strength. Of course, all this depends on him surviving to be discharged; we’re more hopeful with each hour that passes without complications developing, but he’s far from out of danger."

Despite that less-than-optimistic prognosis, the young man continued to improve, even though he didn’t awaken for four days. Once he did wake up, another problem arose; he apparently couldn’t remember any language except Russian, much to the distress of the staff. Fortunately one of the nurses could speak to and understand him, as could Quinn, who spent some time and no little expense hiring a nurse/therapist and psychiatrist who were fluent in Russian. A week after he awoke the young man, whose name they still didn ’t know (when asked he would say, "I’m a whore; I’ve always been a whore, and I’ll always be a whore. Call me whatever you please," in the same flat tone that made Quinn suspect it had been beaten into him), was discharged from the clinic. They went to the airport and boarded Quinn’s private jet, and after a few hours flight, landed in another country. After passing through Customs, they entered the waiting car and were driven to Quinn’s plantation, where the young man was promptly put to bed and quickly fell asleep.

Interlude of Shadow Part 4

He woke a few hours later screaming at the top of his lungs, but when asked denied any recall of his dream. It was the beginning of several frustrating weeks; as his body healed and gained weight and strength, his mind drew further and further away. The psychiatrist finally gave up, saying, "He isn’t ready to heal yet. When he wants to talk, call me back." It annoyed Quinn to no end the young man seemed unable or unwilling to allow anyone close to him emotionally. He steadfastly refused to give them a name, even after Quinn had started calling him ‘Snowflake’ as a joke. He certainly looked like something out of a Tchaikovsky ballet with his pale skin, straight baby-fine light blond hair, bright blue eyes, and small, slender build. His quick mind had swiftly picked up enough of the local language to communicate with the servants and field workers, at least to ask for food or other needs.

He’d hated being confined to bed; Quinn had found him once collapsed on the floor of his room and trying to crawl out to the veranda. In a rare instance of allowing physical closeness, he let the older man carry him outside, though he insisted on sitting alone, unaided by Quinn’s support. As he grew stronger and more able to move about, he began to ask for work to do, saying he needed to start pulling his own weight. He tottered out to the vegetable garden and asked to help with weeding, only to be picked up, carried back to his room and told he’d be severely sunburned if he spent more than a few minutes under the tropical sun. He told Quinn he was bored silly and needed something to do, so the older man took him to the kitchen and told the cook to let him help. She promptly set him to peeling and chopping vegetables, sitting him down by the table and giving him a bowl, a knife, and a large pile of carrots.

That night, after the house settled and went to bed, he slipped from his room and into the master bedroom. Quinn woke as soon as he heard the doorknob start to turn, for he’d always been a light sleeper and had been expecting a nocturnal visitor for the past week. He waited quietly as his visitor crept across the room and knelt, naked, by the bed.

"I’m strong enough now to be taken. Isn’t that why you brought me here? To share your bed?"

"Is that what you want?"

"What I want doesn’t matter; I am a whore; I’ve always been a whore, and I'll always be a whore. If you don’t want me, send me away and I’ll ply my trade elsewhere."

"I don’t want you having sex with anyone unless you want to, or feeling you need to have sex with someone to survive. You don’t need to sell yourself anymore; I’ll get you a job, send you to school, or have someone teach you a trade. I can even teach you myself."

"You’ve spent all this money on me, and offer to spend even more, and you want nothing in return? Why?"

"Perhaps I see more in you than just a whore. You have a quick mind, especially for languages. You could make so much of yourself with a little help."

"I am what I am. Why should I be anything more?" He lowered his head, not wanting to meet the other man’s eyes.

Quinn reached out and lifted his head, bringing his eyes back up. "Do you really prefer to have people using your body with no consideration of your feelings? Do you like being beaten bloody? Do you want to end up dead in some alley with no one to love you?"

"Why would anyone want to love a whore like me?"

Quinn grabbed him by the head with both hands and shook firmly. "Quit calling yourself a whore! You want to know why someone would love you? Because you’re beautiful. Because you’re intelligent. Because you have an open heart and a generous spirit. Even because you’re impossibly stubborn sometimes." He loosened his hold and smoothed his visitor’s hair. 'God knows that’s why I love you,' he thought.

"I . . . need to think about this." The young man rose, turned, and left the room.

"As do I," Quinn murmured to himself.

# # #

U.N.C.L.E. Headquarters, New York, New York

Napoleon Solo stalked through the halls with a grim expression on his face and an angry gleam in his eyes. He passed the desk of his superior’s secretary without sparing her a glance, let alone his usual flirting banter. He usually made time to at least smile at her no matter how rushed he was, but not today. He stormed right past and through the doors.

Alexander Waverly had been expecting his visitor since the report from their Asian sector reached him. The information was preliminary at best, but the idea they’d left one of their own to suffer, no matter how unwittingly, was deeply disturbing. Particularly in this case.

He looked up from the folder he was holding. "Come in, Mr. Solo, and sit down."

Napoleon entered, standing behind the chair with his hands gripping the back tightly. "I’d like to know," he began, "why the Chief Enforcement Officer had to learn through the grapevine one of his best operatives, who had previously been reported dead, might in fact still be alive and in need of assistance?"

"Because the only thing we have to go on currently is the word of a captured THRUSH minion who might be making things up to save his miserable hide, or trying to lure us into a trap," came the reply. Waverly stared him down, and for a moment Solo saw all the pain and self-recrimination of a man who has to send others into mortal peril while keeping himself safe. The moment passed, and the older man looked down at the folder in his hands. "This is the preliminary interview with the man, whose name is recorded as Simon Greyson. The details are quite graphic; I suggest you read it in the men’s room, without sitting down."

Napoleon waited while the file swung around on the revolving table to the chair in front of him, picking it up when it arrived and starting to read immediately. His face paled then turned gray as he read, and just as he reached for the back of the chair he felt an arm around his shoulders. Waverly closed the file with his other hand and whispered, "Men’s room." Napoleon took his advice, taking deep breaths and splashing water on his face to control his nausea. It was some little while before he regained enough composure to return to the office.

When he returned the file was nowhere in sight, and he didn’t ask where it had gone. "Where do we go from here?"

"We don’t go anywhere, yet; especially you." He held up a hand to forestall whatever Napoleon was about to say. "All our Asian bureaus have been alerted to keep an eye out for Mr. Kuryakin, and our people are checking out whatever leads they can find. As I mentioned before, it could be a trap to lure you into their clutches. Or an attempt to place one of their own within our organization; either a double of your former partner or Mr. Kuryakin himself, after being properly conditioned to obey his new masters." He steepled his fingers and looked over them at his CEO. "Men have been broken from experiencing far less torture than Greyson described in that report. If he’s still alive, we must be absolutely certain he’s uncompromised, or he’ll never be effective as an operative, either in the field or in the lab."

Before either man could say anything further, the overseas relay started to sound. When Waverly answered, it was Hong Kong. "We believe we’ve found him, sir!"

"Excellent work! How soon can you send him to New York?"

"He’s not here in Hong Kong, sir. He’s in Ceylon, sir, currently staying on a tea plantation owned by a man named John Quinn."

"John Quinn? Of Quinn International?"

"Yes, sir, we’ve just confirmed that. Should we send a strike team?"

"That won’t be necessary. Has Quinn himself been sighted? He’s somewhat of a recluse."

"My agent tells me Mr. Quinn took him out of Hong Kong personally in his private jet. One moment, sir." There was a brief silence on the line. "Sir, we’ve just finished comparing blood work and X-rays from the clinic the person answering to Mr. Kuryakin’s description stayed at briefly before leaving to copies from his medical records. Everything matches but the dental work, which would be consistent with what we were told."

"Good job! We’ll handle retrieval from here. Waverly out." He turned from the microphone grinning from ear to ear, and toggled open his intercom. "Sally, get in touch with Transportation. I want two tickets to Colombo, Ceylon, on the first available flight." He beamed at Napoleon. "I’ve been hoping John would crawl out of his hidey-hole before I had to step down. I need to introduce the two of you. I can give you the details later, but suffice it to say UNCLE wouldn’t exist without Mr. Quinn."

# # #

More than a month had passed since the young man had visited Quinn’s bedroom, and the older man had made good on his promise: he’d brought in tutors to educate his protégé, starting with English and French. "The best schools are in Europe and America," he advised, "and will only take you if you speak either French or English." He picked up the French even quicker than the local tongue, and started speaking several other languages spontaneously, but English completely eluded his grasp. Quinn didn’t know if it was just the fact English was an exasperating tongue to learn with all its inconsistencies and outright contradictions, or if the young man’s psyche was keeping something from him which related to that language. He’d also started teaching him the same style of unarmed combat that was taught to Initiates in the Temple, only to discover something startling: the young man already knew it, or at least something extremely similar to it. He asked where he’d learned to fight like that, and the man would simply shrug and say he must have picked it up on the streets. Pressing for more information would only get him surly words or sulking, with his opponent walking off complaining of a headache.

There was still one very large obstacle to overcome; the dreams that came once or twice weekly, which would cause the young man to wake screaming. He would always say he couldn’t remember them, but when Quinn had taken him into his arms one night to comfort him, he’d asked the older man to stay with him that night. It had been the beginning of a new phase in their relationship. Due to the tropical climate, Quinn slept in the nude, and had therefore not been wearing anything under the robe he wore as he was passing the young man’s room when he started screaming. His protégé refused to let him go long enough to don even underwear, and he’d spent a very uncomfortable night reviewing the driest and most difficult brain teasers and mathematical problems he could think of while a warm, soft body he most definitely wanted to touch nestled trustingly in his arms.

He eventually dropped off from sheer exhaustion, only to wake a few hours later to discover his bedmate was enthusiastically stroking his cock. He gritted his teeth and gently disengaged the fingers wrapped tightly around him. "I told you before you didn’t have to do that."

Soft, warm lips nuzzled his neck before whispering, "I want to. Please, let me love you." He guided the older man’s hand to his erect penis, wrapping the larger hand around it. "Touch me. I want you to. You asked me once, ‘Is that what you want?’ and I told you I needed to think. Now I know what I want, and it is you. I want you to hold me, and kiss me, and make love to me."

John cradled his would-be lover’s jaw between thumb and forefinger, and kissed him long and passionately. "My little snowflake, are you certain? I couldn’t bear to cause you a moment’s pain; it would rip out my heart to see you hurt. I care for you a great deal, far more than is wise."

"I am certain," came the answer, "I want you," followed by a kiss on the neck, "tonight," another kiss, "tomorrow," more kisses, trailing down his chest, pausing to nibble and lick his collarbone, "and every night you’ll have me," finally making his way to a nipple to gently feast upon it with lips, teeth, and tongue.

His soon-to-be lover ceased mentally calculating the approximate positions of the planets in the solar system and started responding to his partner’s attentions.

The first thing he did was pull the young man’s head up for another searing kiss. Then he rolled them both over so he was looking down into his eyes. Seeing only desire and no fear, he started his odyssey of kisses, licks and nibbles across his lover. He started by placing gentle kisses across his forehead, eyelids, cheeks, and chin, nibbling and licking ears and jawline. Across his neck and collar bones, nipping and licking his Adam’s apple. Over his shoulder and down his arm, sucking each finger like a miniature cock and lapping his palm as if it were full of sweetest nectar. Back up his arm, trailing licks and nips across his collar bones to his other arm where he repeated the process, to the moans and pleas of the man beneath him: "Oh, yes, oh yes, oh please, oh please, more, more, more, don’t stop, don’t stop don’tstopdon’tstop DON'T STOP!"

John wasn’t about to stop; he was just getting started. Down his lover’s chest, mindful of the light dusting of golden hair, teasing his nipples to hardness with licks, nibbles, and kisses. Nipping and licking along his ribs. Kisses across his belly, pausing to French kiss his navel and nibble his hip bones. Nuzzling the stiffer golden curls of the pubic hair, deeply inhaling the musky scent as he made his way down his thigh. Kissing and licking behind his knee, down his calf to his ankle. Over the top of his foot, giving his toes the same treatment as he gave his fingers earlier. Lapping the arch of his foot as he had the palm of his hand. Back up the leg, with a pause to lick each of his balls once before repeating on his other leg.

By the time he returned to his lover’s crotch, the man was writhing and incoherent. John had to hold him down to lick the pre-cum from his throbbing, twitching cock. "MM, good," he said as he slipped back down to draw his lover’s balls into his mouth, one at a time, sucking and licking them. He drew back a moment and asked, "This isn’t hurting you? You’re certain?"

"Bozshe moi!" the man gasped, "If you stop now we will both be in pain because I will break both your arms! Damn you, keep going!"

Keep going he did, gently pulling back his lover’s foreskin and kissing his way to the head of his penis. Taking only the head in his mouth, he sucked gently while running his tongue over the glans and dipping it into his opening. John’s fingers squeezed the base to keep him from coming as the man cried out his passion. He opened his mouth wider and swallowed his lover fully, using tongue, teeth, and gentle suction to quickly bring him to completion. The young man spasmed, screamed out John’s name, shuddered and went limp, his fingers in John’s hair loosening as his penis spurted a last few drops. He swallowed and lapped up every drop as if it were sweetest honey, and kissed his way back up to his lover’s mouth, only to discover tears leaking from his eyes.

"Are you in pain? Have I hurt you? Should I call the doctor?" he asked, wondering what he’d done wrong.

"No, no," he said, raining kisses on his face and neck. "I’m not hurt; I’m happy! It hurt so much, for so long, and now there is . . ." he beamed at his lover, "such joy I could almost die from it."

"Joy?" He returned his lover’s smile with interest. "Let me show joy such as you’ve never known before."

He helped him to roll over onto his belly, and treated his shoulders, back, and legs to the same odyssey of kisses, nibbles, and licks he’d applied to his front, paying special attention to his spine and buttocks. He gently parted his lover’s nether cheeks so he could lave and kiss his anus, eliciting a gasp and a moan. He slid his knees under his lover’s hips, raising them to a more comfortable angle for penetration, and paused, cursing under his breath. "Be right back. I need to get something to lubricate you with so there won’t be any pain when I penetrate you."

"Wait," his partner gasped. "In the drawer of the bedside stand." He was reaching even as he spoke. He drew out a small unlabeled bottle and passed it to him.

John unscrewed the lid and sniffed. "Olive oil?"

"I stole it from the kitchen. I wanted to be ready, just in case."

"My sweet snowflake. You are a wonder." He poured a little into his palm to warm it, and drizzled it into his lover’s cleft, catching it with a finger. He slowly pushed the well-oiled finger past the ring of muscle and inside him, watching carefully for any sign of pain or tension. He moved the finger in and out a few times before adding a second and then a third, moving slowly and being ever vigilant for any sign of the least discomfort.

"Please," his snowflake begged, "faster. It’s not as if I’m a blushing virgin, you know."

"You are to me," his lover replied, leaning up to kiss him, "and as you may have noticed, I’m what the Kama Sutra refers to as an ‘elephant’. I think I ’ve already made it abundantly clear I refuse to hurt you in the slightest, especially if it’s only for my own pleasure."

"John?"

"Yes?"

"You talk too much. Shut up and love me."

He pushed his fingers in a little further and curled them slightly. The reaction was just as he’d hoped; his snowflake arched his back and moaned loudly in pleasure. He teased his prostate a bit more and withdrew his fingers, to whimpered protests. He oiled himself and positioned his member at the opening of his lover’s body. "Last chance. Are you certain?"

"Yes, yes please," he sobbed, attempting to impale himself on the cock that was so teasingly close to inside him.

John eased forward, holding his lover still as he slowly breached his sphincter muscles. He hadn’t exaggerated his size, and was being very careful to move slowly and gently. Inch by slow inch he entered, taking short, gentle strokes until he was fully inside him. He paused a moment at that point to let his lover adjust, moaning "Oh, yes. So good." He asked his lover if he felt any discomfort.

"No pain. I feel good; whole." He pushed back against his lover. "Move in me. Love me."

He began to thrust, slowly at first and then picking up speed as the passion built. He reached around and grasped his lover, stroking him in time with his thrusts. He alternated faster and slower, building the passion higher and higher until he could hold back no more. With a few swift thrusts he sent his lover over the edge to orgasm, and the clenching muscles triggered his own release seconds later.

He held himself above his lover until he’d slipped out, then pushed himself to the side and pulled his snowflake half-atop himself. He slid a hand into his hair and around to the back of his neck to draw him into a warm, gentle kiss. They exchanged smiles and more kisses but no words as they cuddled together for the night. They didn’t need words; they had each other, and it was enough.

part 6

A few nights later, the nightmare returned. John caught the first flinch and moan of denial, followed quickly by shudders and sobs. He shook his bedmate until the young man responded, blinking sleepily to focus on the older man’s worried features. "What?" he said.

"You were having a nightmare; I wanted to wake you before you started screaming."

"Oh." He wriggled back down under the sheet. "I’m all right now; go back to sleep." He placed his head on John’s shoulder and closed his eyes.

Only to have his lover sit up, pulling him up as well. "Oh, no you don’t. We need to talk."

"Now? It’s the middle of the night." He made one last try. "I want to sleep."

"So do I, but I won’t if you keep having nightmares every few nights. Did it ever occur to you you’re having them for a reason? That they’re trying to tell you something?"

"No." He closed his eyes and shuddered. "They’re too horrible. I don’t even want to think about them, let alone discuss them."

"The best way to deal with a fear is to face it head on." He settled the young man in front of him, pulling him back against his chest and wrapping his legs around him as well. "I’m holding you as close as I can, and I won’t let go. You’re safe here; I won’t let anything hurt you. You can tell me anything you want. Please, talk to me."

He looked down at the arms holding him, gathering his courage, then stared blankly at the wall in front of him and began:

"I’m running from people. I don’t know who they are, but I know they want to hurt me. They catch me and beat me up. They take to what looks like a dentist’s office. They strap me down and gas me. I wake up in a small, dark room with manacles on my wrists and ankles, wearing only my underwear. Three people enter the room: a well-dressed man and two guards. He starts talking but I can’t understand what he’s saying." He paused, frowning. "Except I think the ‘me’ in the dream understood." He continued:

"He’s touching me as he talks. First my hair, then my face and down my chest to my nipple. His other hand is sliding down my side to my boxers. He slips it under the waistband and begins to fondle me, first my cock and balls, then my ass. He pulls me against him and starts rubbing himself against me as if we’re fucking. I try to fight, to get away or push him off, but my shackles are too tight. My resistance seems to arouse him. He stops fondling me and tears the boxers from my body. I don’t look but I can hear him fumbling with his clothes. I know what’s coming and try to relax to minimize the damage; this has happened before and I’ve survived it."

"He doesn’t prepare me at all; just positions himself and thrusts forward as he pulls me back, burying himself balls deep. He’s at least as large as you; I’m torn despite my efforts to relax, a cry escaping my throat which I’d tried to contain. He pulls almost completely out of me, slowly, only to slam back in. That’s how he rapes me; slowly pulling out and slamming back in as hard as he can. He doesn’t speed up until he’s almost finished, pounding me hard and deep, trying to inflict as much pain and damage as he can. Finally he finishes, grunting, and I can feel his sperm shooting deep inside me."

"He stands up and comes around in front of me. He grabs my hair and pulls my head up level with his crotch. He forces me to lick my own blood and shit from his cock and balls, which arouses him again so he makes me suck him. He rams his cock down my throat so I can’t breathe and start to pass out, choking on his cum as it shoots down my throat and into my windpipe. He forces me to swallow it and lick him clean before tucking himself away and leaving the room, warning the guards not to touch me as he has further plans for his ‘new toy’."

Quinn was upset with what he’d already heard, but he kissed his snowflake’s hair and said, "That’s not all, is it?" Aside from remembering what the doctor had told him and what he’d felt during that first visit in the clinic, he’d also finagled a look at the young man’s medical chart. He recalled the list of injuries and the note that some were a month or more old.

A shudder passed through his lover. "Not even close. It . . . gets so much worse. I’m not sure . . . not sure I can talk about it . . . not yet."

"Tell me what you can, then. I’m certain it will help."

He half turned in his lover’s lap, being careful not to pinch or crush anything important, so he could put an ear to his chest and an arm around him. "I don’t know how to describe it; it seems like time is passing, but I don’t know how fast. They bring me food sometimes, but usually he comes. When he comes he hurts me and rapes me. I try not to show the pain because I know it arouses him; sometimes he gets so excited he rapes me 3 or 4 times. It’s a cycle of horror: he beats or flogs or burns me until I cry out. Then he rapes me, and the cycle repeats until I pass out and can’t be roused, or he wears himself out and can’t get an erection."

"Even then it sometimes continues as he shoves things up inside me. Big things. As far as he can. Have you ever seen those really big flashlights policemen sometimes carry? The ones that use all those batteries? He uses one of those in me." He started to sob. "It hurts so much, but there’s worse." He was getting hard to hear as the sobs racked his body. "He – he – " he shook his head, "I can’t – can’t say it!" He turned his head fully to his lover’s chest and let the tears come unabated.

John stroked his hair and murmured soothing words as his snowflake’s tears dampened his chest. 'I think I’ll give Alex a ring,' he thought, 'maybe he’ll be interested in helping me find this undismembered walking corpse.' He knew it wasn’t the Jedi way to seek revenge, but also knew he couldn’t let that sadistic bastard walk around thinking he could do things like that to young men. He sensed somehow his snowflake hadn’t been the man’s first victim, and even now some other might be suffering in his clutches. 'I’ll need a description, because I thoroughly doubt he introduced himself before he started.'

But no matter how gently or firmly he was questioned over the next few weeks, the young man staunchly refused to give even the sketchiest description of his tormentor. If pressed too hard he would begin to sob and flee to his room, locking the door behind him. The psychiatrist was called back to help, and they made some progress but discovered something strange. The young man, who had started calling himself Ivan Ivanov (he wanted to take John’s name since he didn’t remember his own, but decided 2 Johns were one too many) was impossible to hypnotize, even under the influence of sodium pentothal. It was a major setback as his subconscious was unreachable. The memories had to be teased out of him gently, and he was encouraged to keep a diary of his dreams. It was the only contact with his subconscious mind they had.

Still, they were slowly working their way through the mental trauma caused by the physical and emotional abuse Ivan had suffered. He recounted a dream of how he’d been addicted to heroin and forced to prostitute himself:

"I was in a lot of pain. One time he came in with a syringe and asked me if I wanted something for the pain. I knew what was in the syringe, but I didn’t care because I also knew it would take away the pain. I nodded and he injected me with it before raping me and leaving. For a while it didn’t hurt. He gave me perhaps 6 or 8 injections, always raping me after, before he revealed his game. He came in and showed me the syringe, but refused to inject me until I begged him to fuck me. After that I always had to beg to be fucked (the doctor noted at this point he never again called it rape) or hurt or whatever he wanted before he gave me the heroin. If he didn’t like the way I begged he would withhold it until he was satisfied. It was a game for him, and he used to laugh at my pain. He released me from my shackles and gave me the run of most of the compound because he knew I wouldn’t try to escape. I obeyed because I needed the heroin."

"He forbade me to speak any language except Cantonese. When he fucked me, he insisted I recite ‘I’m a whore. I’ve always been a whore. I’ll always be a whore.’ continuously until he finished. Then he told me I had to obey any man who offered me money for sex, giving him whatever he asked. Later he said I had to earn my heroin by offering myself to a certain number of men each day, with the number increasing daily. Finally he took me to a city and sold me to a man who told me if I didn’t make him enough money he wouldn’t give me my fix. So I started wandering the streets, selling myself to anyone who wanted me and giving the money to him."

He also recalled how his tormentor had pulled his foreskin back and, bunching the loose skin together, pinned it in place using several safety pins. He’d used more safety pins – the little brass ones – on the head of his penis, as well as shoving straight pins head deep into it. He hadn’t ignored his testicles, either; they got their own share of straight and safety pins. He’d also raped his victim after he’d finished with his penis and again after he’d done his testicles. It was agonizing for the young man, particularly the second time as the stimulation to his prostate was causing him to harden and become more sensitive.

Ivan was so distraught after that session they had to sedate him and put him to bed, and he refused to talk about it for the next week. What bothered both Quinn and the psychiatrist was the fact Ivan hadn’t regained his memories after recounting that event. Did that mean there was something even more traumatic buried in his subconscious? How would he deal with it, if and when he did remember?

Chapter 7

Ivan worried what the revelations would do to his relationship with John. He decided he didn’t want to be hurt anymore so he pushed his lover away. At least he tried. He even went so far as to offer himself to one of the day workers who lived in town in exchange for a ride. He was politely refused and the offer was reported to Quinn.

"If you wanted to go into town, you only had to ask. There was no need to resort to subterfuge. I would have gladly taken you," John said.

"And if I had asked to stay, or to return to where you found me? What then? What if I wish to go back to whoring? What if I said I was tired of you, old man?"

"No one forced you into my bed," he said tiredly, "and no one will force you to remain." He longed to wrap himself around his snowflake and keep him safe from the world, but he knew that was wrong for both of them. "You should be warned, however, there have been inquiries made into your whereabouts. Whoever wants you found knows you left Hong Kong with me, and it won’t take a genius to put 2 and 2 together and decide you’re here." He’ d been told about the people looking for the young man just an hour before, and it had sent a stab of panic through his heart. 'I can go and take him with me; the soulhealers in the Temple could help him far better than the crude methods they have here.' But would it be fair to him to take him away to a world he might never fit into? To make him dependent on another? Qui-Gon’s heart cried out against it.

"I can protect you here on the plantation. I can even have you guarded if you wanted to go into town. If you go wandering off on your own, you might stumble into something you can’t get out of. We don’t know who’s looking for you; has it occurred to you it might be the one who held you before?" He could see it hadn’t by the terrified expression on Ivan’s face.

"You’re – you’re just saying that about someone looking for me to keep me here. To keep me in your bed! Don't touch me!" Seeing how upset he was, John had moved to comfort him, only to be pushed away. Ivan fled to his room and wouldn’t come out even for dinner. The cook took him a tray; what sort of conversation passed between them Quinn would never know.

Quinn was sitting on the veranda staring out at nothing when he heard soft footsteps approach.

"I asked around, and you were overheard talking on the phone. There really is someone looking for me? You weren’t making it up?"

"I wasn’t making it up." John looked up at Ivan. "I’ve taken some steps to beef up security, especially close to the house." He didn’t mention the measures included hi-tech scanners sweeping the borders of his property for the slightest trace of gunpowder or explosives. "No one will get anywhere near you without going through me first. I told you I care about you; I want you to believe you’re safe here. Even from me. If you want to go, I will send you to a friend in America. He can give you a new identity, and I ’ll even tell him I don’t want to know what it is."

"I – don’t really want to leave. I want to stay, to be with you. But – the memories. The horrible things that were done to me. The things I’ve done. The whoring. I was a whore in Kiev as a child, after the war. Perhaps he was right, and I’ve always been a whore."

John stood and gingerly embraced him, mindful of the earlier scene. When he didn’t resist, he pulled him closer and into the building’s shadow. No need to take chances; even the most reliable systems malfunctioned. "You were a whore when I found you. Nothing in your past could be so vile as to cause me to abandon you completely. There’s at least a decade, possibly two, of your life we know nothing about yet. You’ve been through some terrible things; give yourself a chance to heal. Your mind and emotions need to mend as much as your body, and that takes a lot longer. I should know; there were wounds to my soul that took years to heal completely."

"You?" asked Ivan, incredulously. "You’ve always been a tower of strength, like the Rock of Gibraltar." He’d noticed his lover was a physically imposing man, standing nearly six and a half feet tall and weighing close to 200 lbs., none of which was fat. His silver-gilt brown hair may fall halfway to his waist, but it fell past a pair of very wide, intimidating shoulders. There was certainly nothing weak or effeminate about his face, with its broken nose, piercing blue eyes, and salt-and-pepper beard. Standing in the shadows, in the protective embrace of this man, between him and the building, he found it hard to believe he had any vulnerabilities at all.

"Perhaps," he said with a slight smile, "we should go inside and discuss it. Your room?" They spoke of that and many other things before curling themselves together and going to sleep, not needing passion but desiring instead the simple comfort of knowing you’re not alone.

That was how things stood, with Ivan having regained some memories but none which could identify his tormentor, when Quinn got the telephone call from his old friend Alexander Waverly. He was calling to say he would be in the area and would it be all right if he dropped by? There was someone he wanted to introduce, and something he needed to discuss.

# # #

Napoleon Solo stared at his boss dumbfounded. "I’d always thought we received the major part of our funding from various governments."

"That’s what Section 1 has encouraged everyone to believe; it allows our host country, and several others, the illusion they could influence us by threatening to withhold funding," Waverly replied. "Quinn saw this decades ago, when UNCLE was barely more than a dozen people and a dream to save the world. So he gathered together enough capital to start a dozen various companies in as many countries. He had an excellent head for business and the most phenomenal luck I’ve ever seen. Every single one of those companies is now a multinational corporation, and a portion of their profits finds its way into UNCLE accounts worldwide."

"Quinn also realized we’d need a way to move people and material discreetly. He set up certain, shall we say, less than above board shipping routes and used legitimate shipments for other things than were listed on the bills of lading. His companies hire most of our retired and disabled agents to run just such operations."

He paused as the stewardess approached to ask if they wanted anything. Both men ordered drinks as this was the first of several connecting flights: New York to San Francisco, San Francisco to Honolulu, Honolulu to Tokyo, Tokyo to Colombo. They’d take turns sleeping later; Waverly between San Francisco and Honolulu, and Solo between Honolulu and Tokyo. They took up the conversation after they’d been served and the stewardess had left.

"So this Quinn person is UNCLE’s banker and occasional smuggler." Solo took a sip of his drink.

Waverly got a far away look in his eye. "John Quinn’s a good deal more than that. Did you ever notice UNCLE agents have a unique fighting style? He taught it to myself and the other founding members, and we’ve tried to pass it along. He’s also passed along methods and technologies years ahead of anyone else’s. About half our gadgetry is based on things he gave us and our bright boys and girls modified and extrapolated from. In fact, one of his companies makes all the things we need in quantity, like personal communicators and the special guns and sleep dart ammo."

"I’ve wanted to introduce the two of you ever since I decided you would replace me as Number 1, Section 1, but Quinn’s a difficult man to get in contact with at times. I almost wish I could get in touch with him more often; it might have prevented some of the difficulties we had in the past." Solo knew what his boss was talking about; despite every precaution, check, and evaluation, Section 1 had once been compromised by THRUSH, nearly resulting in the loss of the entire section. "He’s the best judge of character I know. It’s almost as if he can read a person’s mind or see into his soul. That’s why I stopped worrying about Mr. Kuryakin as soon as I confirmed John had gotten personally involved."

Chapter 8

They were met at the airport by Quinn himself. After greetings and introductions had been preformed and they were waiting for their luggage, he turned to his old friend and said, "How long has it been since you did a retrieval personally?"

Waverly’s eyebrow went up. "Quite some time. Since Mr. Kuryakin isn’t here with you, might I assume he didn’t tell you?"

"How did you know?" Solo asked.

"Several very small things which were meaningless individually but when combined made an interesting picture," Quinn replied. "His resistance to hypnosis and certain drugs. The way he seemed to know the hand-to-hand combat techniques before I showed him. The way he stands and moves at times. It didn’t really come together until I got your phone call, and then everything just seemed to fall into place." An expression flicked across his face too quickly to register with the men to whom he spoke. "How much do you know of what happened to him?" The emotion paused this time long enough to be seen as anger. "Damn it, Alex, how the hell did you come to lose what was obviously an excellent, if not the best, of your agents?"

"A unique set of circumstances combined with a very determined individual," Waverly explained. "He made it look as if he’d died in an auto accident. The special additions to his clothing and dental fillings were a prefect match, and it was all we had to identify the body. He was my second best operative," he shot a glance at his companion, "after Mr. Solo here. A very close second, and Mr. Solo’s partner. We only discovered he was still alive from a captured THRUSH minion wanting to make a deal." He gave Quinn a worried look. "How bad is it?"

"He remembers nothing between his childhood in Kiev just after Wold War II until his capture," he answered, "or his name, and we – his psychiatrist and I – think there may be some trauma he’s still repressing. That’s a major improvement from how he was when I first found him. Do you know what he was doing in Hong Kong, and why? When the car failed to kill him, he begged me to finish him. For a time he either couldn’t or wouldn’t speak any language but Russian; he still can’t speak English beyond a few phrases. How’s your French, and does Mr. Solo speak any other languages?"

"My French is excellent, and so is my Russian. Up until recently, I had someone to practice it with, and I’m looking forward to practicing with him again," Waverly replied.

"I speak French, Italian, and some Russian, though most of my Russian isn’t suitable for polite company," added Solo.

That statement garnered him a raised eyebrow from Quinn. "Does your partner often have cause to swear at you?"

"No comment," came the reply.

"Is there anything else about the situation we should know?" Waverly diplomatically changed the subject by asking.

"He’s skittish around men he isn’t familiar with. He asked me last night what he should do if he ran into a former "client" who wanted buy another piece of ass; his words, not mine," he said quickly, noting the look in the eyes of both other men.

"And what did you tell him?" asked Solo.

"To ignore the man, and if he persisted, to tell him he was mistaken, and if he still persisted to threaten him with blackmail. Such behavior IS still frowned upon, if it isn’t outright illegal, in much of the civilized world, isn’t it, Alex?" Quinn inquired.

"Very much so," Waverly confirmed. 'I’m going to have sound out Napoleon on this issue, and this trip might be a good time to do it.' If Solo wasn’t open-minded about homosexuality, he might have to rethink his decision about his eventual replacement. He’d been watching the younger man’s face and body language carefully when the read the interview with Greyson, and just now when the subject of his partner’s "clients" came up, but hadn’t been able to determine anything one way or the other.

Quinn was also watching Solo for the very same thing. Of course, he had an advantage over his old friend, and he used it without a qualm. Though he only did a surface read, he could easily sense the depth of feelings the man held for his partner. Would he still hold such feelings if he knew the man was currently engaged in a homosexual relationship?

They gathered their luggage, passed through Customs quickly, and were picked up at the curb by Quinn’s driver. Solo noticed the car’s trunk already contained two suitcases and several shopping bags. "Planing a trip?" he asked Quinn.

"Planning for one. Mr. – Kuryakin, you said?" Solo nodded. "Mr. Kuryakin will doubtless be returning to New York with you. I wanted to be sure he’d have suitable clothing. You wouldn’t want him catching cold, would you?"

"No, I wouldn’t," Solo replied, grimacing at the memory of having to pack Ilya’s effects. He suddenly realized his partner had no clothing beyond what Quinn had provided, and it was mid-winter in New York. He also wondered if he could get his partner’s books back from the NY public library system.

# # #

Elsewhere in Colombo

"So Waverly is here, personally retrieving his lost lamb, and Solo is with him?"

"Yes, Mr. Phillips."

"And my little pet still can’t remember what I look like, and sleeps in Quinn’s bed? I wonder what his UNCLE will say about that. Who’d have thought one of their best agents was a flaming queer?"

"Indeed. I have more than enough evidence to blackmail either man, if our masters so choose."

"We’ll keep it as a contingency plan, if our first one fails. I’m looking forward to having my pet’s company once more. This time I think I’ll keep him for the exclusive use of our own people. Do you think any of them would be interested in having a former UNCLE agent to do with what they will?"

chapter 9

Ivan/Ilya was pacing back and forth on the veranda waiting for his lover’s return. "Why is it taking so long? Who are these people, anyway?" he asked the cook. His stomach was churning. What if one of them knew him from Hong Kong? Quinn had said they would have to sleep apart while his visitors were here, because they might get upset about them being together. He didn’t want to be "just friends" with Quinn, even for just a few days. ' You can do this, Ivan. He wants you to be strong and stand by yourself. You want to stand by yourself, too, and not just to make him happy.' He wanted to be his own man; the bastard who’d held him had taken away all his choices. He wanted his choices back.

"Their flight may have been delayed," the cook replied. "They may have been held up in Customs. There could be any number of things which would delay them." She knew what the problem was, but couldn’t tell him they’d left early to go shopping for him. "And Mr. Waverly is one of Mr. Quinn’s oldest friends." She went to give him a motherly hug and noticed an odd expression on his face. "What is it, child? Something wrong?"

"The name – Waverly – it’s . . . familiar, somehow. Is English, da? I mean, yes." He was having trouble with his words again; it happened when he was distressed.

"He’s very English, yes, and very proper," she told him with a smile. "I was here the last time he visited; it must’ve been oh, 15 or 20 years ago." She finished giving him the hug. "It will be all right. He won’t let anyone hurt you, of that I’m certain."

He hugged her back. Her mothering touched a place inside him he hadn’t realized he needed touched. "I know." The sound of a car approaching distracted him, and he turned to see if it was John.

It was, and he started toward the car. He pulled up short, however, when the younger of the two strangers looked straight at him and smiled. He knew the man, and the man knew him . . .

He turned and fled to his room, locking the door behind him. Something was pounding on the inside of his head, trying to get his attention. Something terrible, which he couldn’t bear to face yet. He curled into a ball on the floor and wept silently, willing the something back to its hiding place. It retreated for now, but he knew he had to face it eventually.

Napoleon started to go after his partner, but was pulled up short by a hand firmly grasping his arm. "Let me go," he softly snarled.

"You can’t help him right now," John advised. "Did you see his face? He was utterly terrified, and of you. Seeing you may have triggered a memory he’s not strong enough to face yet. To force the issue now may do more harm than good." He turned to his foreman, who’d been standing nearby. "Where’s the doctor?"

"At her clinic in town."

"Damn," he muttered, releasing Napoleon as the man had ceased to fight him. "Alex, I hate to be a poor host, but someone should check on him. Will it be all right if my foreman shows you to your rooms and helps you with the luggage?"

"Quite all right," Waverly agreed, making a shooing motion with one hand. "Go." John smiled his thanks and was off like a shot.

While Napoleon and Waverly were getting settled, John tapped on the door of Ivan’s room. Getting no response, he Force-unlocked the door and slipped inside, locking it again behind him. He still wasn’t sure where Napoleon stood on homosexuality, and now wouldn’t be a good time to discover he was hosting a homophobe. Especially over something misconstrued, like Ivan curled up in his lap being comforted.

The young man was curled into a ball on the floor and weeping silently. Pulling him up into an embrace, John whispered against his hair, "Shh, Shh, you’re safe now, you’re safe and I won’t let anyone hurt you." He repeated it until Ivan relaxed, then asked, "Can you talk about it?"

"He knows me, and I know him. What if we met in Hong Kong? How well does your friend know him?" Ivan shuddered. "What if he’s . . . the one?

"The one who held you? I’m assured that’s not possible; my friend knows that man's name and has his description, and has a lot of people looking for him right now. And if he’d found you in Hong Kong before I did, you’d be in New York right now, probably with all your memories and we’d never have met."

"I should know your friend, too, shouldn’t I?" He couldn’t bring himself to say the man’s name; it made him ill to think of it.

"Yes, you should know him. You used to work for him." He watched carefully for signs of distress, and finding none pressed on. "They thought you were dead; the one who held you –" he went no further as the body in his arms suddenly stiffened. "Never mind right now. Do you want to try meeting them, or stay in your room for now? I can have a tray sent in at dinnertime. There’s no hurry for you to do anything." He kissed his forehead, and was kissed in return on the lips. He sighed regretfully and said, "I have to look in on our guests." He stood, pulling Ivan up with him.

"Please," his snowflake whispered, "let me stay with you tonight. I – don’t want to be alone. I’ll even try to meet them at dinner, if I can slip into your room later." His arms were wrapped tightly around John’s waist and his head was pressed to his shoulder.

"My sweet little snowflake," he softly murmured so only one set of ears could hear it, "how I wish it could be so, but we discussed this before. The fact of the matter is we must be absolutely discreet, particularly now as it is your future in jeopardy. I’ll have the cook stay with you tonight, after she brings you dinner. That will rouse less suspicion."

"All right; I’ll let her coddle me like a sick child. But I’m going to make you pay for it after they leave."

John left him there without saying anything. 'Let him keep the illusion a little longer.' Tomorrow would be soon enough to tell him he was going to New York with them.

As he heard the door lock click behind him, he heard Napoleon softly ask, "How is he?"

"Better now," he replied, moving down the breezeway toward the kitchen. Napoleon was forced to follow. "He wasn’t as bad off as I feared, but he won’t be joining us for dinner, I’m afraid. He knows he knows you, and Alex, but he can’t remember where or how you met." He looked behind him as if to see Ivan hadn’t stuck his head out the door to listen. "He was afraid you might have been Phillips. I assured him you weren’t without mentioning any names; he seems to have problems with them."

"How soon do you think it will be before he can meet us without being harmed?" he asked.

"I don’t know; I’ll have to check with the doctor, who won’t give me an opinion until she speaks to him." He spoke to the cook, arranging for a tray and asking her to stay with Ivan that night. "He’s prone to nightmares, especially after something upsets him," he explained

chapter 10

Dinner was somewhat strained, as Waverly watched his oldest friend and his young protégé feel each other out. Each attempted to learn as much as possible from word, tone of voice, gesture, and body language while giving nothing away. Both knew he was watching and observing them as well if not better than they could themselves. He wasn’t distracted by trying to maneuver another into giving something away. He always HAD enjoyed an excellent chess match but he liked a good poker game even more.

They discussed a number of topics from literature to sports to politics. Qui-Gon was trying to get a sense of the man’s attitude toward homosexuals by using every trick his master had ever taught him on a diplomatic mission, and everything he’d picked up in the years since. The man was physically impervious, giving nothing away by outward sign. But he’d "flinch" mentally at certain words, which gave the Jedi the answers he sought. When Waverly excused himself to retire for the night, he decided to test his findings.

Napoleon had decided John was both hiding something and fishing for information. What did the man want, and how did it affect Ilya? Could he trust this man with his partner? He hadn’t seen anything to set off alarms, but then, he hadn’t seen much of anything at all. What was he hiding? Something to do with Ilya? He was beginning to think so, and he didn’t like it. When Waverly excused himself to retire for the night, he decided to confront his host.

"What are you hiding, Quinn?" There’s nothing like the direct approach.

John chuckled. "The direct approach, eh? I admire that. You’re worried about your partner. I can understand that. You know what was done to him, and what he was doing to survive. How do you feel about your partner being with other men? What’s your opinion of homosexuality in general?"

"I’ve always believed in ‘Live and Let Live’," Napoleon replied. He definitely didn’t like what he was hearing. "As for what my partner has gone through, none of it was his choice. If I should discover someone’s been playing on his vulnerability, manipulating his emotions for his own ends," he caught John’s eye so there would no misunderstanding, "I’ll kill him, without a qualm and without a second thought. Irregardless of who he is or who he knows."

The older man nodded without breaking eye contact. "I don’t doubt it for a second. You’re very . . . devoted to him. Are you devoted enough to allow him to make his own choices, even if they go against conventional morals? Could you ‘Live and Let Live’ if your partner told you he preferred making love to men?"

"I’d have to be certain it WAS his choice, freely made, and not something he ’d been led to believe he wanted."

John refreshed both their drinks from the bar. "I’m not some vile seducer. The first time he approached me, I told him I didn’t want him sleeping with anyone unless that was what he wanted. I also told him I’d arrange for training or education for him so he wouldn’t need to sell himself to survive. At the time I believed prostitution was the only thing he knew. Do you really think I’d hire a psychiatrist for him if I wanted to manipulate his emotions? There are far cheaper ways to do it."

"I’ll withhold judgement on the matter until I can get Ilya’s side of the story. IF I can get his side; he’s rather conveniently – for you, perhaps – incommunicado at the moment," Napoleon said.

"I wish he could talk to you, more than you know." John replied. He would have said more, but at that moment the scream of a man in mortal agony split the night, coming from Ivan’s room.

# # #

He was dreaming.

The bastard was raping him again, because he’d found a new toy with which to hurt him. It was something like a cross between the electronic matches used to start barbecue grills and fireplaces and a cattle prod. It was small enough to be held in one hand, and had two small electrodes on its tip. He’ d shown it to him before he’d started, demonstrating how the current arced between the electrodes when he activated it.

He’d proceeded to activate it all over his victim’s body, leaving burns of varying degrees of severity depending on how many times he touched a particular spot and how long he left the device in place. He had a perverse fondness for his erogenous zones, but didn’t neglect any area completely. Quarter sized blisters dotted his limbs and torso and he’d been raped 4 times before his tormentor drew away from his whimpering, shuddering form.

"You’re close," he whispered, rolling the UNCLE agent onto his back and reaching up to stroke the hair back from his eyes. "So very, very close." He leaned down and kissed him on the lips. "What shall we do now, hmm?" He pulled his legs apart, exposing his most sensitive areas, and knelt between them. "One more little nudge, I think." He bent his victim’s knees for better access.

Ilya wondered what it was to which he was supposed to be close. He hoped it was dying; the pain had long since passed unbearable. He didn’t really notice what Phillips was doing until he felt the tip of the device entering his anus.

"Let’s see now; here?" He poked with the device, and got no response. "Here, perhaps?" he poked another spot, and got nothing. He continued to ask, "Here?" and poke around inside him until Ilya gasped and bucked. "Ah, there’s the spot!" He beamed at his victim as if he’d just found a treasure. He had: his prostate. He poked a few more times to be sure of the location.

"No, please no," Ilya begged, knowing what was coming, and knowing too he couldn’t possibly brace himself for it. "No, please, God in Heaven, not that, not there," he whimpered.

His pleas were an aphrodisiac to Phillips; he thought he’d climax just from hearing them. He activated the device, and his victim’s screams of agony were music to his ears.

# # #

He was still screaming, full volume, when John knocked down the door. Pushing the cook to one side, he pulled the screaming man into his arms. He held him closely against his chest, partly to muffle the screams and partly to reassure him. "Shh, Shh, you’re safe now, you’re safe, my Ivan, my little snowflake," he murmured in Russian.

Only to have his snowflake push him away and annoyedly reply in English, "I am no one’s ‘little snowflake’. My name is Ilya Nickolovitch Kuryakin," his face screwed itself up in pain, "and God in Heaven help me," he started to sob, "I remember." He collapsed against John’s chest once more, sobbing like a heartbroken child. Qui-Gon did nothing to quell the tears until he cried himself out, while Napoleon and Waverly found places on the bed and lent what comfort they could to him.

When he’d regained his composure to the point where he could speak, he told them about his dream. "We need to go back there and take out that nest," he advised.

"Already done, Mr. Kuryakin," Waverly told him, "by the Hong Kong office; it ’s how we first got an inkling you were still alive. They missed Phillips; however, one of his underlings gave us an account of your stay."

It was with great effort that Ilya managed to calm himself after hearing his tormentor was wandering about while they had no idea where. When he opened his eyes, he kept them downcast into his lap. "There’s . . . something more you should know. When he turned off the device I was in so much pain – my nerves acted like wiring, carrying the current to – to – " he gestured to his groin, "the pins – I – I – broke down completely. I told him everything I knew: about UNCLE, about the KGB, about the various organizations we keep track of, everything – anything – to keep him from hurting me like that again." A single sob escaped his control; he ignored it, as he was ignoring the tears pouring down his cheeks, and continued. "I am a traitor," he raised his eyes and looked straight at Waverly, "and I deserve to be sanctioned. The worst part," he whispered, closing his eyes once more in a futile effort to block out the memory, "is that it didn’t work. He pressed it against my prostate and burned me some more, and I screamed and I screamed and I screamed." He started to sob again. "He finally pulled it out and raped me, hard and fast, and oh God it hurt and I just wanted to die so the pain would stop."

All three men reached out to comfort him, but he batted their hands away. "Don’t touch me, please. I just want to be alone right now." He burrowed down under his sheet and pulled his pillow against his chest, burying his face in it to muffle his sobs. "Please, just go."

"Cook will sit with you, just in case," John said, and Ilya nodded.

chapter 11

"Will you sanction him, Alex?" John asked. They’d adjourned to the dining room, and their host had broken out a bottle of champagne brandy to calm their nerves, passing a snifter in to the cook for Ilya.

"The bylaws may force my hand. You should know that; you helped write them," Waverly replied.

"The responsibility clause?" John asked. "I’m not sure it applies in this case." The responsibility clause stated if an agent willingly gave information leading to another agent’s death, he was to be sanctioned and executed at the first opportunity. "How many have you lost?"

"Two we might have to attribute to him," he said.

"It might be academic," Napoleon put in, remembering a report from the Moscow office he’d read a week ago. "The KGB have lost 6 agents in the same timeframe we’re looking at, all in areas of heavy THRUSH activity. They may sanction Ilya themselves, and they’re not known for showing mercy to weakness, or any other cause."

"It’s too much to hope they won’t find out about this, isn’t it?" 'There are several planets within the Republic, and more on the Rim, that are relatively low-tech,' Qui-Gon thought. 'He could probably fit in fairly well on one of them.' Providing he wanted to leave.

"I’m afraid so," Waverly replied, pulling a communicator pen from his pocket. He activated it and said, "This is Number 1, Section 1. Overseas relay and scramble to the Moscow office," and to John, "They should know if there’s been any inquiries made or orders issued concerning Mr. Kuryakin."

When Moscow answered, he asked if the KGB had made any inquiries or issued any orders concerning Mr. Kuryakin, and was told, "Of course not. Who would issue orders for a dead man?"

"If there’s any interest in the deceased, I want to know immediately. Contact me via this channel and scramble transmission. Waverly out." He closed and replaced the pen. "Gentlemen, the hour is late, and there is very little more we can do tonight. I suggest we seek our beds and get what sleep we can. Tomorrow may very well turn out to be a trying day."

# # #

Napoleon turned off his travel alarm and rubbed the sleep from his eyes. '7AM; time to get up,' his mind told him. He threw off the sheet and rose to greet the day. Pulling a robe over his pajamas, he grabbed his shaving kit and sought out the bathroom. A short while later, freshly shaved and showered, he returned to his room to dress. A few minutes after that, dressed in a summer weight suit, he went looking for breakfast.

He followed the smell of English Breakfast Tea ('What did you expect on a tea plantation?' he asked himself) to the kitchen, and was surprised to find his boss at the stove making hotcakes.

"He threatened to cook," Waverly explained, indicating John. "I’ve eaten his cooking. Once. I thought I’d been poisoned."

"You weren’t all THAT ill," John defended himself, "and what else was I to do? My cook’s exhausted from staying up all night. Could you hurry with those? Someone should relieve her before Ilya wakes." He smiled impudently from behind his teacup.

Waverly mock-glared at him as he set the plate in front of him. "Bon appetite, and don’t choke in your haste to eat it."

John opened his mouth to reply and thought better of it, digging into his breakfast instead.

"Good morning, Mr. Solo," the temporary cook greeted him. "Care for some hotcakes?"

"Thank you, sir," Napoleon replied, "but, ah, I think I can manage my own breakfast." He took over from his boss and made his own cakes.

While Napoleon was making breakfast, John was finishing his own. He placed his plate and silverware in the sink (wondering if Alex was going to make Napoleon do the dishes), and went to relieve his cook.

Ilya was awake when he arrived. "Does the condemned man get a last meal?"

John sat on the bed next to him. "You haven’t been condemned yet." He reached up to run a hand through his hair, but the younger man flinched away.

"Don’t."

"Why not?"

"I don’t want you to. Not anymore."

"I’ll be here, if you should change your mind." It was all he could say. He moved from the bed to the chair his cook had vacated when she left for bed. "It wasn’t your fault. Anyone could have broken from that much pain."

"’Anyone’ wasn’t there," he said through gritted teeth. "I was. I should have found some way to die."

"Are you looking for ways to die now?" v "Unnecessary. If UNCLE doesn’t sanction me, the KGB will. They are relentless when it comes to traitors, especially if they’ve lost one or more of their own." His eyes filled with tears. "How many died because I didn’ t? And how many more will die – or have died – because the ones who did aren’t there to save them?"

They were interrupted by a knock on the door. It was Napoleon, bringing a breakfast tray. "Hotcakes, fresh fruit, and tea," he told his partner. "Mr. Waverly said to tell you eating this is not an option. It's an order"

John left the partners at that point, hoping Napoleon would find some way to comfort Ilya. It broke his heart to see him so sad and be unable to help. He walked back to the kitchen and poured himself a cup of tea. After discussing some planting and harvesting schedules with his foreman, he went to find his old friend. He found him on the veranda, smoking his pipe.

"I thought I told you that was bad for your health." The words came out harsher than he’d intended.

"You did," Alex assured him, "but that isn’t what’s really bothering you, is it? How is he this morning?"

"Waiting for someone to come and kill him," John answered. "He feels he should have died before breaking. He won’t let me comfort him." He hung his head, morose, and felt a touch on his arm.

"It’s like that?"

"Yes," he replied. "I came here to get over a broken heart." He briefly explained about Obi-Wan and Mace. "I hadn’t meant to get entangled again so soon, but he was so brilliant, so full of Light. So beautiful. Now his Light is dimmed and his brilliance is bitter ashes, and he waits to die. He pushes me away and won’t let me help. And my heart is breaking all over again, because of it."

chapter 12

Meanwhile, Ilya was pushing his breakfast around on his plate and trying to find a way to ask his partner a damning question. His partner had a question of his own, however, and asked him first.

"Did he seduce you?"

"What?" The question was so far from what he’d been thinking he was caught completely off-guard.

"Did Quinn seduce you?" Napoleon repeated.

"John? No," he replied, finally getting a sense of the question. "It was the other way around; I seduced him. He’s been kind to me, taking me in, paying for the doctors and tutors, trying to help me. Never asking for anything." 'And now I must push him away, so my death will hurt him less.' He asked his own question. "How many agents did I kill?"

"You didn’t kill anyone, Ilya." He made the same move John had earlier, and got the same response.

"Don’t. If you wish to do something for me, there is something I want. Both the British and Soviet military have the same custom in these circumstances. They leave a person facing disgrace alone in a room with a loaded weapon. A short time later there is an accident. It is considered the honorable thing to do." He looked at his partner. "Leave me your Special, and my honor."

"I’m not carrying my Special at the moment," Napoleon replied, "I’d have to go to my room and get it. I’ve got an idea; why don’t you get cleaned up and dressed and you can show me around? I’ve never seen a tea plantation before."

Ilya sighed, knowing what he was trying to do. "All right, but we’ll pick up your Special before we leave the house. The overseers carry pistols in case of cobras or rabid animals." He snatched up some clean clothes and they went to the bathroom.

Napoleon followed him inside. "Did you know more people die in bathrooms than any other room in the house?" he asked.

"Stop it, Napoleon. We both know why you’re here; to keep me from killing myself." At his partner’s stricken look, he relented slightly. "Forgive me; to prevent an accident." He disrobed, showered, shaved, and dressed, aware of his partner’s presence the entire time. Shamed by it. "Shall we go now?" he asked tonelessly.

They stopped by Napoleon’s room and retrieved his Special. "You’d better use the regular ammo; I’m not sure how effective sleep darts are on rabid animals," Ilya advised. Napoleon frowned but did as he was asked.

As they stepped out on the veranda to find their host and tell him where they’d be, a jeep pulled up in front of the house. Two men escorted a third to where their host sat with Mr. Waverly. They trotted over to see what was happening.

The two arrived in time to see one of the men hand John several weapons and explain, "This gentleman wants to see someone called Ilya Kuryakin. He set off the perimeter sensors, so we searched him, his driver, who we detained at the gate, and his vehicle, which also remains at the gate." Napoleon recognized the man, both from seeing him at the gate yesterday and from having worked with him a few years back. He’d retired from the New Delhi office last year.

The man in question, a short, swarthy fellow in a blue suit, looked at Ilya and said in Russian, "You must pay for your betrayal, comrade."

Before he could reply John spoke, also in Russian: "I speak your language fluently; to be allowed to speak to him, you must deal with ME first." Then, switching to English: "Who are you, and why are you here?"

The man began to reply in Russian, and was stopped by his host. "In English, please. Not everyone here has the fluency with your tongue I possess."

He glared at the man but began again in English: "My name is Igor Petrov. I am attached to the Soviet Embassy, with full diplomatic immunity. I have been informed there is a Soviet national named Ilya Kuryakin staying here, possibly against his will. I have been requested to speak to him and ascertain the facts of the matter. This will require me to speak to him privately, possibly in his room. You will return my weapon and allow this."

"Who requested you to speak to him," Napoleon asked, "the KGB?"

The glare shot to him. "That is not your concern."

"You may speak to Ilya if he desires it, " John said. "You may even speak privately, if he wishes. In his room, if he wants. I will return your weapons when you leave, and not before." He returned Petrov’s glare with interest. "Should anything unfortunate happen to him, either while you’re alone together or shortly afterwards . . . did you know I’m part owner of several local fishing boats?"

Petrov looked confused. "I don’t understand. What do boats have to do with anything?"

John and Napoleon both smiled, and neither one was nice. John told him, "Anything that happens to Ilya will happen to you."

Napoleon said, "Except they’ll never find your body."

"Enough!" Ilya interrupted. "In case anyone is interested, I’m quite capable of taking care of myself. Comrade Petrov, if you will follow me?" He turned and stalked off without looking behind him. Petrov followed after giving them a final smug look.

Napoleon turned as if to follow, but John’s voice stopped him. "He won’t appreciate that."

He turned back. "I lost him once. I don’t think I could take losing him again."

"Petrov won’t do anything himself, and Ilya will be told to let him get well clear before he takes any action, " the older man admonished. "He needs our trust more than our watchfulness. He needs to regain his self-confidence; to know not only that we trust him, but that he may trust himself."

Ilya led Petrov through the French doors leading from the veranda to his room. He allowed the man to pass him as they entered, and pulled the doors shut behind him. Without turning around he asked, "How many?" in Russian.

The other man didn’t have to ask how many what. "6 we’re certain of; there may be others."

'6 KGB agents,' thought Ilya, 'at least. How many UNCLE agents? I’ll probably never know.' "They wouldn’t tell me, you know. You at least are brutally honest, and I thank you for it."

Petrov pulled a button from his shirt. "It is a brutal business." He passed it to the other man. "I trust you will wait until I am well clear. Your friends’ threats seemed quite sincere."

"Da," Ilya agreed, "they were. How long will it take you to get off the island?"

"I can be on a flight to Samarkand within the hour." They shook hands, then embraced in farewell, exchanging brotherly kisses.

"I will wait until after lunch. That should give you more than enough time." He opened the French doors and escorted Petrov back to the jeep, watching him leave with an impassive expression.

"What did he give you?" Napoleon asked.

"Answers," was his only reply. "Did you still want that tour?" The other nodded, and they went off together.

They walked around, Ilya occasionally pointing out this or that, but mostly in silence. Finally, he addressed the other man. "Napoleon, you are being much too quiet. Are you angry with me for earlier?"

"No, I’m . . . curious," he replied.

The blond turned to face him. "About what?"

"What it would be like to kiss you."

"Would you be satisfied with just a kiss? I think not, and I’m not sure I want to – or can – go any farther right now. There is also John to consider. I do not wish him hurt." 'Any more than he will be.'

"One kiss, and I’ll never ask again."

"Since you will pester me as long as I refuse . . . " He turned his face up, opening his mouth.

Napoleon took the offered mouth with his own, one hand running into Ilya’s hair as his other arm snaked around his waist and pulled him close. He was gentle and thorough, exploring the mouth with his tongue and savoring the taste like fine wine. The kiss was touched by an edge of desperation, as if he’d only now realized what he’d lost and would never have.

Ilya felt the erection against him and wondered if his partner had noticed his lack of response. It was all he could do to remain passive and not push him away. His mind was full of Phillips kissing him, raping him, and burning him. It became too much, and he starting fighting for release. He broke free and staggered a few steps from the path to drop to his knees and vomit.

CHAPTER 13

Napoleon was appalled. 'Dear God, what have I done?' he thought. He knelt down next to the stricken man, wanting to help but uncertain for once what to do. He was still wondering when he was snatched up by the back of the collar by a very angry John Quinn.

"Take him back to the house," he snarled to the men with him, "and put him in his room. I’ll be along shortly." He pushed Napoleon in their direction, and they grabbed his arms and obeyed.

After they were well out of earshot, one of his "escorts" asked, "What did you do? I’ve never seen him so angry!"

"I think when you get back to your room, you should pack your bags," the other advised. Napoleon silently agreed.

John softly called Ilya’s name before touching him, not wanting to provoke another bad reaction. He offered the canteen without a word, and the younger man rinsed out his mouth before taking a few small sips to quiet his stomach. Only after they’d started back to the house did John ask what had happened.

"He was curious," Ilya explained. "He wanted to kiss me. I knew he wouldn’t stop pestering me until I gave in, so I let him." He stopped for a moment. "I didn’t mind too much at first, but it just felt more and more like – HIM." They both knew he didn’t mean Napoleon. Tears started to pour from his eyes, and he cursed them in several languages. "Why am I weeping like a woman?" he raged.

"Because you’re in pain," John replied. He opened his arms. "May I comfort you?"

He gave him a stricken look. "I don’t know," he whispered. "I don’t know anything, anymore."

His eyes unfocused, and John saw he was going into shock. He put an arm around him and tried to get him moving toward the house. He took a few steps and his knees buckled. John swept him up and carried him. He neither objected to being carried nor did he say a word the whole way.

The doctor was just arriving when John staggered up with his burden. "Blankets!" he snapped at her as he carried his burden into his room. "God, he’s so cold," he told her as she brought the requested linen. His mind was whirling as he attempted to catalog symptoms; had Ilya been poisoned, either by Petrov or his own hand? He updated the doctor as he wrapped the shivering body, and told her of his fears.

"I’ll pull a blood sample, but if it’s what you suspect, it’s probably too late already." she told him. "All we can really do right now is wait and hope you’re wrong."

"Not necessarily," came Waverly’s voice from the door. "There’s a helicopter on its way right now to airlift him to Colombo’s best hospital, and a medical team standing by there."

"No need," croaked the blanket-wrapped form. "I am all right."

"You can’t be certain of that," John said, barely biting back a "my snowflake". "He could have used a slow-acting contact poison. Please, go to the hospital and let them check."

"I hate hospitals." He flinched as the doctor inserted a needle and started drawing blood samples. "All the poking and prodding."

"We’ll get the first part of the poking done here," she said as the noise of the helicopter got louder. She and Waverly went with him when it lifted off.

John saw them off and ordered up the car. Then he went after Napoleon.

"How is he?" the UNCLE agent asked.

"On his way to the hospital," the older man told him. "Didn’t you hear the helicopter just now?"

"On – " Napoleon began, then sat down heavily on the bed.

Fearing the worst, John charged across the room, checking the other man for symptoms similar to Ilya’s. "Do you feel nauseous? Any vomiting?"

"No, I’m just worried about Ilya," Napoleon replied. "What did you mean about him being on the way to the hospital?"

"He collapsed on the way back to the house," John said. "It may be simply shock, or . . . "

The younger man finished the sentence. "You suspect poison. That’s why you were checking me earlier; when I sat down, you thought I’d been poisoned as well."

"I needn’t tell you about slow-acting contact poisons; Petrov may have dosed him before he left."

"And you thought I may have been contaminated by contact?"

"Ilya told me what you did before he collapsed," John said. "If I were a more vindictive person I’d break your jaw; that way, you’d be unable to kiss anyone for at least six weeks. If your curiosity gets the better of you again, " this time it was he who caught the younger man’s eye, "I will, without a qualm and without a second thought."

John’s driver interrupted them, saying the car was ready.

"You’re certain you’re all right?" John asked. To the other man’s confused look, he added, "If you’re ill as well, it almost guarantees Ilya was poisoned. We need to know that as soon as possible."

The trip to the hospital was uneventful, and they spent the day pacing about and waiting for word. John insisted on Napoleon being checked by the doctor, who gave him a clean bill of health. It was early evening before the last of the test results came back; the diagnosis was shock and exhaustion, and the only recommendation was several days bed rest. They wanted to keep him overnight as well, but Ilya threatened to make such a scene they decided letting him go would be better for him. He didn’t have everything his own way, however.

"Why must I be taken to the car in a wheelchair?" he protested.

"Because the alternative is to be carried by me," John told him. "You are NOT walking. You’re ill; quite literally sick and tired. Relax and let us take care of you." He leaned down and whispered, "Let me take care of you."

They bundled him into the car and took him back to the plantation, where he insisted on getting to his room on his own two feet. Which he did, with the two feet of John and Napoleon on either side. They got him safely tucked into bed and left him alone to rest.

Later that night John heard his door open quietly. He opened his eyes to see Ilya gliding across the floor without a sound. Knowing what he wanted, he threw back the sheet and held out his arms. The younger man wasted no time getting into bed.

"Not that I’m complaining," John murmured as they fit themselves together, "but why?"

"I couldn’t sleep," he replied. "The last time I had a good night’s sleep was in this bed with you. You wanted me to rest; ergo, here I am."

"A perfectly reasonable explanation," said the older man. "I love the way you think, my little snowflake. You’ll tell me if you’re having any problems?"

"Da," came the murmured, mostly-asleep reply. His snowflake was asleep seconds later; his even breathing lulling his lover after him.

CHAPTER 14

John awoke at dawn as usual and carefully extracted himself from Ilya and the bed. He paused before beginning his day to look down at the young man sleeping in his bed. He marveled again at his beauty, and wondered how he would fill the emptiness his leaving would cause. Leave he would, and in only a few more days. John was determined to make the most of the time remaining that Ilya (and the doctor) would allow.

He slipped quietly out of the room, across the veranda, and out to a small clearing. Taking a deep breath to center, Qui-Gon Jinn began his morning katas. Beginner levels to warm up, working up to full fighting speed and complexity. Deep meditative routines that cooled down muscles while clearing the mind, working down to a full meditative state. He did an unarmed routine prescribed for Jedi on worlds where lightsabres were either forbidden or unknown, as they were on this one.

As he rose from his meditation, a voice asked, "Do you do that every morning?"

"I exercise every morning, Alex, but I vary the routine. Jedi are required to maintain their physical bodies for as long as possible. Even the oldest of us does some form of exercise, though they may long since have retired from field work." Alexander Waverly was one of the few people who knew Qui-Gon Jinn’s real name and origins, and had kept the secret well. "When do you want to tell your Mr. Solo about the Jedi?"

"Sometime today, I think. Watching you move gives me some idea of how little hand-to-hand combat you taught us." Alex commented.

"It takes decades to master some of those moves," Qui-Gon replied. "I couldn’t do about a third of that routine when I taught you and the others. I‘ve been working with Ilya as I said before; he’s an excellent student. Every bit as good as you were."

"I should think he’d be a bit better," Alex said. "Speaking of Ilya, he isn’t in his bed."

"He’s in mine," the other man told him, "by his own choice. He said he couldn’t sleep when he came to my room last night, but he dropped right off after crawling into bed with me."

"I’d better tell Napoleon where he is, before he organizes a search party." They separated, Alex to find his protégé and Qui-Gon to shower, dress and return to being John Quinn.

Waverly caught Napoleon just as he was about to knock on Ilya’s door, and explained where he was. The younger man nodded and the two proceeded into the dining room for breakfast.

John came out of the master bath to find Ilya awake. "Good morning, snowflake. How are you feeling this morning?"

"Much better," his snowflake said. "Sleeping in your bed must agree with me. Can I get up and eat breakfast in the dining room?"

John sat on the bed and gave him a quick kiss. "No, but you can have a bath – I’ve already filled the tub – while I bring us back breakfast. Alex and Napoleon know where you are, so they’ll probably drop by later to see how you’re faring."

"I’ll remember to dress for company," Ilya deadpanned; he was wearing what he normally slept in since arriving on the plantation: nothing. "Bottom drawer?" John kept various articles of clothing in his room for the young man since they’d become lovers, in closets and drawers.

The older man nodded. "Hurry along before it gets cold. I’ll leave you out a pair before I fetch breakfast; how about the peach silk ones? They look really good on you."

Ilya stopped halfway to the bath. "Real men do not wear peach silk pajamas!" he stated emphatically. "Are my white ones here?"

"Right here," answered John, shaking out the lengths of white silk. "Now, shoo!" Ilya shot him a grin and dutifully shooed.

John chuckled all the way to the kitchen, where he ordered a meal for two and asked it be brought on a tray to the dining room. Then he went there to play host, having tea while his guests ate and chatting amiably about this and that.

"We should tell them both, don’t you think?" Waverly said suddenly.

"I think you’re right," John agreed. "Half an hour, to let Ilya finish eating breakfast?"

"No need to rush," the other man said. "Make it an hour; there’s something I need to discuss with Mr. Solo."

"Mind if I ask what you’re talking about?" Napoleon inquired.

"All in due time," John said as his tray was brought in.

"I can carry this into the bedroom if you wish, sir," the butler said.

"No need," his employer said with a smile, "I have it." He took the tray and departed.

The butler picked up the empty breakfast dishes, refilled their cups, and asked if they needed anything further. After finding they didn’t, he departed as well, taking the dirty dishes to the kitchen.

"There are certain matters of policy within UNCLE which, while rarely brought to anyone’s attention, have been and hopefully will continue to be far more liberal than most of their governmental and corporate counterparts," Waverly began. "Specifically, that a person’s sexuality is his or her own business, so long as it doesn’t involve coercion or partners who for one reason or another are unable to give consent, such as minors, the mentally ill, or non-sapient animals. Before we return to New York, I need to know your feelings on the matter, both in general and specifically as they relate to Mr. Kuryakin."

"I think I just had this conversation with someone else," Napoleon replied. "In general terms, sir, I’ve been aware of certain anomalies of behavior among my co-workers and have turned, and will continue to turn, a blind eye to it. As for my partner, his sexuality doesn’t bother me. I trusted him to guard my back before, and I hope to have him doing so again. May I ask you a question, sir? How long have you known?"

"From the very first; the background investigation potential field agents go through is mercilessly thorough," his boss told him. "In fact, it’s a major part of why the KGB offered him to us; they regarded his sexuality as a liability. Which in plain fact it was, to them. He’s been very discreet with his liaisons. Far more so than others I could name. You had no clue at all?"

"None," the other man said. "As you said, he’s very discreet."

The rest of the hour passed without incident, and when the time came they knocked on John’s door.

CHAPTER 15

John carried the tray into the bedroom and set it down on the table while Ilya pulled himself higher in bed and adjusted the pillows behind him. Seeing what the other man was doing, he brought the tray over and set it on his lap. They spent the next hour eating, chatting, and occasionally feeding each other. When the knock came on the door they were ready, John having taken the tray back to the kitchen and retrieved a large jug of iced tea and tall glasses.

After the two men entered the room, John made a subtle motion with his hand, nearly unnoticeable, which ensured they wouldn’t be overheard. When they were served and settled, Waverly began:

"Gentlemen, what you are about to hear is not to be discussed with anyone, including your fellow UNCLE agents, without the express permission of either myself or Mr. Quinn. John?"

"Some forty years ago, this planet was visited by beings from another galaxy. These visitors were peaceful observers and diplomats, watching at first from the far side of the moon until they could learn your languages and customs. Only when they thought they could fit in did they attempt to make contact with the inhabitants. They quickly learned the politics of this planet and discovered there was absolutely no way they could even begin to consolidate the various national governments. One of the most powerful nations was pursuing a policy of isolationism, refusing to even participate in the fledging efforts of others to form a world government. Technology was practically non-existent, and large groups of people lived in isolated areas, where a single natural disaster would wipe out entire populations without anyone finding out for weeks or months. The visitors despaired they could help this world at all."

"Then one of them, the youngest of the group, came across a small group of people with a dream. They wanted to make the world a better place, and had some pretty good ideas about how to do it. The young visitor took their ideas to his fellows, and they agreed to give them what help they could. Over the decades they found other groups to help, and eventually they established an underwater base in an isolated area of one of the oceans, where they continue to watch and wait for some sign your world is ready for a single peaceful government."

""What, exactly, are you trying to say?" Napoleon asked. "That aliens are manipulating events and organizations for their own ends? Why? How do you know this?"

"You’re one of them, aren’t you?" Ilya accused. "And UNCLE is one of the organizations."

Qui-Gon nodded. "Yes, I was that young visitor, and that group of dreamers were the original members of Section 1. My real name is Qui-Gon Jinn; Alex pointed out it didn’t exactly fit in your world, so John Quinn was born. As for manipulating, all we’ve really done is assist a few worthy groups like UNCLE to pursue their own ends. Alex claimed earlier I helped write the bylaws, but that’s an exaggeration; at most I helped clarify what they wanted to say themselves. Even the technical items we pass on are carefully regulated; each item is individually evaluated before it’s released."

"You still haven’t answered why," Napoleon pointed out..

"It’s rather long and complicated," he replied, and began a basic explanation of the Republic and the Jedi. He followed that by saying, "We discovered a stable wormhole between our galaxy and yours, and it‘s just a quirk of Fate that this is the nearest planet to it which is suitable for humanoids like myself, you, and most of the other races in the Republic."

"Wormhole?"

"It’s a spatial anomaly, Napoleon." Ilya attempted to explain using the bed sheet. "Normally you’d have to go from point ‘A’ to point ‘B’ by crossing the space between." He touched two spots on the sheet and ran a finger between them. "A wormhole’s like a shortcut," he folded the sheet so the two spots were lying together, "folding space so two points which are distant can be reached without crossing the space between. It’s the only way to get to another galaxy in anything remotely like a decent time; even light, the fastest thing in this universe, takes 2.3 million years to reach Andromeda, the nearest galaxy to our own."

"And just how close is this ‘wormhole’ to Earth?" Napoleon asked.

"About 20 light years, in a direction your telescopes have been manufactured not to look," Qui-Gon replied. "I suppose we did do a little manipulation there, but it was December 1938; a few months after that disastrous ‘War of the Worlds’ broadcast. We feared if you found out about us, there would mass panic and mass suicides. Our hyperdrive craft can reach Earth from there in a few hours; don't ask me for specifics as I’m not a hyperdrive engineer."

"You mentioned you and we are humanoids," Ilya said. "How close are we, biologically speaking?"

"You already know that externally I’m indistinguishable from a human," he smiled at the young man’s flush, "and it extends to internal organs as well. Laboratory tests have produced viable embryos using Earthling sperm on ova donated by our women, and vice versa. There’s quite a lot of speculation, in fact, that this planet is a ‘lost colony’ of early explorers who found their way through the wormhole and for one reason or another couldn’t or wouldn’t return. Lord knows there’s enough evidence in various religious texts, or mythologies, depending on what you believe, to support such a theory; from ancient Hindu texts to tales of the De Danaans."

"So you want to stabilize the political situation on Earth –" Napoleon began, but Qui-Gon shook his head.

"We want you to stabilize your politics," he corrected, "on your own. Neither the Republic nor the Jedi are allowed to interfere with a planet’s internal governance, even it’s non-existent."

"Whatever," the younger man conceded. "We establish a world government, you reveal yourselves, and then what?"

"Trade relations, to begin with," Qui-Gon said. "Then we’ll ask if we can establish a space port, possibly on the Moon or Mars. From there we start exploring this galaxy in earnest, taking you along for the ride as Earth will be the jumping off point and administrative area for this galaxy."

"Like New York City was in the 19th century," Waverly put in, joining the conversation. "Immigrants would arrive there on their way to the frontiers in the West. It was and continues to be a center for American and world commerce and finance."

"But first," Qui-Gon added, "we have to get that world government in place. And since we prefer to deal with representative governments, we’re backing organizations that support those ideals. Which is where UNCLE comes in." He raised his head suddenly. "Pardon me gentlemen, but the doctor has just arrived and will want to have a long talk with Ilya. I hope you don’t have anymore questions, as I don’t have anymore time to answer them." He made a gesture with his hand as he spoke and deactivated the hush field which had surrounded them.

A knock on the door heralded the arrival of the doctor, and the meeting broke up. John excused himself to attend some pressing business, leaving the two UNCLE agents alone.

"I trust you realize the need for absolute discretion in this matter," Waverly said. "If you’re feeling the least bit ambiguous, tell me now and it can be dealt with before we leave." He left unsaid it would mean the loss of any chance Napoleon would advance further in his career.

Napoleon paused before answering, considering carefully all the things he’d just learned. Did he trust Qui-Gon? Waverly seemed to think he was trustworthy, and he’d learned a great deal from the man over the years. He debated a few moments more, then said, "You can count on my silence, sir."

Waverly visibly relaxed and let out a sigh. "You don’t know how glad I am to hear those words, Mr. Solo. I feared for a moment I would be forced to find a replacement for you."

The other man looked back down the breezeway to the room they’d just left. "You wouldn’t have had to look far," he said.

CHAPTER 16

Ilya was glad there was some iced tea left; even though it was tepid, it was still wet. The doctor wanted him to go over every detail of his newly-returned memories, examining everything he felt about them. She wanted to know exactly how he felt about Napoleon, why he had let the man kiss him, how he had felt before, during, and after the kiss. When had he started thinking about Phillips; before or after he’d noticed his partner’s erection? She also wanted to know how he felt about John. Had John tried to kiss him, or made any sexual advances, and if so, did his actions trigger the same reaction Ilya had felt when Napoleon had kissed him?

He felt he would talk himself hoarse going over the minutiae of his memories and feelings, but he understood why the doctor wanted him to examine everything in such detail. Putting everything out where he could look at it thoroughly made the worst of the memories easier to face, and he needed to face the horrors of his ordeal to overcome them. He needed to look at his feelings, too, since they gave him clues to how well he was progressing.

She told him she was very encouraged at the progress he was making, even if it seemed to him he’d never be free of Phillips’ influence. She also told him to stop feeling guilty about any deaths his confession might have caused; it was Phillips who’d used the information and Phillips who’d caused those deaths, not him. He told her he’d have to give that theory some more thought. She told him to do that and they’d go over it again during their next session.

Shortly after she left, John came in with lunch for them both. As they were eating, he said, "I asked the doctor to gather up her case notes and give them to Alex so he can pass them on to whoever will be taking over your therapy in UNCLE’s Medical Section."

Ilya looked up from his meal. "When was it decided I would be returning to New York?"

"The minute Alex confirmed you were still alive, I suspect," John answered. "You surely didn’t think he was going to come all this way to personally retrieve you and then leave empty-handed?"

"I . . . suppose not," he said. "I just never really thought about before." He reached out and took his lover’s hand. "I don’t want to leave you."

"And I will be saddened to see you go as well," he said, taking the hand that held his and bring it up to his lips to gently kiss it, "but it’s what you need, and deep inside yourself it’s what you truly want."

"But I want you, too," he argued.

"My little snowflake," he replied, "New York is full of people; you hardly need to tie yourself to a man twice your age. You’ll be fine once you have a little more therapy and start back to work."

"I won’t be able to do field work as long as the KGB has me under sanction," Ilya pointed out. "I might not even make it back to New York alive; they lost 6 agents, and for that kind of thing heads literally roll."

"I’ve been thinking about that, and I think I can work something out with the Kremlin," John mused. "They’re not above trading ‘considerations’ for technology, especially something they could use in their space program." He smiled at the younger man as he gathered up the tray to return it to the kitchen.

John spent the afternoon getting in touch with certain people and arranging certain things, unaware he would soon have something much better to trade.

That night when he slipped into bed, his snowflake had a request: "Make love to me; warm and slow and tender, so I can have the memory when I’m back in New York. No questions," he said, putting his fingers across John’s lips to stop him. "If I feel anything uncomfortable, I’ll tell you. I don’t want anything except moans of pleasure coming out of your mouth for the rest of the night." The older man smiled and nodded, kissing the fingers against his lips.

He decided since the fingers were there he might as well start with them. He drew his lover’s thumb into his mouth and sucked gently, moving on to the rest of the fingers in turn. Lapping at his palm. Kisses across the back of his hand. Up his forearm to the elbow, pausing to kiss and lick the inside. Further up his arm to the armpit, which he nuzzled for the sweet aroma of Ilya. Nibbling his way across his shoulder and up his neck to his earlobe, which he gently sucked. Kissing his way to his full, soft lips, which he covered with his own. His tongue flicked across the lips beneath his, asking permission to enter. Ilya’s lips parted, allowing John’s tongue inside to explore as it would, while his tongue did its own explorations.

His tongue wasn’t the only thing exploring. Ilya’s hands were moving across his lover’s skin, pausing to caress sensitive areas. Nipples. The small of his back. Up his spine and down his flanks. Low on his belly, just inside his hip bones. One set of his fingers toyed with his pubic hair while the other traced the cleft of his ass. John moaned and bucked his hips, trying to make the fingers move to more sensitive areas.

John worked his way to Ilya’s groin with almost painful slowness, kissing, licking, and nibbling his torso and limbs. He paid special attention to those areas which caressing provoked moans, gasps, or other reactions. He wet his lips and locked them on the inside of his lover’s thigh, sucking hard to produce the biggest hickey he could. Ilya yelped and tried to break the suction with no success.

Satisfied with his efforts, he let go and gently licked and kissed the abused flesh. Then he moved on to the best part. He gave his lover’s cock and balls a thorough tongue bath, pushing his knees up to include his perineum and anus. He was making incoherent but pleased noises by the time John kissed his way up his penis to lick away the fluid leaking from it and wrap his lips around the tip. Slowly working his way down to the base swallowing a scant inch at a time. Pulling back to the tip and sucking down the length of it. Slowly making love to it with his lips and tongue, wanting it to last as long as he could make it. Finally granting his begging, sobbing lover his wish, finishing him off while his snowflake howled in passion and swallowing every sweet, salty drop.

While Ilya caught his breath, his lover moved up beside him and took him in his arms. He kissed him thoroughly and then rolled them both over. He decided a limp, sated Ilya was the best blanket he’d ever had. He was certainly something fun to run your hands over. A few minutes later his "blanket" had recovered, and promptly attacked him. Starting at his collar bones, he kissed, nibbled, and licked his way to John’s groin, giving as good as he’d received. Soon it was he who was making incoherent noises as Ilya showed him how good a student he was. He never ceased to marvel at how his snowflake could swallow him to the base without either choking or smothering. How DID the man breathe with 10" of cock down his throat? It was his last coherent thought as his lover worked his magic. Soon he was howling as he came, and Ilya was sucking down his seed like sweetest nectar.

They lay there together for a time, sated and resting, softly touching each other. John noticed his snowflake looked rather pensive and asked what he was thinking.

"You’ll think it’s silly," he replied.

"Not if I don’t know what it is. Please tell me."

"I’m . . . small." He touched himself. "Compared to you."

"You are NOT small! I told you before, I’m an ‘elephant’. It’s why I’m always so careful and slow when I enter you. I’m terrified I’ll hurt you with that monster." He reached down and started fondling Ilya’s cock. "I’m half a foot taller than you, so I’m just bigger everywhere. Your 7" is more than adequate for whatever you want to do with it." He kissed him. "Even if you wanted to make love to me with it."

He felt the cock in his hand jump, and smiled. Kisses and touches developed a sense of urgency as both men signaled their desire to do this new thing. He let Ilya take the lead, only guiding him if he asked a question. He soon learned he’d never been inside another man, and only in a woman a few times, "as duty required. But that’s mostly Napoleon’s job." So he showed him how to prepare a man to be entered, lubricating Ilya’s fingers and sliding them, first one and then two and finally three, into his anus and moving them to stretch himself. He showed his lover by touch where his prostate was, and softly moaned as his snowflake stroked him there to confirm he had the right spot.

Then Ilya was kneeling between his thighs with his slick, rock-hard cock pressed against his opening. He slowly pushed into him, past his sphincter and inside him. John moaned as he was slowly filled with cock and gasped as it brushed his prostate. He enjoyed being filled as much or more than being inside another, and being a submissive "bottom" didn’t bother him in the least.

Ilya discovered he liked the tightness of John’s hot channel; it was a different sensation altogether from being inside a woman or a mouth. He started to move and found he enjoyed the control being a "top" gave him. He shifted a little, and heard his lover cry out as he nailed his prostate directly several times. He speeded up as he realized he was nearing his release, and he felt John take one of his hands and wrap it around his erection. "Make me come for you," he gasped as he stroked himself with his hand. Ilya tightened his grip and matched his strokes with his thrusts as best he could until the body beneath him spasmed as John came, screaming out Ilya's name and spurting semen over both their bodies. The muscles contracting around him caused him to come harder than he ever had, and his scream of pleasure echoed his lover's.

In that moment of bliss and loss of control, John let slip the words he’d promised he would never speak: "Oh, yes, my love," he whispered.

CHAPTER 17

Ilya was so distracted he nearly missed them. His eyes snapped open and before John could hide it, he saw what was there. He was off the bed and into the bath like a shot. John cursed himself for several different kinds of fool and followed.

He found Ilya kneeling on the floor hugging himself. "I never meant you to know," he said.

"I know," came the reply. "That’s what hurts so much."

"My sweet little snowflake," he murmured, wrapping his arms around him, "you’re so easy to love. You’ll find someone else who loves you that you love, too." 'He needs you to do this, you old fool. Cut the cord and let him fly.' "I knew this day would come when I brought you here. You belong on this plantation about as much as a hawk belongs in a barnyard. When you were strong enough I had always intended to launch you into the air and watch you fly away without a backward glance. Free, as you were meant to be." He ignored the howling abyss of his once more broken heart and pushed it into a small corner of his mind.

Before his lover could respond, the French doors were kicked in and three men entered the bedroom. Two were wielding rifles and the third was carrying a pistol. One of the rifle wielders shouldered his weapon and pulled the lovers from the bathroom one at a time while the other held his gun at the ready. Ilya was flung face down on the bed while John was forced to kneel in front of the man holding the pistol.

"Allow me to introduce myself," he said. "My name is Clarence Phillips." He sat down on the bed next to Ilya. "Hello, pet. Did you miss me?" he asked, running his hand over the young man’s back and ass.

"Leave him alone; take me instead," John offered, recalling what Ilya had said about the first time the man had raped him. 'Why didn’t I make love to him as he’d asked? He’d at least be stretched before the bastard raped him again.' His snowflake would be torn again if Phillips took him now.

He seemed to consider the offer a moment, looking at John, the hand paused on the young man’s ass. "No," he said finally, kicking apart Ilya’s thighs. "This will hurt both of you." Then to his victim: "If you resist, I’ll have your lover shot." By now, he was kneeling between the parted thighs and opening his fly, his pistol placed on the bed beside him. He pulled out a massive erection, close to John’s size in length but somewhat thicker through, and stroked it a few times to harden it further. He placed the tip against Ilya’s puckered opening and thrust forward as he pulled his victim’s hips back, burying himself completely in a single thrust.

Qui-Gon noticed the guards were distracted by their boss’ actions and struck at full Jedi speed. He took out both men before anyone had noticed he’d moved and ripped Phillips off Ilya before he’d had time to thrust more than a few times. But the damage was done; blood trickled down his lovers’ thighs and he lay soundless and unmoving. He moved quickly to bind and gag the prisoners, pausing to not-quite-completely tuck Phillips’ penis back into his pants so it was caught in his zipper as he pulled it up. He regretted the need for silence as the muffled sounds of the man’s pain echoed in his ears.

He dressed quickly in black cotton trousers and shirt, pulling out a similar outfit for Ilya, who still hadn’t moved. Wetting a washcloth and grabbing a towel from the bathroom, he washed the blood from his lover as his Jedi senses scanned the house for the other intruders he knew must be there. Ilya had cried out as he’d been violated and neither his partner nor Alex had yet appeared. He sensed five intruders and his two guests in the dining room, and other invaders guarding his resident staff. One of the intruders in the dining room had a familiar aura, and he saw how he’d been betrayed.

"Ilya!" he whispered urgently as he tried to break through the younger man’s shock. "Kuryakin, your partner needs you!" That registered, and the UNCLE agent snatched up the pistol and rolled off the bed. No trace of his snowflake remained; the man before him was a hardened professional who would kill in an eyeblink if he deemed it necessary. Ignoring the pain of his rape, he asked a single question:

"Where?"

"In the dining room." He handed the man his clothes and reached into the back of his closet for weapons, coming out with a pair of UNCLE Specials, silenced and loaded with sleep darts. "Five there and more holding my staff. We’ll have to do this quietly."

# # #

Ram paced and muttered as he waited to present his prisoners to his new master. Quinn had been a good employer until he’d taken the whore to his bed. Such couplings were unnatural and an offense to God. When Phillips rewarded him with Quinn International, he would have to purge those who practiced such perversions from the company.

He was surprised it had been so easy to capture his prisoners. He’d been warned the two were top UNCLE agents, but they’d been swiftly overcome in their beds. Now they sat tied to chairs, awaiting Phillips’ arrival with Quinn and the whore.

"Where is he?" Ram asked again. "It cannot take that long to overpower an old man and a whore!"

"Perhaps you should check," advised Napoleon. "From what I’ve heard, that ‘old man’ works out every morning, and that ‘whore’ is no slouch in the self-defense department, either." Brave words to hide what he was really feeling: the fear of what Phillips might be doing to his partner while he was helpless to prevent it.

"A whore?" he sneered. "Don’t make me laugh! He couldn’t even walk when he got here! He was covered with marks from his unnatural acts! He seduced a good man into perversion!"

"Hardly," Waverly put in. "John’s been practicing that particular ‘perversion’ for decades." The expression he wore as he said it made Napoleon wonder just how he knew.

"You’re disgusting!" he raged. Turning on the younger of his prisoners, he snarled, "And I suppose you’re doing it, too!"

"I only kissed him once," Napoleon admitted, "honest."

It was at that point the lights went out.

CHAPTER 18

Ilya dressed quickly, took the Special from John, and followed him out the opening left from the destruction of the French doors onto the veranda. "What now?" he whispered as they padded soundlessly toward the dining room.

John stopped him with a touch. "I need you to trust me. I’m going to do something you might find uncomfortable, but it will help you rescue your partner."

"I’m already uncomfortable," he replied, "and if it will help Napoleon and Mr. Waverly, do it."

Qui-Gon reached up and laid his fingers on the younger man’s temples, linking their minds. "See what I see, feel what I feel, know what I know. For this short time, look on the world as a Jedi."

His mind reeled as new knowledge flooded his senses and brain, but he quickly adjusted with Qui-Gon’s help. He sensed the men in the dining room as the Jedi did, without needing sight, and knew and agreed with his plans. When they were in position, Qui-Gon used the Force to turn out the lights and the pair quickly fired their Specials, Ilya getting three while the Jedi master shot the other two. The prisoners were quickly released, and with their help they managed to free the staff without casualties.

The former invaders were gathered together in the dining room as Waverly called for an UNCLE clean-up crew to pick them up. Ilya was helping guard them when he suddenly swayed on his feet. John was there in an instant, knowing the adrenaline had worked its way through his system and now shock was setting in.

"Come and lie down; nothing needs your personal attention right now," he softly said as he led the young man to his room. Gently he helped Ilya undress and laid the man in the bed he’d abandoned days before to seek his lover’s, grimacing at the bloodstains on his clothing. "Are you in a lot of pain? Do you want me to call the doctor?"

"No doctor," Ilya replied, "just let me rest. I’ll be all right." John tucked the sheet around him as he fell asleep and sat with him awhile to be sure he was well, removing the link between their minds.

He slipped quietly out of the room and went to find Alex. He spoke to his old friend for quite some time before being granted his request, but in the end he prevailed. When the UNCLE clean-up squad left, one prisoner remained behind.

Waverly, Napoleon and Ilya were in the front yard watching as the prisoners were being loaded for transport to Colombo. Alex turned to his old friend and said, "It’s been good to see you again, John. You should make an effort to come to New York some time."

"I’ll see what I can do," John replied, "but you know how business presses."

"Yes, I do," Waverly said, "and I have to get back to mine. Mr. Solo, we should check the prisoners before they leave." He moved away with Napoleon in tow, leaving Ilya to make his goodbye in private.

The short nap had done him good, and he looked fit and rested standing there in a suit and tie like the young executive he pretended to be. The only incongruity was the sad longing in his eyes. "I will miss you," he said.

"As I shall miss you," John replied, enfolding him in his arms for a last embrace and a long goodbye kiss. Before releasing him he whispered, "I’ve heard from my Russian confederates. They’re quite willing to drop the sanction against you for what I offered them. You should be safe by the time you reach New York."

"Thank you. I would have missed field work, for all that I complain about it." He turned and walked away, returning to the life he’d come to enjoy. John had been right; it was what he’d truly wanted.

# # #

He pulled the car into the warehouse and stopped as he’d agreed. He got out and greeted the man who waited. "Comrade Petrov," he said in Russian.

"Did you bring him?" Petrov asked, wanting to get this over with quickly.

Quinn opened the rear door of the car. "Right here, as promised." On the floor lay Phillips, bound and gagged. "The man who broke your agent and sent the information he gained to his Soviet counterparts, causing the deaths of your agents." He stopped Petrov before he could take charge of the prisoner. "I will need some bonafides your end of the bargain has been kept."

He withdrew a communiqué from his pocket. "This is the official order from Moscow rescinding sanction against Kuryakin. Read it if you wish."

He quickly perused the missive and nodded. "He’s all yours; what’s left of him, that is."

"What’s left of him?" Petrov asked.

"He raped someone I love," Quinn said, "so I emasculated him and forced him to watch his genitals burn. He’s not the man he was, but it shouldn’t affect the medical research I know you intend him to participate in."

Petrov nodded in return and took his prisoner away.

CHAPTER 19

New York: 3 months later

Ilya locked the door behind him and dropped his bags on the floor. His first field assignment since his return to UNCLE had been successful, and he had the normal contingency of bruises to show for it. He stretched aching muscles before picking up his bags and taking them into his bedroom. He then undressed, slipped on a robe, started a bath, went into the kitchen and pulled a bottle of vodka from the freezer which he placed in a bucket of ice. Carrying the ice bucket and a glass, he returned to the bathroom and turned off the faucets as the tub had filled adequately. Doffing his robe, he lowered himself into the water and poured himself a glass of vodka to soak, sip, and think.

Insomnia had plagued his first weeks back in New York; nightmares had forced him to ask Napoleon if he could borrow his guest room the first week of his return. Therapy and lab work had done a great deal to restore his shattered self esteem. Going through a refresher course at the Survival school was required to reestablish his physical fitness, a test he not only enjoyed accomplishing, but passed with flying colors. He also spent time catching up on world events and ongoing situations in the intelligence community.

Sleeping wasn’t the only problem he had in bed. A month after he came back, he ran into a co-worker who was between boyfriends and decided to try having sex. He saw the man sitting alone at lunch, asked if he could sit down and struck up a conversation. They agreed to meet for drinks and dinner after work, and ended up in bed. Things had gone well until he attempted to penetrate Ilya, who had frozen at the first touch of penis to anus and couldn’t get himself to relax by any method. Apologizing profusely, he offered both hands and mouth for his partner’s relief but the man simply took him in his arms and comforted him, saying the rumors must be true.

Ilya asked what rumors and was devastated to learn what had been running through the office grapevine about him. He’d been gang-raped by an entire satrapy. He’d been given drugs that made him a willing and insatiable catamite to THRUSH leaders. He’d gone in as deep cover to learn THRUSH secrets from a highly-placed member of that organization with a taste for blond boys. He’d been brainwashed to think he was a prostitute, and had been selling himself to help finance a THRUSH operation. The prostitution was a cover to find out what was going on or break up the ring. He’d been tortured so badly that when he escaped, he didn’t know who he was and had spent weeks wandering the streets.

He was so shocked by what he’d heard he snatched on trousers and shoes and left, carrying the rest of his clothes. He went home and got so drunk Napoleon had come by the next day to find why he hadn’t come to work or reported in. He’d found Ilya passed out on the couch, and when he woke him, he went straight to the kitchen for more vodka. His partner had physically restrained him until he’d broken down in tears and told him the whole thing about the attempted sex and the rumors. "I can’t go back and face those people," he’d sobbed. Napoleon had called his therapist, who’d come over, spoken to his patient at length, given him an appropriate sedative, and called Waverly to report the setback and place him on a week’s medical leave.

Napoleon had stayed the night and the next day, reassuring his partner while keeping him away from the vodka. Ilya had made a long-distance call to Ceylon, only to be told John wasn’t there and wasn’t expected to return soon. He was so upset the older agent had insisted he take some medication and retire for the night. The next week had been difficult, but Ilya had eventually returned to work. But he avoided both co-workers and sex for some time.

Eventually the rumors had died as newer, juicier tidbits had occupied the minds of the office gossips. He suspected Napoleon’s attempt to juggle three girlfriends at the same time that started soon after his setback was a successful attempt to distract them, and he quietly thanked him for it. He discovered Mark Slate and April Dancer had also added to the rumor mill, and one particularly hot rumor appeared to have been started by Waverly himself!

Two weeks ago he had run into an ex-lover he hadn’t seen in almost a year. He’d always been patient and considerate, and when Ilya froze again he’d held him without saying a word. They’d eventually managed to have sex with Ilya as top, but while it had provided him with relief, it hadn’t done anything more. He left the next morning after breakfast feeling empty and used. At least he now knew he was physically capable of some form of sexual intercourse, which gave him hope for the future.

Two days later he’d met with his therapist, Napoleon, and Mr. Waverly in the latter’s office. His therapist had pronounced him ready for field work, an opinion seconded by the Chief Enforcement Officer. Waverly had congratulated him and sent the newly reunited team on an escort mission. The THRUSH agent in charge had recognized Ilya from his time with Phillips and had considered him an easy target. His mistake; his LAST mistake. The taunts had only served to make the UNCLE agent more determined not to fail. The lessons from John which he’d continued to practice privately hadn’t hurt, either.

What had hurt was the fact John had seemingly dropped off the face of the Earth. Ilya feared he literally HAD left the planet, gone to whatever galaxy he called home. He’d never forgotten the whispered "my love" and longed to hear it again. Coming back to the present, he realized the water in the tub and the vodka in his glass were nearly the same temperature. He grimaced as he polished off his drink and set the glass on the floor. He pulled himself out of the tub and lifted the toggle which opened the drain, letting the water out. He dried himself off, slipped back into his robe, and picked up the ice bucket, vodka, and glass. Then he went to the kitchen where he dumped the ice and water from the bucket into the sink, put the bottle back in the freezer after drying it off, washed the glass and left it in the dishrack to dry.

He searched the cupboards for something to eat, to no avail. He checked the time; still early enough to have something delivered or dress and go out to eat. He was just beginning to debate the merits and drawbacks of both when his doorbell rang. He wondered who it could be as he adjusted his robe, belting it on more securely, and went to answer the door. One look through the peephole almost caused him to faint: it was John! Standing at his door like a dream come true! He needed the wall to hold him up; he didn’t know what to do. Some part of his mind was screaming 'Open the door, you idiot, before he leaves!' His hands fumbled at the locks and then the door was open and there he was, holding a shopping bag in one hand and a wine bottle in the other.

"May I come in?" he asked. Ilya nodded and stepped to one side to let him enter, relocking the door behind him. Seeing the confused look on his face, John said, "Alex told me you’d just returned from your first field assignment today." He smiled at the younger man. "He also said you’d run into some unexpected difficulty and handled it beautifully. I realized you probably didn’t have a thing to eat in your kitchen, so I stopped by this little place I know for some take-out. Or if you prefer, we could put it in the fridge and go out to dinner. Your choice."

Ilya took the bag and bottle to the kitchen and set them on the table, then turned and threw himself into John’s arms. "The only thing I want right now is you," he whispered into his ear.

"Dinner first. You’ll need your strength."

"Is that a promise?" Ilya said with a mischievous grin.

John laughed and kissed his snowflake thoroughly before releasing him to let him unpack dinner while he opened the wine.

CHAPTER 20

Ilya couldn’t remember when he’d enjoyed the simple act of eating dinner quite so much. Of course, it could be the company; John seemed to delight in stealing bites of his food and pressing his own dinner on his partner. He also seemed to enjoy nibbling on said partner; why had he allowed himself to be pulled into the man’s lap? He leaned back into a warm embrace; oh, yes, that was why.

For his own part, John was thoroughly enjoying a lapful of soft, warm Ilya. He’d missed his little snowflake far more than he thought he would. They’d finished their meal and were now relaxing with the last of the wine. He took a sip as he pondered the question Ilya had just asked.

"Why are you in New York?"

"I had some co-operative farms in New Jersey I needed to check on; not highly profitable but something I enjoy having. Part of one of the farms is an ongoing program I established some years ago: bringing troubled youth out of the inner city and into a less stressful environment. Giving them a chance to work toward a visible goal; they reap the profits from the ground they work." He paused to drink another sip of wine. "While I was here I decided to check my New York properties and visit Alex. I asked him how you were doing and he told me you’d just returned from your first job in the field, so I ended up here."

"I thought you were going to let me fly without a backward glance," he said.

"I did," John replied, "and after a false start or two, you ended up soaring. You faced your demons and defeated them." He set down his empty wine glass and stood, setting Ilya gently down on his feet. "We’ve finished dinner and the wine. What do you want to do now?"

"Take you to bed and make love all night," came the reply. He took him by the hand and led him to the bedroom. Once there, he slowly undressed him and they lay down naked together, exploring and reacquainting themselves with each other. After pleasuring each other with their mouths, John started to reach for the lubricant he’d brought, only to be stopped by Ilya. "I’m – not sure I can do that. I freeze whenever anyone tries." He turned away, shamed by having to admit he wasn’t completely whole. Tears leaked from his eyes as he whispered, "I want you inside me so much it’s like an ache inside, but I’m so afraid I won’t be able to let you in."

They decided to make the attempt. John carefully and gently prepared him, causing him to climax by stroking his prostate and penis to relax him completely before trying to penetrate him, to no avail. Fingers and tongue were fine; cocks, no matter how gently brushed against his anus, caused him to clench tightly. Ilya was sobbing and begging him to just force himself in, please, PLEASE, he could take that pain easier than what he was suffering now. It might even make him relax if the first barrier was broken. The very idea of deliberately causing pain was enough to nearly unman his partner.

"I have an idea," he said. Using his fingers and a gentle application of the Force, he held Ilya’s anus open long enough to slide his penis inside him without forcing it. He then withdrew fingers and Force and let it clamp shut. It was so tight it was almost painful, and he held them both completely still until his lover relaxed. "Better?"

"Oh, yes," Ilya sighed. "Love me, please love me," he moaned, moving against him. It was all the encouragement he needed as he began to thrust inside his lover. It was over fairly quickly, but the night had just begun. They spent it together, taking turns cuddling and loving each other, John inside Ilya, Ilya inside John, or using mouths or hands to pleasure each other, finally falling into exhausted slumber in a tangle of limbs.

They were awakened the next morning by the phone ringing. Ilya finally disentangled himself enough to answer it. "Hello?" he murmured sleepily.

"Good morning," Napoleon said over the line. "Insomnia again?"

"No," he replied, "just a visitor who kept me up all night." 'In several senses of the word.' He grinned at his double entendre.

"You should have sent them away," he admonished.

"Who’s on the phone?" John whispered into his unoccupied ear before running his tongue over it.

'Stop that', he mouthed as he spoke into the phone. "Napoleon, it’s John, and he’s still here." He gasped as his lover found something else to play with.

"I can tell you’re busy," his caller said, "so I’ll let you go for now. I just wanted to tell you Mr. Waverly wants us to take the next two days off. Call me when you’re free."

After an exchange of good-byes Ilya hung up the phone. "I have the next two days off. What do you want for breakfast," he asked, "besides me?"

After agreeing to go out for breakfast, they showered together, which turned into a mutual masturbation session. They seemed unable to keep their hands off each other, but managed to restrain themselves in public. As they were eating, Ilya brought up the subject of how much time they’d have to spend together.

"I’ll probably have a new assignment when I return to work. It will undoubtedly take me out of the city; most of my assignments do. How will I find you if you’re not here when I return?"

"Don’t worry about it," John said, wiping up a last bit of egg with a scrap of toast. He popped the toast and egg into his mouth, chewed and swallowed before continuing. "I’ll be in New York through the summer at least." He wiped his mouth with his napkin and took a sip of tea. "In fact, I’ll be spending a great deal of time here for the next several years to come." He leaned close to Ilya and whispered, "I’ve just been placed in charge of Earth operations by the Jedi Council. I think it’s their way of getting rid of me." He drew back slightly to wink. "Such postings are usually lifetime appointments; I thoroughly intend to see this one is."

"You’ll be staying?" Ilya gasped as his words sunk in. He threw his arms around his companion and would have kissed him, but John held him back.

"We’re in public," he admonished, "but you can celebrate later. I certainly intend on doing so. What did you have planned for the day?"

They spent the day shopping: first for groceries for Ilya’s apartment, then just window shopping for souvenirs. They visited art galleries and a museum, and John invited him to his house on Long Island for the night. Ilya recognized it as they pulled into the drive.

"I thought this was an UNCLE safe house," he said.

"Oh, it was," replied John, "is, and will continue to be in the future. Most of the safe houses UNCLE uses worldwide are owned by one or another of my companies. Alex agreed to let me use this one while I’m in New York. I rather like it; the staff are all retired or disabled agents. It’s fully furnished, including the lab in the basement, so if you get bored with me you can work on whatever you can think up down there. You might even get assigned here if you’re guarding someone important."

By this time they’d left the car and entered the house. Once through the door John wasted no time, wrapping Ilya in his arms and giving him a long, passionate, breath-stealing kiss. "You can even move in here; now, or when you turn 40 and retire from the field." They ran upstairs to the master bedroom to make love and freshen up before dinner.

After dinner they sat in front of the fire in the study, watching the flames and talking.

"As much as I love you," admitted Ilya, "I think I’ll keep the apartment in the city. Commuting every morning doesn’t appeal to me that much."

"You’ll always be welcome here, my snowflake, even if it’s just for an hour," John murmured into his hair.

"Why do still call me that?" he asked. "Please don’t tell me you still think I’m fragile or ephemeral or something."

"My love," the older man answered, making his beloved shiver to hear those words, "I never considered you fragile; look what you survived before I found you! You’re my snowflake because like a snowflake you’re both beautiful and unique. I love you. You healed my broken heart and made me whole." He pulled him close and kissed him, then stood, pulling him to his feet as well. They walked arms around each other to their bedroom, to spend the night making love.

FINIS
Hope you enjoyed it!!
Loke