Why Did it Have to Be Me?

by Spikesgirl58

Illya Kuryakin cradled his head and shut his eyes against the throbbing. It was funny. He had never been the sort to get a headache. Napoleon called him a carrier of them. Until lately, that had been a big joke, but not anymore. Illya pushed his glasses up to rub his eyes with his fingers and winced. It felt as if his head would explode or implode, he wasn't sure which. He'd lay his head down on the table if he thought it would help.

"What's wrong, Partner?"

Illya startled at Napoleon's voice. He'd not even heard the man come into the room, much less the house. "You shouldn't sneak up on people." The glasses slipped back down into place with a thunk that made Illya wince.

"Sorry." Napoleon leaned down for a kiss. "I didn't know I had."

A strong smell enveloped Illya. He coughed and waved his hand in front of his face. "And polluting the air as well."

"Natalie was wearing about a gallon of Look out I'm coming perfume tonight. I swear she spends fifty cents per five gallons of the stuff."

"It's pretty potent. Does she bathe in it? And why do you reek of it?"

"She was in a hugging mood tonight." Napoleon took off his jacket and tossed it over a kitchen chair, never taking his eyes off Illya. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing's wrong," Illya answered automatically.

"And now tell me another story. You didn't hear me get home or yelling for you. When I do find you, you are holding your head as if you were trying to keep it from exploding."

Illya gestured to the desk. "It's the new menu. You know what it's like when I'm trying to develop a new one."

"Illya, you are gray. I can see your headache on your face and in your eyes."

"I'm tired. It's late." Illya took off the glasses and tossed them onto the tabletop.

"It's nine o'clock." Napoleon twisted his wrist so Illya could squint at the dial.

"It's midnight somewhere."

"Okay, tell you what. I'm going upstairs to grab a shower. You come up in a bit and I'll give you something to help your headache."

"I am not in the mood for sex, Napoleon."

"Good because that's not what I'm offering. Ten minutes, okay?"

"Sure." Whatever, Illya added mentally as he nodded.

"I mean it, Illya. If your head is hurting that bad, you need to get some rest. Or see a doctor."

"I'll be up in a minute. Just go... and take your reeking jacket with you."

"I thought as much." Napoleon chuckled, scooped up the offending garment and, whistling, walked from the kitchen.

Illya looked over at Buerre Noir, who was busy cleaning herself on a stack of Illya's old menus. "He must have had a good rehearsal," Illya muttered to the cat. She paused, tongue still in mid lick. Despite the throbbing of his head, Illya smiled and pushed himself out of his seat. He made a mental note of where he set his glasses.

A sudden cramp seized Illya's left calf and he grabbed the counter to keep from stumbling. Swearing silently under his breath, he limped around the kitchen. Finally he bent to massage the muscles. He hated getting leg cramps. They seemed to be bothering him lately almost as much as his head.

The cramp passed and Illya hobbled slowly to the refrigerator. Buerre Noir watched him for a moment, just in case he pulled out a can of cat food. When he didn't, she returned to her cleaning

Maybe I'm just hungry, Illya thought, scanning the contents. Nothing called out to him and he finally settled for a glass of milk.

He smiled as the first cold swallow hit his stomach and soothed it. He finished the glass and carried it to the sink, rinsing it out before putting it into the dishwasher. The one thing he hated more than nearly everything else was to wake up to a dirty kitchen. Papers all over the table were one thing; dirty dishes in the sink he wouldn't stand for.

Napoleon walked in just then and Illya glanced over at him from the counter. "I told you I'd be up in just a few minutes."

"No, I came down here for something..."

"What?"

Napoleon looked back at the door. "I can't remember."

"Go out of the room and come back in. That's what I do."

Napoleon nodded slowly and walked out, then returned.

"Anything?"

"Yes, my reading glasses."

Illya smiled and walked to his partner's side to take Napoleon's hand. Wordless, Illya guided the fingers up to Napoleon's head, where the glassed rested.

"Good grief," Napoleon muttered.

"I do it all the time." Illya returned to the sink to resume his cleaning up. "What I hate is making a note to myself so I can remember something and then losing the note."

"And we dance to the short term memory tango," Napoleon sang and tangoed from the room. Illya grinned then and shook his head. How quiet his life would be without Napoleon.

Illya climbed the stairs to the bedroom, pausing about halfway up to close his eyes again. The headache was getting worse if that was possible. He couldn't remember having a headache this bad, except following a concussion. Those were in a league of their own. The very thought was disturbing to Illya and it had crept in slowly like a wisp of smoke.

What if one of those old head injuries was coming back to haunt him? He couldn't causally dismissed the idea, not with what he'd put his body through.

Walking into the bedroom, he glanced over at the bed. Napoleon was stretched out beneath the sheets, glasses perched on the end of his nose as he read some historical tome.

"Finally. Get ready for bed and then I will see what can be done for that headache."

Rather than argue, Illya trudged into the bathroom, studiously ignoring his reflection. He knew he didn't want to see what the mirror was suggesting. It was more than just a headache. Headaches leave after a bit, say with medicine or a good night's sleep. He'd had this headache for a week. The intensity of it was so bad he often saw black spots before his eyes. He'd never had migraines before and the thought of acquiring them now both annoyed and frightened him.

He took more aspirin, then brushed his teeth and ran a wet washcloth over his face and neck. That was enough.

Napoleon flipped back the sheet as he approached and patted the mattress between his legs.

"Napoleon, I am serious. No sex tonight. I'm just not in the mood."

"Just once, Illya, please do as you are told." Napoleon patted the bed again and with a sigh, Illya sat. "Drink this." He pressed a glass into Illya's hand.

"What is it?" Illya sniffed the glass warily.

"A special concoction of my own making. Trust me, it hasn't killed anyone yet. Drink up."

Illya drank and contemplated the taste. It had a slight anise flavor that wasn't unpleasant. He handed the glass back to Napoleon. "Now what?"

"You lean back and let me do the heavy lifting." Napoleon drew him backwards and down until Illya's head rested on one of Napoleon's leg.

Shifting slightly, Napoleon grabbed something from the nightstand and then draped it over Illya's eyes. The cool cloth felt good and then Napoleon began to massage Illya's temples gently.

"Mmmm."

"Both Mom and Josie suffered from migraines and this always seemed to help them when nothing else would."

"I don't have migraines." But he wouldn't argue that it felt good. Napoleon's fingers moved down to a spot beneath Illya's ears. It was so sore it almost ached with even gentle pressure, but almost immediately it began to feel better. He'd be hell bent if he told that to Napoleon, though.

"I didn't say that you did, but you have a bad headache, so it stands to reason if this used to help them with their migraines, it would help you with a plain old headache. Better?"

"Yes." Illya yawned and Napoleon smiled.

Napoleon Solo looked up as there was a tap and then watched the back kitchen door open. Matt stepped in, his red hair an explosion of tight red curls.

"You are receiving visitors?" he asked as Napoleon stood and walked to the coffee maker.

"Visitors, no, family, always." Napoleon poured a cup of coffee for the young man and held it out to him.

"Un sentimento bello, grazi. I'm here to see Chef."

"Sorry, he's not yet receiving."

"Pardon?"

"He's still sleeping."

Matt started to laugh. "This is a joke, yes?"

"This is a joke, no. I sort of slipped him a Mickey Finn last night."

"A Mickey who?"

"Something to help him sleep." Napoleon resettled himself with his cup of coffee and waited for Matt to sit. "Has he been complaining a lot about having headaches?"

"Complaining, no. Having them, nearly all the time it seems. I thought it was the lights in the kitchen, so I had our janitors change them out for something stronger, but that only seemed to make them worse." Matt paused. "When he first started cooking, he would have headaches, but after a while, they went away. Perhaps this is the case now..."

"Except..." Napoleon smiled. "Even when you don't say it, it's there."

"He's never dropped things before."

"When?"

"Two nights ago. We had to discard our dessert platter and re-plate everything. He missed the counter by a good two inches."

"He didn't say anything to me."

"We all downplayed it as we could see how embarrassed he was. He's never done that before." Matt paused and then sighed. "I think he has been sick as well. It is hard to tell."

"He's a closed book at best. Keep an eye on him, Matthew, and when he surfaces I'll tell him you need to talk to him."

"Thank you, Cara, I will." And then the red-head was gone.

Napoleon glanced at his watch and sighed. As much as he would like to let Illya sleep, he should wake him.

He climbed the stairs and frowned. Purposefully, he went back down the stairs and started up again slowly. It was funny how every other stair creaked... then Napoleon made a face. It wasn't the stairs, it was his knee cracking. Getting old definitely isn't for the weak, he decided.

Napoleon walked into the bedroom and went directly to the window, pushing the curtains back and letting daylight stream in.

There was a muffled grunt from the bed and Napoleon walked over to the lump that was the love of his life.

"Wakey, wakey."

"I've killed men for less."

"Then what would you do for a cup of coffee and some lunch?"

"Are we protesting breakfast?"

"No, but since it's nearly one -"

"One!" Illya sat straight up. Then a hand flew to his head.

"Still with you?" A nod in response. "Maybe you have a sinus infection."

Illya grunted as he moved towards the edge of the bed and groaned as he got to his feet. He stretched and half a dozen snaps and cracks followed.

"Do you remember when we made more noise in bed as opposed to getting out of it?"

"Vaguely. I also remember a time when I would wake up after ten hours of sleep and feel as like I'd slept." Illya stumbled to Napoleon and hugged him. "Give me ten?"

"To get to the bathroom or to be downstairs?"

"Both."Illya laughed and then winced.

"You should go see the doctor," Napoleon murmured into Illya's ear.

"You should know better than say something to me with the word doctor attached in any way."

"I'm serious."

"So am I." Illya released Napoleon and stretched again. "I'm fine, Napoleon. I'm better than fine. I'm..." Illya frowned. "It's right on the tip of my tongue. Oh, I hate this!"

"But for the morning breath, I'd tell you to stick it out and I'd look." Napoleon pointed to the bathroom. "Go!"

Illya gave him a mock salute and walked slowly to the bathroom door. "And to think we once made the Earth tremble in fear before us."

"It still trembles, but in laughter now."

Illya walked into the kitchen of Taste and felt as if he'd pulled a soft fluffy security blanket around him. True, there was a culinary student trying to separate eggs and failing, while Rand and Henry argued about which sort of potato made the best hash browns. The dish machine sounded as if it was in labor, there was a stack of crates piled in front of the walk up and Matt was zoned in on a small sauté pan, ignoring the chaos around him.

Wordless, Illya walked to his work station and eyed it before grabbing a rag and the cleaning solution. He was in mid wipe before anyone realized he was among them.

"Chef, when did you get here?" Rand shouted and the culinary student dropped the egg he was holding. It broke rather spectacularly and Henry tossed the young man a rag.

"A few minutes ago. I'm just glad I wasn't a pot you need to be watching." Illya grabbed a clean and dry rag to polish the work surface. "What's our special for tonight?"

"Ah, you said that you would think about it and let us know today, Chef," Matt said softly, glancing around their young helper. "I think it should be something that would require that one some time out of the kitchen. "

"Not working out?" Illya kept his voice low so the student couldn't hear them.

"I have never seen someone so spectacularly unsuited for kitchen work. Even you were more skilled the first day out. We need to put him out of his misery."

"Give me ten minutes and then send him to me." Illya was saddened by the thought, but knew that not everyone was suited for this type of work.

Rocky walked in and waved. "Hey, hey, so what do you say, Chef?"

"Say? About what?" Illya looked from him to Matt and back.

Matt laughed as he grabbed a tub of flatware. "Ask Matt." With that, he was gone back into the restaurant to start setting the tables.

"Oh, Cara, I forgot to ask. Tonight, after work we are going to check out the new club in Sacramento. Would you and your man care to join us?"

"My man has rehearsal tonight and will be ready for bed just as you are gearing up to leave." Illya returned to polishing his work surface.

"And you, Cara?" Matt's voice grew seductive. "The music, the dancing, the energy, you'll come, yes?"

"I'll come, no." He saw Matt's face fall from the corner of his eye and took pity on Matt's sadden expression. "If I did, I would be no good the next day."

"Cara, I remember when you would cook all day and party all night, then we would come home and party more, just the two of us."

"That was when I was trying to out-run something, Matt. I'm not running anymore."

"Then why are you always so tired, Cara?"

Illya stopped in mid wipe and looked at his reflection. He was almost shocked by how old he looked and how tired. It seemed harder and harder to keep up. No, not right. He didn't keep up with the younger members of his staff, they kept up with him. Illya always set the pace and it was always flat out.

He tossed the rag aside and turned back to his business partner. "It's because I work hard at my profession, Matt. I push myself because it's how I am." He nodded to the young man, who was on his hands and knees wiping up egg splatter. "Send the boy back in five."

Illya gritted his teeth and concentrated upon the sauté pan. It flamed and he instantly slid a lid into place to smother the flames. He used to be able to do that in his sleep, now he had to focus on everything he was doing. That only seemed to make the pain in his head worse.

There was a noise and he glanced in that direction. It had been very quiet this evening in the kitchen, at least quiet compared to the usual din.

Matt was whispering furiously with Henry, who was busy nodding and chopping onions. Illya could tell his fellow chef was annoyed about something.

"Matt, what's wrong?"

"Quest'idiota, ciò è il problema (This idiot, that's the problem)." Matt yelled and the culinary student cringed even though he didn't speak English. In spite of his better judgment, Illya hadn't dismissed the boy. There was something in his eyes that Illya felt if he could trigger, the knowledge would flow. Now the trick was holding up long enough for that to happen.

"Please, Matt, in English." Illya massaged the bridge of his nose. "And softly. My head hurts."

"We are out of flour."

"What? How is that possible?" Illya held up a hand. "No, don't tell me as I really don't want to know. I'll go get some. I need some fresh air anyway. How much do we need?"

"At least fifteen pounds." Matt was still scowling at the young man. "He thought it was confectionary sugar..."

"I'll be back in a few minutes." Illya peeled off his chef's coat and pulled on a light jacket. "Don't tell Jesus his lemon tart French cream is ruined. I'll mix up a new batch when I get back. Keep him from leveling the place in the meantime."

Stepping outside the restaurant, Illya took a deep breath and tried to settle his stomach before climbing into his old truck. The truth be known, he was glad to have a break from the noise and heat of the kitchen. Out here is was so peaceful and quiet. He'd like nothing better now than to walk back home and sit on the back porch in the coolness. Of course, he knew the moment he walked into the door, he'd be hard at work on his new menu. No rest for the wicked.

He started up the truck and headed out onto the road. The nearest store sadly was closed, which mean a trip out onto the highway and over to the newly open supermarket.

Headlights momentarily blinded him and Illya blinked furiously. He didn't usually have a problem driving at night, but between his head and his stomach it was proving a challenge.

It got dark and Illya smiled, closing his eyes at the respite. It felt so good to just float... like this.

"Illya? Come on, partner, talk to me."

Illya opened his eyes, startled by Napoleon's voice. He fought the impulse to instantly close them from the glare in the room. Instead, he turned his head away and winced. Now his eyes did clamped shut seemingly of their own accord.

"Sorry. Is this better?"

Illya tried opening his eyes again. This time the room was dim, but not so dim that he couldn't make out Napoleon's profile.

"Napoleon?" Illya looked around and frowned. "Where am I?"

"You're in the hospital."

"What?"

"You blacked out. After you'd been gone for an hour, Matt panicked and called me at the theatre. You went off the road and into a ditch. Thank God the truck went left and not right or you probably wouldn't be here to tell the tale."

"Blacked out?" Illya tried to think. "I blacked out?"

"What do you remember last?"

Illya looked over at the speaker, a man in a white jacket. Obviously he was the attending physician.

"This is Dr. Rossman," Napoleon introduced the stranger. "He was the one who examined you when you were brought in."

"Mr. Kuryakin, your last memory?"

"Um, I was driving to the store to pick up... the flour!" Illya started to sit up, then winced in pain.

"Slow down, Super Trooper, you have some bruised ribs going on there. You're lucky you weren't going fast."

Napoleon placed a gentle hand on Illya's shoulder and pushed him careful back down onto the mattress. "Matt dealt with it. The restaurant is closed now. It's about two in the morning."

"Do you remember driving, Mr. Kuryakin?" Rossman tried again.

"Yes, the... the oncoming headlights were bothering me. Then it got dark, but I just assumed it was a moonless evening."

"It's okay, Illya." Napoleon stroked Illya's shoulder with his thumb. "I know how bad your headaches have been. Matt told me."

"He had no right," Illya started, but knew how lame that sounded. Matt had every right to bring any concerns about the business to their third partner.

"I'd like to do a CAT scan on you, Mr. Kuryakin." Rossman made a quick note on his chart and then lowered it.

"No."

"Illya, be reasonable" Napoleon protested. "You've been having headaches for at least the last two weeks. You've been getting sick and now you've blacked out while driving. There's something going on. We need to find out what it is."

"I'm fine. I just need to get some sleep." Illya tried to roll, but the pain in his ribs stopped him. He must have hit the steering wheel or something.

"Doc, could you excuse us for a minute?" Napoleon's attention never left Illya. After a moment, the man nodded and left.

Napoleon waited for the door to whisper shut and then dropped his hand. "Okay, Illya, what's going on in that blond head of yours?"

"Nothing."

"Apparently so, if you think that ruse might work on me. I know you too well and when you say nothing, I know it's something. Illya, don't I deserve some sort of explanation?"

"It doesn't matter; you couldn't hope to understand. Not anymore."

"Why not?"

"Because you've been deprogrammed!" Illya snapped and then shut his eyes against a flare of pain.

"What does that -"

"You don't remember all the stuff we had done to us! All the times we were knocked out or drugged or beaten unconscious! You can't know the reality because it's been taken away from you. My brain is one step up from hamburger, Napoleon. What if all that has finally caught up with me?" This time Illya did roll in the bed, away from Napoleon, keeping his face hidden. "What if THRUSH has finally won?"

"Illya..." Napoleon started and then he stopped. Illya was right, he realized. He didn't remember much of their days with UNCLE. Vague memories, half forgotten faces and names, that was the best he could come up with—all gone, except Illya. Illya had been the one thing UNCLE left completely intact, at Waverly's solemn assurance. He reached out and stroked Illya's cheek "Illya, we promised each other for better or for worse, remember? So, first, we find out what's going on inside that rock hard skull of yours. And then, no matter what it is, we will tackle it together, just like always. You say I don't remember, but I do. I remember sitting in Medical, waiting for you to wake up. I remember waking up in Medical and yours being the first face I would see. I remember your compassion, your strength and your dedication. Nothing could take any of that away from me."

"I'm scared, Napoleon."

Napoleon smiled sadly, knowing just how much courage it took Illya to admit that. "Then let me be your strength now. Lean on me as you have always permitted me to lean on you. Together forever, no matter what."

Illya sighed. "All right, but don't say, I didn't warn you. Call back the doctor."

Illya sat in the doctor's office, trying to look cool and detached, when in fact he was a basket of nerves. His left knee kept bouncing with anxiety. He pressed a hand against it to hold it still.

"You okay?" Napoleon's hand was cool and reassuring on his.

"No... yes, with you here, I'm okay." Illya smiled. He was okay, just as long as he had Napoleon in his corner. There was a tap on the door and the doctor entered. If he noticed Napoleon's hand on Illya's, he didn't say anything.

"Well, Mr. Kuryakin, I have some bad news for you."

"Thanks for sugar coating it, Doc," Napoleon muttered as Illya closed his eyes in resignation.

Dr. Rossman laughed. "I'm afraid you have a bad case of middle age."

"I have... what?" Illya looked at Napoleon as if to verify the doctor's words. Illya's headache was back and with it, his seeming inability to make sense of things. He'd just nearly pulled an all-nighter with finishing up the new menu and his temper, never good to begin with, flared.

"Your cat scan was clear, your blood work was okay, although your iron count was a little low and your potassium level was so low it was nearly in the danger range. I couldn't find anything physically wrong with you. So, then I went through the interview you did with my nurse and the follow up one that your partner gave us. There was the answer staring us in the face."

"Which is?"

"How much sleep do you get on average?"

"Enough."

"About six hours if he's lucky," Napoleon said quietly. "More on his days off when he lets himself, but that isn't often. There is always something that needs to be taken care of. Lately he's been killing himself with the new menu. If he'd going to help you, he needs to know the truth."

"Since when are you so trusting with doctors?" Illya snapped.

"It's the new me. Now hush."

"And regular meals? Do you eat three meals a day on a regular schedule?"

"No." Illya didn't even try to hedge that answer. He was lucky if he ate twice a day. "Unless you count tasting food and sauces. I taste all night long."

"Hence the name of your restaurant. By the way, we had dinner there over the weekend. It was spectacular."

"Thank you."

"The reality is that you are getting older and your body can't do what it used to. I'm not saying it's time to put you out to pasture, but you need to be more aware of what your body is telling you and listen to it."

"I usually tell it what to do."

"When you were younger, you could. There was probably no end of tasks it could perform and you always had enough energy. Am I right?"

"Yes."

"That was then and this is now. You are still pushing yourself as if you were thirty and you're not. That's why you were getting headaches. You assumed the headaches were brain damage from your younger days, but they aren't. You work in a very hot environment and you don't eat properly.  Hours on your feet, dehydration, stark fear from thinking you're losing your marbles, low blood sugar, inadequate sleep... that's why you blacked out. The headaches can be caused by low blood pressure, hypoglycemia, dehydration, as well as emotional distress..."

"I drink water."

"That's not enough. Water doesn't replace potassium. You lose it and a handful of other minerals through your sweat. You need to eat on a regular basis and you need to get out of the heat and relax for at least several minutes every couple of hours."

"I thought I was getting soft..." Illya murmured, not willing to meet the doctor's eyes at the moment. "I was watching everyone run and it is getting harder and harder to keep up."

"Not soft, just older. You aren't a young man anymore, although I imagine you can still run rings around most men half your age. You need to back off a little and give your body a break. I know it's hard. I can tell you are a man who has never let anything keep him from achieving something. Now to be told you can no longer push quite as hard, well, it can be as devastating a blow as being told you have cancer. However, the treatment options aren't as dire."

"I'll be the judge of that. What are they?"

"What time to do start work every day?"

"Three."

"Start at four. Stop at six and take ten minutes. Eat a little something, drink as much as you can, and give yourself a chance to breathe. Stop again at nine and do the same thing. Less than two hours out of your night and it could mean the difference between working and dropping dead."

"I think you are exaggerating." The pounding in Illya's head disagreed, but he refused to acknowledge it.

"I'm not. People die from not having enough potassium in their bodies. Eventually yours will get tired with all the abuse you're putting it through and it will stop..." Illya raised his head now and stared at the doctor. "It's not easy getting older, I know that. For a long time, you've been able to run harder, work harder, do more with less, but, Mr. Kuryakin, you need to slow down and join the human race."

"Do I?"

"I think out of consideration for your family and friends, you might start thinking about them for a change instead of proving some sort of imagined out grown need to prove yourself."

"Please, Illya," Napoleon murmured. "As a favor to me?"

Illya looked at Napoleon's eyes, so anxious, so full of concern and nodded slowly. "I will do my best."

Illya sprawled out on the bed, slightly depressed and not really sure what to do about it. He was used to being the one in charge. Now, here it was nine o'clock on a Sunday night and he was in bed. He kept his back turned from the bedroom window, not wanting to acknowledge that it wasn't even quite dark out yet.

Moutard jumped up onto the bed, chirped and flopped down against him.

"Well, at least one of us is happy to be here."

"Two actually," Napoleon said, leaning through the bathroom door. "It does my heart, and yours, good that you are turning in earlier now."

"I feel like a naughty child being sent to bed without supper."

"Don't tell me you didn't eat? I made sure—"Napoleon disappeared from view.

"It was a figure of speech, Napoleon, I ate... too much."

"Oh, then are you saying you want to be spanked for being naughty?" He reappeared and walked to their bed.

"If you value the continued use of your arms, I would advise against trying." Illya moved over so Napoleon could climb in and then smiled as an arm snaked around his waist. "That is a much more appreciated use of your limb."

"Oh?" The hand moved down, brushing lightly against Illya's stomach, a finger dipping to trace a path lower. "And how about this?"

Illya arched up as Napoleon's fingers wrapped around his penis, eyes closing as they tightened just enough. "Mmm." He didn't resist as Napoleon applied pressure with his other hand pressing Illya over on to his back. As Napoleon positioned himself, Illya murmured, "Be care...'' and trailed off as a familiar sensation of heat and tightness engulf him.

Napoleon was usually pretty careful when doing this particular movement and Illya was fairly certain it explained Napoleon's longer than usual bedtime prep. He rocked his hips, making little sounds to let his partner know he appreciated the effort.

There were no words spoken, just the sound of two people professing their love in the most intimate way possible. One of Illya's hands found Napoleon penis, rock hard and desperate for release and matched his strokes with Napoleon's.

Suddenly, Napoleon pressed down hard and gasped. His penis throbbed and Illya's hand grew sticky. That was enough for Illya and he followed Napoleon's example, his free hand grasping Napoleon's hip in an effort to keep the man still, eyes clenched tight with the force of his climax.

Where and when Napoleon had gotten the towel was a mystery, but Illya felt the damp terrycloth cleaning him.

"So, what do you think? Early bedtime still stink?"

"I could get used to it."

"Here's something else for you to ease the trip."

Napoleon climbed off the bed and disappeared out the bedroom door. A few minutes later he appeared carrying a tray with two tall glasses.

"What on earth?"

"Banana milkshakes." Napoleon set the tray down and passed one over to Illya as he sat up. "Remember the doc said you needed more potassium."

"I don't think he meant... this is very good." Illya took a deep drink and smacked his lips appreciatively.

"How good?" There was a sparkle in Napoleon's eyes and Illya leaned in, planting a kiss on his partner's cold sticky lips.

"Very good in fact..." Illya carefully placed his glass on the night stand and hooked his arms around Napoleon's neck. "Very, very good..." He jabbed his again hard penis into Napoleon's hip.

"Seems there's still some life left in the old boy." Napoleon's glass joined Illya's.

"I may be old, but I'm not dead yet."

And the dance, one as old as time itself, began again.