Illya tilted his head back into the hot stream of water and let it wash the stress from his body. His back against the cool tiles and his eyes closed as the fantasy took shape. His mind wandered as his body responded to subconscious demands. The intimate touches upon his skin earlier in the evening as he had pressed his body through the throng of dancers, warmed him. He lips parted in a low moan as he thrilled to the feel of Claude’s hand upon his crotch and felt his cock harden in response.

Illya shook the wet blond hair from his eyes and looked down his body. His erection jutted out, flushed and proud against the pale skin and he bit back on a moan. He had denied his own needs for far too long and the warm jets of water streaming across his chest felt painfully like a lover’s harsh caress. He looked down, and watched as the water cascaded over his body and ran in rivers between his swollen pectorals down the ravines of his abdomen.

Almost in a daze, he watched his hand wander across his skin relishing the rasp of his callused fingers against silky flesh. He brushed his fingers against the hardened nubs of his nipples and pinched slightly. The stimulation made him gasp as he closed his eyes and told rational thought to go take a hike.

Wanton desire sparked in his body as he spread his legs and allowed his hand to wander to the erect cock teasing himself with a passing whisper of touch, and then back to roll the heavy balls in their sac. His tongue darted out and he licked his lips, feeling again the press of the bodies and the taste of Doyle’s mouth on his.

Startled by the unconscious admission he tried to analyse the sea of desire that roiled within him and found all he could focus on was the sensation of Doyle’s mouth. He had tasted of tea and whiskey, his lips as soft as silk as his tongue plundered the dark recess of his mouth. Illya moaned and his cock swelled almost painfully at the thought of what those lips would be like on the rest of his body. How it would feel to have those strong hands upon his flesh, to intimately know that mouth again.

The shower door slid open and Napoleon stood and watched in fascination. Never in all his hedonistic days had he seen a more erotically beautiful sight. Illya’s head was thrown back in the throws of ecstasy, his eyes closed as he fantasized. Long lean legs spread apart as he fondled his balls, his full lips parted as he panted with lust. The sight galvanized him to the spot. Illya's body seemed to be carved of pliant alabaster. The raw passion he witnessed in the other man's deep blue eyes stopped his breath.

Illya regarded his lover for a moment and flushed with the knowledge that his thoughts were now obvious to the man before him. As he was buffetted by the winds of a strange euphoria he cast caution aside. He held out his hand and urged Solo to remove the last of his clothes and join him under the hot spray. Napoleon dropped the silk robe and took a breath to steady the wild cadence of his heart and accepted the invitation without hesitation.

For a moment Illya felt his mind move through molasses. It was a curious feeling, a temporal distortion where he watched his own movements and felt them at the same time. The first touch of Napoleon’s fingers across his chest made him flinch.

“Too much,” Illya whispered hoarsely.

Napoleon's soft laughter was unaccountably loud to Illya as he tried to retreat from the tormenting hand.

The American moved closer and pulled the full lips closer to his own. Illya moaned and leaned forward, his heart pounding mercilessly against his chest. The sound of the running water around them suddenly deafening him in the small shower stall. The hot, moist air suffocated him as he gasped and pushed Napoleon away.

“Please,” the words were thick and broken with need as he looked into pools of liquid brown.

Napoleon smiled and moved closer to his prize, his lips and hands never idle as they stroked the tender planes of Illya's body. What small part of the Russian's mind that still functioned screamed for him to wait, that this was not how it should be, but as Solo's hands worked him to surrender completely to the desperate aching need. Suddenly it was as if his whole existence relied on this moment. Now that his sexuality was finally freed and given birth, it could no longer be controlled and reality spiralled away from him. He swooned against his own voracious appetite for the hard body next to him and with a final nod of assent, turned his back to his lover and braced his shoulders against the wet tiles, offering that part of him he kept hidden so long.

He sacrificed himself on the altar of his need and in doing so offered no resistance to his partner.

Stunned by the offer and the pale globes of flesh held open before him, Solo lost all rational will. He pulled the soap down from the dish and began to work it into a thick foam, spreading it across the cheeks of the offered behind, all gentle caresses now gone. Solo’s own need urgent as his cock throbbed desperate for release.

Solo stifled a cry as he pushed his finger through the tight ring of muscle and found it give easily, swallowing him whole in a tight velvet heat.

Illya arched his back into the touch, pleading almost incoherently as he rocked to the sweet torture.

Unable to constrain himself longer Napoleon braced a hand on either side of the blond head and murmured softly into the turned ear, “I love you,” then surged forward impaling the slender form in one long thrust. All breath left the Russian and he sobbed brokenly as Napoleon began to rock gently. For a terrifying moment he felt the hands of his childhood monsters clutch him again and realized that tears ran heedlessly down his face.

The pain in his body sharpened by memory as he willed himself still to accept the steel rod. And then a hand, hard and strong snaked around his hip as lips against the back of his neck began kissing, licking and gently soothing all in each breath.

Illya looked down to see his erection engulfed in a tight soapy fist and despite the pain and fear he began to thrust in time. He clutched almost futilely to his own reason as the body behind him stroked his prostate harder. He screamed as he came into the hand that was milking him.

Two further brutal jabs against the swollen gland and Solo came, emptying himself into the panting body before him. He laid his cheek against the soft hair and pulled the Russian into his arms holding him tightly. He felt his partner’s legs sag beneath him and cursed under his breath as he caught at the falling form.

He turned Illya to face him and meant only to kiss the delicious lips. Instead his heart constricted when he saw the tears streaming down the pale face and the fluttering eyelids. Those formerly warm lips were now pale and almost blue despite the heat of the water around them.

The small frame in his arms began to tremble and murmur unintelligible words as Solo lifted him and wrapped him in a large bathsheet.

“Illya?” he tapped at the side of his face, eliciting no response.

“Illya.” Louder now with real fear in his voice Solo began to assess his partner. No signs of wounds or puncture marks, no strange lesions on the pale skin and he leaned forward to catch a whiff of his breath. No strange smell. Nothing out of the ordinary, yet still the smaller man trembled and cringed unconsciously from his touch.

“Illya!” Solo winced as he struck the side of the face hard, a stinging blow to wake the Russian. Long seconds passed before Illya cracked open a blue eye. The pupils were fixed and dilated, his skin covered in a cold sweat. Solo swore as he lifted the man and hurried across the hall into their bedroom.

“Oy!” Ray called as he watched Solo carry Illya in his arms across the hall.

“Get a doctor,” Solo ordered as he rushed into the room, all the while speaking softly and gently as he dried the pale flesh.

Bodie, on hearing the commotion came bounding up the stairs and unclipped the RT from his belt and spoke rapid fire into the speaker.

Ray entered the room fully and helped Solo tuck the blankets high up under the shivering chin. “What the hell happened?” he scowled at Solo.

“I have no idea. One minute he was fine the next he was on his knees shivering.”

“Doctor is on the way,” Bodie announced as he came to stand by the bed. Illya began to thrash and convulse as small trickle of blood seeped from between swollen lips.

“Drug?” Bodie asked as he added his strength to the throng as Illya began to thrash wildly on the bed.

“No instance of trauma, no puncture marks, no bruises. Unless it’s a contact form.” Solo shook his head perplexed. The heart rate under his fingers suddenly dropped and Illya paled, this time becoming still and limp.

“It looks like Ketamine,” Ray said softly helping Solo roll Illya onto his side and clearing his airway.

“Keta – who?” Solo scowled.

“Ketamine. It’s a disassociative anesthetic. Popular in the dance clubs and as a sex drug,” Ray explained. Solo quirked an eyebrow up at him and stared.

“Oh, drug squad five years,” Ray answered as he got up and searched for another blanket. Pulling one down from the closet he pushed it around the Russian.

Illya began to tremble and shake almost as if he were in shock and Solo found that his skin was ice-cold to the touch. “What does it do?” Solo asked.

“It’s an anesthetic, some of the kids take it for the dance clubs, heightens the senses, magnifies the mood, happy gets euphoric and the like. It’s not addictive unless used regularly.”

Solo stood up and realized he was wearing nothing but a damp towel.

“I’ll sit with him, Napoleon. You should dress.” Ray said gently and with a dark look Solo retrieved his clothes and went back into the bathroom to dress.

As soon as the door snicked shut Illya began to thrash on the bed, his hands curled into fists as he fought the hands that tried to restrain him.

His mind began to clear a little. He felt pain, pain in his body from the recent penetration, pain behind his eyes. He couldn’t see where he was. The room was dark and he was being held down.

“Maht!” Illya called over and over again as he fought the hands upon him and sobbed, the tears rolling down his face again, obscene in their misery.

Bodie sat on the bed and took a wrist in each hand and held him down. “Illya,” he said softly.

Still the single word echoed in the room, “Maht!”

Ray frowned and looked at Bodie and then to Napoleon as he returned. “Mamma, or close to it,” Napoleon answered as he came to sit by the bed.

Ray stepped back away and Bodie released the now-quiet blond.

“Illyusha,” Napoleon whispered as he stroked back the golden hair.

Uncertain of what to expect he schooled his voice to hide the tremor of fear as he gently laid his hands on his lover. Illya endured the first pass of warm flesh on his cold face stoically, battling down a single shudder. The second pass, meant to calm, had the reverse affect. Illya grabbed at the intruding hand and shoved it away almost cruelly. His lips curled into a feral snarl as he crouched back at the head of the bed. His eyes were wide and dilated, his breathing shallow and quick, his body trembling visibly. Then, very clearly, he spoke. The accent was thick and the voice full of rancor.

“Leave me alone, you got what you wanted, now go away.”

Napoleon’s heart sunk as he looked at the terrified man, the words cutting his soul to the quick. He sagged as if dealt a body blow.

Bodie moved forward cautiously and extended a hand to calm the Russian. A low mewling sound came from Illya's throat as he pushed back against the wall, his eyes wide with fear and loathing.

Both Bodie and Solo cautiously moved away and turned as one to look at Doyle.

“Illya,” Ray said softly as he came forward.

The blond sagged, his breathing ragged.

“Illya.” Another step as he approached slowly, keeping his hands wide and away from his body.

Illya tilted his head to one side and closed his eyes for a brief moment. The bed dipped as Ray sat down and held his hands out.

“Illya, it’s alright,” he called softly and Illya uncurled a little more.

Ray sat still and patient as he waited and then with lightning speed Illya launched himself sobbing into Doyle’s arms. Rocking slowly and smoothing down the wayward flights of golden hair he spoke clearly and gently.

“Napoleon, don’t take it personally. I told you the drug is a disassoctiative anesthetic. Most probably he won’t even remember this episode.”

Solo nodded slowly as Bodie left the room to admit the CI5 doctor.

“Chris,” Solo said softly.

“But how? Illya didn’t get close enough to anyone. There is no evidence of trauma and the house was secure when we got home.”

Solo ran his hand through his hair and sighed heavily, resisting by sheer force of will from touching the shaking back of his partner.

“I don’t know. Somehow he managed it.”

Solo nodded once as the doctor emerged and took in the scene.

“Doyle?” The doctor spoke.

“Hello Mark, Ketamine I think, not sure how it was administered.”

“Confusion?” The doctor asked preparing a hypo.

“Yes, fear, confusion, euphoria, sweats, shakes, you name it,” Doyle answered his eyes never leaving Solo’s. “He had a seizure of some kind.”

“Hold him still,” Mark ordered and was rewarded with Solo’s firm hand on his arm before he could administer the drug.

“What precisely are you giving my partner?” Solo asked quietly. Ray having been so close to the UNCLE agent in recent days recognized the danger in the quiet sibilant voice.

“Valium,” Mark announced unconcerned. “We need to stabilize his vital signs, keep him from seizing again. And we need to get him into hospital.”

“No hospital,” Solo said.

“You have an alternative?” Bodie asked coming back in through the door.

“Yes, UNCLE HQ has a fully equipped medical section and it is secure.”

The doctor nodded. “Agreed. But you will have to hurry. Tell me, is Doctor Wilkes still the resident over there?” he injected the clear fluid into the vein at the bend of Illya’s elbow. He slid a stethoscope into his ears and listened carefully to the young man’s heart sounds and respirations.

“Yes,” Solo answered visibly relaxing.

“I’ll get the car.” Bodie was down the steps as the last of his words floated into the room.

Illya lay passive in Doyle's arms, his face pressed hard against the Englishman’s chest, the steady beating of his heart calming him and he drifted off into a dreamless sleep, away from the pain and the prying hands. Away from the hurt and fear in Napoleon’s voice. For a moment he feared that he would not live, that he could never be the same again and then the world went black.