TITLE: The Disturbance in the Force Affair

AUTHOR: Lady Ra

E-MAIL ADDRESS: ladyra11@yahoo.com

RATING: NC-17 although there's not much graphic sex going on

PAIRING: Crossover: H/L, NS/IK

SUMMARY: Crossover with Star Wars and Man From UNCLE. Luke senses a disturbance in the Force and he and Han go in search of the source. Luke finds something unexpected.

NOTES: I took some serious liberties with a couple of Jedi and Sith. Just go with it. <g>. I snitched helpful info from: http://www.starwars.com/welcome/

DISCLAIMER: Star Wars belongs to George L*cas, and Twentieth Century Fox, and anyone else who thinks they own it. Man From UNCLE belongs to, um, I have no idea. But in any case, please, look the other way. Says in a low voice with a small hand gesture: These aren't the droids you're looking for, move along.

DISTRIBUTION: The land of crossovers. No, um, not sure where I'll put this. My site for sure: www.visionsofprettyboys.com

FEEDBACK: Absolutely.

THANKS: This is all Sue's fault. BIG TIME. She forced me to write this. Forced, bribed, ransomed, in other words she made me do it. The fact that she waved this wonderful t-shirt in front of my face and said she wouldn't give it to me until I wrote this story was just plain mean. <g> Okay moving on, thanks to all my wonderful beta's who so willingly throw themselves into the breach for me over and over again. For this story that includes Joolz, Islaofhope, and Susan.

The Disturbance in the Force Affair

"Unidentified air craft, this is the Holloman Air Force Base Control Tower. Please identify yourself immediately."

Han frowned at the radio. "I have a bad feeling about this," he said with a sigh. "Um, this is General Han Solo of the New Republic, flying the Millenium Falcon." He covered the microphone and whispered to Luke. "Do we have any idea where we are?"

Luke was playing with the ship's computer. "On a planet called Earth in the Milky Way Galaxy."

"The Milky Way Galaxy?" Han said with a snort. "Who came up with that name?" He looked at the readouts Luke had up on the screen. "Did we know this place existed?"

Luke grinned. "Only in the old Jedi legends, like so many of the places we've been." He closed his eyes. "Whatever we've been chasing is here. I can feel it."

Han scowled. "For once I'd like these visions of yours to actually come with a name instead of a vague 'disturbance in the force' warning."

Luke rolled his eyes at Han. "I'll find whoever it is, don't worry."

Luke's powers still occasionally sent shivers up and down Han's back, and he had to push through his instinctive resistance to all things mumbo jumbo. But Luke was usually right, and while Han might not like it, he'd learned to trust Luke. He gestured at the radio with a what's-taking-them-so-long wave. Pressing the send button he said impatiently, "Hello?"

Proximity alarms began to sound on the console and Han looked out the window to see two sleek aircraft on either side of him.

"Millenium Falcon," one of the pilots said to him over the radio. "You're to follow us." He waved at Han and Luke from his cockpit.

Han gave him a half-hearted wave back. "Okay," he said unhappily, not having much of an alternative. He might have time to accelerate and get into hyperdrive before they were shot out of the sky, but they'd just have to turn around and come back. Luke was like a dog with a bone once he sniffed out one of his disturbances.

*****

Alexander Waverly spun the table top around until duplicate files sat in front of Illya Kuryakin and Napoleon Solo. The two men picked up the files and flipped open the cover.

Napoleon's brow furrowed. "This reads more like science fiction than a case file, Sir."

Waverly humphed and drew on his pipe. He beetled his brows at it when it failed to light. "I quite agree with you, Mr. Solo."

"You believe this is a Thrush invention?" Illya asked, sending his partner a sidelong glance.

Napoleon flipped to the first picture and grimaced. "How many have died?" The picture was of a burnt corpse. He flipped through the remaining pictures, noting that they were all burnt to a different degree.

"We've recovered six bodies." Waverly attempted to relight his pipe, sucking at the stem.

His nose twitching, Napoleon drew in a breath scented with Isle of Dogs, number 22. "Six? That hardly seems on a par with most of Thrush's inventions."

"They are usually aiming for deaths in the thousands or more," Illya agreed. "Six deaths seems more a matter for the police." He tapped a second photo. "Why burn them? Were they tortured before being…flambéed?" he asked indelicately.

Waverly swiveled in his chair to reach for the slide projector controls. He darkened the room and the first charred body appeared on the screen, the details now gruesomely enlarged.

Napoleon winced again. That was not how he wanted to go. Not that any way really appealed to him, but this was at the top of his let's-not-die-this-way list. He waited for Waverly to reveal all.

"Mr. Kuryakin, I believe this will interest you." Waverly skipped through the next five charred bodies quickly to Napoleon's relief. Then, a page of chemical symbols appeared.

It was too dark to see his partner's face, but he could tell by his stillness that Illya's interest had indeed been captured.

"This is not possible," Illya said indignantly. "There has been a mistake."

"There is no mistake. Five different UNCLE laboratories, all blinded as to the identification of the other labs, came up with the same results."

"That chemical doesn't exist," Illya protested.

"And, yet, those bodies were covered with it," Waverly said calmly, flicking on the lights.

Napoleon blinked then looked at Illya. He did not look happy. "Problem?" Napoleon would no doubt have to grill Illya later for more in-depth information. He'd grill Illya over dinner. If Thrush only knew how easily Illya caved when you held his dessert out of reach, all the world's secrets would be in their hands.

Illya was scowling, flipping through the final pages of the file until he was looking at a paper replica of the image that had been on the screen. "It appears our six victims have been killed with a substance that is made out of matter that does not exist on this planet."

Napoleon waited for the punch line. When it didn't come, he said slowly, "And that means that Thrush has invented something completely new?"

"No," Illya said impatiently. "Thrush can't invent something new like this, Napoleon. Einstein's theory of matter-energy conservation says that matter cannot be destroyed into nothing, and it cannot be created from nothing. There can't just be something new. It would be like taking wooden tinker toys and being able to build a metal skyscraper. One can't just turn into the other."

Napoleon wasn't in a position to argue Einstein's posits with a man with a Ph.D. in quantum mechanics. That was why he'd be grilling Illya later. However, right now, he could play devil's advocate. "Maybe it's just something we haven't discovered before. They're finding new elements all the time."

"They're finding new ways that the basic building blocks of our world have combined themselves, Napoleon. They're all composed of the same sorts of atomic particles, just in different combinations. Electrons, protons, neutrons."

"And those?" he asked, pointing at the paper in front of Illya.

"Particles that don't exist. That can't exist."

Suddenly annoyed by the mystery, Napoleon snapped, "What does that mean? They obviously exist. There they are. They clearly exist; they just haven't been identified until now. They discover new things all the time. Lord knows, I've listened to you prattle on about some of them incessantly."

Illya glowered at Napoleon. "Oh, and your prattling on about your latest conquest or your new couturier is worthy of a media blitz?"

A throat was cleared warningly. Napoleon beat out a brief tattoo on the conference room table. "So, what are we saying here?" He turned to Illya. "What are you saying? And don't say those particles don't exist because they do. Tell me what it means."

Illya looked distinctly uncomfortable.

"Illya," Napoleon said as patiently as he could. It wasn't like his partner to mince words.

Glancing at Waverly, Illya asked, "Did those other UNCLE labs draw any conclusions?"

Waverly shook his head. "No, it was given to them under the guise of a test. I'm leaving it to you, Mr. Kuryakin, to draw a conclusion."

Napoleon watched as Illya tried to figure out what to say. "Spit it out," he finally ordered. "No matter how weird it is, just say it. The suspense is killing me."

With a glare, Illya did as ordered. "Something's been brought here from someplace outside our solar system."

Not sure why this was such a big deal, Napoleon said cautiously, "Okay. So, what? A meteor? I thought meteors landed here all the time."

"Not a meteor."

"Are you saying something was brought here on purpose?" Napoleon said with a laugh. "A spaceship? Aliens?" Surely they couldn't believe that. When Illya didn't smile, Napoleon frowned. "Illya?"

"Napoleon," Illya said slowly, as if addressing a six-year-old. "These people were killed purposefully with something that does not exist on this planet or in this solar system."

"Why can't it be from a meteor that's from another solar system? Why does it have to be something as ridiculous as aliens?" Napoleon didn't understand why Waverly wasn't stopping this conversation. He rarely let bizarre conjecture get so out of hand. "So Thrush, or someone else, found a new and odd element and they've managed to make a weapon out of it. Sounds like something we deal with everyday. Why does it have to have such an outlandish explanation?"

Illya shrugged. "I don't know. I just…I just know we're not dealing with one of our ordinary evil geniuses. I feel something…something I haven't felt since I was…" He shook his head.

Napoleon stared at Illya. His partner was acting strangely. For him to even mention feeling as a matter of proof made Napoleon wonder if Illya had been taken over by an alien. He'd never met anyone quicker to decry feelings as anything but a complication, best to be avoided at all costs. Certainly not something to be used as an argument for aliens. He snorted. "Aliens?" He shot Waverly a look. "Sir?" Time for this conversation to be pulled back on track.

Waverly dimmed the lights. "This was shot on camera three days ago. A security camera captured the last death."

Enthralled, Napoleon watched the footage. A man in his early thirties, if Napoleon had to guess, dressed all in black, civilian clothes but with the look of a uniform about it, approached the hapless victim, a man who looked, coincidentally, a lot like Illya, reading intently while sitting on the side steps to some building. It was dusk, and perhaps the young man had been waiting for a ride. In any case, he was oblivious to his surroundings, to both the camera monitoring the area and to the older man sneaking up on him.

The stalker glanced around, as if to ascertain that he was alone, his eyes catching the camera lens at one point. Napoleon almost recoiled from the look in his eyes. They were hungry and merciless and made Napoleon's skin crawl.

For a moment, the man's eyes seemed to glow, and then he lifted his hands and directed them toward the victim. Arcs of blue lightning burst from his fingers encasing the young man in a smoking wreath of what seemed to be electricity. The victim let out a soundless scream and arched in pain, before falling down the steps to the concrete below, smoke actually rising from his body.

Napoleon hoped to God he was already dead, because the man kept firing the lightning into his body until he was nothing but a burnt out corpse. Forcing his eyes off the victim and up to the killer, he saw a look of disappointment on his face. The killer shook his head and moved into the shadows until all trace of him was gone.

None of it made sense to Napoleon. He covered his eyes when the lights came back on, both to give his eyes a moment to adjust, as well as to grab a few seconds to find some composure. That had been chilling to watch.

Finally he looked at Waverly and Illya, saw that Illya seemed as shaken as he by the film. "What did he want?" Napoleon finally asked. "Why that man, that victim? And why did he shake his head. It's as if he didn't get what he wanted."

Waverly put his pipe in the large ashtray in front of him. "That's what you gentlemen need to find out. A preliminary search has revealed no rhyme or reason to the deaths. Nothing seems to have been stolen; none of the victims appeared to be related in any way."

Napoleon tried to put his thoughts in order. "This thing he does, whatever weapon he's using, that's the source of this unidentified matter?"

Illya nodded. "It must be. Their bodies are coated with it. It contains an energy signature unlike anything I've ever seen."

"So, the new atomic particles create the different energy?" Napoleon clarified, liking this whole thing less and less.

"Yes. It's as if," Illya started to explain, eyes buried in the pages of mathematical and scientific gobbledygook in front of him, "we're seeing a small version of an atomic explosion, except with these new particles. It creates something entirely novel."

"Like a new compound," Napoleon said. "Hydrogen and oxygen combining to make water."

Illya shook his head.

Napoleon sighed. How did he know it wouldn’t be that simple?

"Think of the tinker toys example, Napoleon. Any compounds on Earth, including any substance from any meteor that's been found, are made of tinker toys. Some are the round parts, and some are the long stick-like parts, but they're all made of tinker toys." He tapped the file. "This substance would be like a tinker toy was merged with…" He stopped, clearly stymied.

"Silly-putty?" Napoleon offered. Illya had been fascinated by silly-putty. Had spent hours studying it in his labs. For all Napoleon knew, it was the basic building block of their newest explosives. If he saw a remnant of the Sunday comics in some of the malleable stuff, he'd know for sure.

"Silly-putty," Illya agreed.

"Aliens?" Napoleon offered facetiously in return. The murderer was creepy, but Napoleon hadn't seen any tentacles, antenna, or anything particularly more fearsome than some of the crazed megalomaniacs he and Illya were often hunting.

"You saw the film, Napoleon. That lightning came from his hands."

"No, it didn't," Napoleon scoffed. "It only looked like it did. He had something up his sleeve." He turned to Waverly again. "Sir, surely you don't think we're dealing with aliens?"

"I don't know what to think, Mr. Solo. I believe that Mr. Kuryakin is right in identifying this as a new substance. I suggest you both keep an open mind. As you know, there's a branch of your government that fully believes in the existence of alien life."

Yeah, Napoleon thought to himself, the quacky branch. He shut his file and picked it up. "Illya and I will start profiling the victims."

Waverly waited until Illya had gathered up his file before sending a new one circling around. "Here's the information that's already been collected. Whoever this man is, and whatever weapon he's using, he must be stopped. That will be all, gentlemen."

That was something Napoleon completely agreed with. He stood, collecting the second file. "Thank you, Sir." He headed out, Illya right behind him.

Once they got into the hallway, Napoleon said, "Aliens? Illya, wild conjecture isn't your usual style."

Illya shot him an uncomfortable look.

Illya's discomfort intrigued Napoleon. He would definitely be withholding dessert until he made his Russian canary sing. Without saying another word, Napoleon and Illya went down to the research section.

*****

The interrogation hadn't gone well. As they were pushed down the corridor, Han snapped out, "We're telling you the truth."

The man who had been doing the questioning didn't seem to care.

"And where's my ship?" Han demanded.

No answer.

Luke tried. "It's important you free us so we search for the man we have come to find. He can do your world significant harm."

"So you say," the man said. "He might tell us a different story."

Han rolled his eyes. "Oh, sure. Good idea. Go look him up."

Then a door was open and two of the guards pushed Luke into the room. Two more guards kept prodding Han down the hall. He balked. "Hey, hey, keep us together." As the door shut, he yelled, "Luke!"

When he felt a gun prod his side, Han swung around pissed enough to do something stupid.

"Han," Luke's voice said in his head. "I'm fine. I'm just being put in a holding cell. We can keep in touch through our bond."

Han pulled in a deep breath to find some control. He always forgot about that. They were usually together these days, so they didn't use it that often, except occasionally, and memorably, in bed. That thought made Han grin.

He felt Luke's mental grin in return, no doubt having picked up Han's sexual thought.

He was prodded again. "All right, all right," he said irascibly, letting them move him down the hall. A few doors down, Han was led into another room and invited to enter the holding cell within.

Once inside, he sat down and looked around. The holding cell took up one half of the room. There was a cot with a blanket and pillow, a urinal behind a half partition, and a small table with two chairs. The open part of the cell was lined with thick metal bars.

"Great accommodations," Han said silently to Luke.

"They're frightened of us, Han," Luke said. "They were hiding it well, but I could sense it. They think we're aliens."

Han scoffed out loud. "Us?" He ignored the sharp look he got from the guard watching him.

"I don't think they've ever had visitors from another planet."

"With the type of technology they have? That doesn't make any sense."

"I know. Just be careful what you say. I'd just as soon not end up on some vivisection table," Luke counseled.

"Yeah, I hear you." Han stretched out on the cot. "Wish you were in here with me."

"Is your cot as small as mine?"

Han grinned. "Yeah. But that's never stopped us before."

Luke laughed across the bond. Han loved Luke's laugh, inside or out. He loved that he could make Luke laugh, as his lover usually took life way too seriously.

"Are you being guarded?" Luke asked.

"Yeah," Han said.

"That might stop us from trying out your cot," Luke teased. "Unless sex with an audience is an unexplored kink of yours."

"I'm willing to try anything once as long as you're involved," Han said with a mental leer. "Besides, it might be enough of a distraction for us to get out of here."

Another laugh. "I don't think I'm quite as willing to put you on display," Luke said with a possessive air.

Han totally didn't get why Luke thought everyone wanted Han when, if anything, everyone wanted Luke, but Han enjoyed the ego stroke nonetheless. "Yours and only yours, buddy," he reassured his lover.

Pleasure swept across the bond.

Han grinned again. The guard was looking at him suspiciously. Han didn't care. "Can't you do your mind whammy thing and get your guard to bring you in here?"

"I hate to make them trust us even less," Luke said.

"I guess," Han said. The mental link was great, but touching was better. "As long as we're stuck here, I guess I'll take a nap."

"Good idea," Luke said. "I'll keep watch."

Trusting Luke as he trusted no one except Chewie, Han closed his eyes and tried to relax.

*****

At dinner that night, Napoleon watched as Illya got down to the serious business of eating. He knew better than to start pumping Illya for information on an empty stomach. People had died for less.

Once the Russian's pace began to slow down, Napoleon asked, oh-so-casually, "What do you think about this case?"

Illya glanced around suspiciously, as he always did, as if sure the wait staff were Thrush spies which, Napoleon allowed, they could be. After satisfying himself that no one was listening, Illya shrugged.

Napoleon rolled his eyes. Dropping any pretense of casualness, Napoleon insisted, "Something about this case is bothering you and I'd like to know why."

"Isn't this case bothering you?" Illya asked with some exasperation.

"No," Napoleon said firmly, "because I don't believe in aliens from other planets. I seem to be the only one who hasn't taken leave of his senses. There's another explanation for all of this."

"Maybe," Illya said dourly.

Napoleon was going to order every dessert on the menu and then refuse to let Illya eat any of them. It was risky--not as risky as interfering with Illya's entrée--but it would be worth losing a finger or two if Napoleon could get Illya to talk. "Just tell me."

"You'll laugh at me."

"Probably," Napoleon admitted. He leaned forward. "But it won't be the first time your weird Russian hunches have paid off and saved our lives. So spill."

Illya let out a long beleaguered sigh and put down his fork, which had a nice piece of steak skewered on it.

Napoleon stared at the steak. If the case was putting Illya off his food, it was deadly serious. Suddenly, none of this felt amusing anymore. "Illya."

"When I was young…" Illya began hesitantly.

Napoleon kept any expression off his face. Illya never talked about his childhood.

"After…the war began, I…" Illya drank some of his water.

As this was so unprecedented, Napoleon wasn't sure if he should act interested, or feign disinterest by going back to his meal to better prompt his friend. While he probably knew Illya better than anyone--something Napoleon took great pride in--there was much of him that remained inscrutable, something that irritated Napoleon to no end.

"The gypsies took me in when my fam…when my home was destroyed."

Napoleon took a sip from his glass of chardonnay, staying silent.

"There was an old gypsy woman there who spoke of people from far off lands--" Illya stopped, looking at Napoleon suspiciously.

Normally this is where Napoleon would already be grinning. But he wasn't this time. "Keep talking."

With another narrow-eyed glare of warning, Illya continued. "She spoke of people who could use their minds to harness the kind of power we saw in that clip. People who could control the minds of the weak-willed, who could move objects with just a thought."

"If she knew of these people," Napoleon said cautiously, not wanting Illya to clam up, "doesn't it make sense that they were from around here? I mean, not here, New York, but here, Earth?"

"This woman, she was different. She felt different," Illya said, a faraway look in his eyes. "She said I was different."

That much was true. "Illya, how old were you?"

"I know what you are going to say," Illya snapped, "that I was too young to know what she was talking about, that she was telling stories to scare the children, that my memories cannot be trusted. But this is not the case. She knew these people. She said they were the peacemakers, the clear voices in a time of madness and confusion. I think she was one of them."

Napoleon pursed his lips, tapping them with the knuckle of his left index finger. "You think this old gypsy woman was an alien from another planet? And that's what made her different? Did she think you were an alien, too? Is that what made you different?" Napoleon knew Illya had a fanciful side, but this was a bit much, even for him.

Illya gave him a mulish glance and took a vengeful bite of his steak. "I knew I shouldn't have told you," he said.

"Well, come on, Illya," Napoleon protested, "What would you say if I started talking about ghost stories I heard around a campfire and asked you to take them into account as we were working on a case?"

"You wanted to know what was bothering me," Illya bit out, "and I answered. Next time I'll know better."

"Wait, wait," Napoleon said backtracking, holding up his hand in a we-come-in-peace gesture. He'd totally blown this. Illya would never tell him anything again. "Wait. You're right. And I appreciate the confidence. Just tell me this, how do we use this memory of yours to help?"

Brow still furrowed in annoyance, Illya shook his head. "I don't know."

"Do you remember her name? What happened to her? Is there a way to do a computer search?" Napoleon was sure it was a wild goose chase. He'd get as much from doing a computer search on Hansel and Gretel.

Illya looked confused for a moment, then in pain. He closed his eyes, rubbing at his temples.

"Illya?" Napoleon said. "Are you all right?"

His friend was getting paler by the second, his eyes shut tightly, forehead furrowed in pain. It was clear he wasn't all right at all.

"I'm taking you home," Napoleon said, waving for the waiter, getting out his wallet. He threw a few bills down, knowing it was more than enough, and then got Illya standing. Barely. "Are you sick? Have you been poisoned?" They ate here all the time, a predictable behavior that was discouraged by UNCLE, but they both loved the food here. It was possible someone had been watching the place looking for just such an opportunity.

"No," Illya grunted out.

Napoleon took him at his word. Illya had been poisoned enough to know how it felt. He slung Illya's arm around his shoulder and his arm went around Illya's waist. Together, they made it out to the street where Napoleon hailed a taxi. Chances are the taxi driver would simply assume Illya had had a little too much to drink, which worked for Napoleon.

Once situated in the cab, Illya began to grow feverish, sweat beading on his face. "What's happening?" Napoleon whispered to him. "What's wrong?"

"Why can't I remember?" Illya slurred out. "Ya ne panimayu."

Napoleon translated. "What don't you understand?"

"Napoleon?" Illya was shaking.

"I'm here," Napoleon reassured him, desperately wishing he had some idea of what was going on.

"Te liubliu teya," Illya whispered.

"What?" Napoleon said in shock. Had Illya just told him he loved him? Or was Illya dreaming, maybe even hallucinating? Maybe telling an old gypsy woman that he loved her. "Illya."

Never had Napoleon allowed himself to even think about the possibility of something more than what he had with Illya. Napoleon was not a foolish man and pining for something he could never have was the act of a foolish man.

But if there was a chance, if Illya, in a moment of weakness, had revealed his true feelings to Napoleon, Napoleon would start pining to his heart's content. And once Illya was feeling better, Napoleon's heart's content would be having one Illya Kuryakin in his home and in his bed.

They arrived at the brownstone where both Napoleon and Illya lived. Napoleon, with the cab driver's assistance, wrestled Illya from the back of the cab and through the front door to the elevator. Napoleon paid the man, including a hefty tip, grateful for his help.

Illya was still out of it. Sweat was pouring off of him, and he could barely keep his eyes open. Napoleon was tempted to call UNCLE and have a doctor come to look at him.

"Luminara," Illya muttered.

"What? Lumin what?" The elevator arrived, and Napoleon essentially shoved Illya on to it. He pushed Illya against the wall of the elevator and tapped his face. "Illya. Snap out of it. Talk to me. Illya!" he said roughly. "I'm about ten seconds away from calling a doctor."

"No," Illya said, his eyes opening. "No." They immediately closed again.

That was less than helpful. Illya wouldn't want to see a doctor if his body was flayed open and his intestines spilling out onto the floor. "Then tell me what the hell is going on," Napoleon insisted.

Napoleon's apartment was closer, so after the elevator door opened on the fourth floor, Napoleon half assisted, half carried Illya down the hallway. He propped him up against the wall as Napoleon fumbled with his keys and then entered the alarm code.

Once inside, Napoleon deposited Illya on the couch. He went into the bathroom to wet a cloth, which he brought back and used to wipe the sweat off Illya's face. Illya opened his eyes again. "Napoleon?"

"Yeah, it's me."

"Dushka moya," Illya muttered.

"My soul," Napoleon said softly. "Who are you talking to? What are you seeing?" As much as Napoleon wanted the words to be about him, he had no idea if they were. "Is this still about the old gypsy woman?"

A look of fierce concentration on his face, Illya forced his eyes open. "It is as if something is keeping me from remembering."

"Remembering the gypsy woman?"

Illya nodded. He took a deep gasping breath as if he'd momentarily forgotten to breathe. "Every time I try--" This time he just gasped.

Napoleon didn't need him to say anything more; he could see for himself the pain on his friend's face, the sweat breaking out again, and the tremors through his body. "What are you trying to remember?"

"It keeps slipping out of reach," Illya said through gritted teeth. "Like a dream."

"You said Lumin something. Is that important?"

A shudder ran through Illya's body. "Yes. Say it again," he demanded.

"Lumin," Napoleon said.

"Luminara," Illya forced out. "Her name was Luminara Unduli." Then his body arched off the couch, and he let out a cry of pain.

Napoleon moved to the floor, placing his body as a buffer so Illya couldn't fall off the couch. He reached within his pocket for his communicator, not caring anymore if Illya didn't want to see the doctor.

Before he could assemble the metal cylinder, Illya let out another cry, and his eyes flew open and rolled back in his head. His body was wracked with convulsions.

"Damn it," Napoleon snarled, looking for something he could put in Illya's mouth. He started ripping his tie off.

A vase on Napoleon's mantel burst into pieces.

Napoleon cursed under his breath, angry that he hadn't searched his apartment when he'd first arrived. He knew better than that. Despite Illya's convulsions, Napoleon yanked him to the floor, trying to protect him. He pulled his gun out of its holster and took a look around to see who was shooting.

A glass paperweight on the small table to the left of the couch exploded.

Napoleon ducked to avoid the glass shrapnel, covering Illya as well. He'd only had time for a quick look, but he hadn't seen anyone in the apartment. He looked at the window, but the heavy curtains were closed and there was no indication anyone had shot through them.

Then, several light bulbs shattered, followed by quite a few pieces of Napoleon's crystal. The coffee table Napoleon was lying next to began to shake.

A very odd and unsettling idea began to take root in Napoleon's brain. He glanced down at Illya who was still shaking.

The coffee table nudged his back.

Eyes wide, Napoleon looked at it to see it was several inches off the ground. Napoleon shifted to a crouching position, feeling the need to be able to run like hell if the need arose. A picture of his army unit fell from the mantel, and Napoleon could hear the glass crack. The lamp on the small table by the couch fell off, and Napoleon could see it was because the table was also hovering in the air.

He crouched down by Illya and slapped him lightly on the face. "Illya," he said loudly. "Wake up."

Illya groaned, whispering, "Barriss." Then, "Dooku."

Napoleon tried to translate either of those words but came up cold. He slapped Illya harder. "Illya!"

Nothing.

Getting up, Napoleon strode to the kitchen and filled a glass pitcher with cold water; Napoleon could only be glad it hadn't been damaged. Already dreading Illya's complaints, Napoleon threw the water at his partner, drenching him.

Illya yelped and spit out water. The coffee table and end table both landed with a loud series of thumps. "You back with me?" Napoleon demanded.

Wiping his face off, Illya looked at Napoleon in complete confusion. "What happened?" He looked around at all the shattered glass.

"That's what I'd like to know," Napoleon said, sitting on the couch. He held out his hand to assist Illya up so he could join him.

"Were we attacked?" Illya asked, feeling for his gun.

Napoleon chewed on his lip for a moment. "As much as it pains me to admit it, really, really pains me, I think this was you." He gestured at the apartment. "I think you did this."

Illya stared at Napoleon as if he was certifiable. Maybe he was. But Napoleon sure as hell didn't have another explanation. Hoping he wasn't going to send Illya back to wherever he'd just been, Napoleon cautiously asked, "Can you remember her now?"

Arms wrapped around himself as if chilled, Illya nodded. Then he frowned. "Yes. Luminara Unduli." Then he frowned. "But I couldn't before. I remembered that story she told us when I was a child, but when I tried to remember her name or what she looked like or what happened to her, all I saw was blackness."

Napoleon felt chilled, and he wasn't the one who was wet. He got up and, going to his bedroom, retrieved a warm sweatshirt for Illya. When he got back, Illya had already stripped out of his jacket and shirt and he took the sweatshirt gratefully, putting it on quickly. "Thank you."

Next, Napoleon fixed them a couple of drinks in unbroken glasses from his kitchen. He didn't know about Illya, but he sure as hell needed one. The speed with which Illya accepted his drink and had half of it consumed, told Napoleon that Illya was as disturbed by this as he was.

"Tell me about her," Napoleon said, after taking a healthy swallow of his scotch.

"Her name, as I said, was Luminara. And she wasn't old, at least not physically. But you could see in her eyes that she'd lived a long time. She had a tattoo here," Illya touched the area under his bottom lip. "A diamond pattern."

"You said Barriss and Doku or something like that. What does that mean?"

"It was the name of the man she traveled with. Barriss Offee." Illya's eyes grew dark with worry. "Napoleon, he died the same way as the others."

"Others?"

"The pictures, the security tape. He was burned the same way."

"Are you sure?" Napoleon asked, wondering how on earth this all fit together.

"I saw him," Illya said flatly. "I didn't remember until right now. I saw the man who did it, and I saw the dead body."

There was a haunted look in Illya's eyes, one more memory to add to the slew of them that Illya carried around. Napoleon had an absurd desire to go back in time and take better care of the extraordinary child who became the extraordinary man sitting in front of him.

"She touched me," Illya said, a faraway look on his face. "She told me she'd been foolish to hide, that the war she'd run from had found her. She said the name of the man who killed Barriss was Dooku, said he was Sith." Illya's brow furrowed. "I think that's what she said. Yes, Sith. Then she told me to forget. That it would protect me. That if she survived, she'd return for me." Illya touched his temples. "I remember her touching me here."

"Did you ever see her again?"

Illya shook his head. "No. She buried Barriss and left that night. When I woke up the next day, I didn't remember any of it other than the stories she'd told us on earlier nights. She was just gone." Illya brought his knees up to his chest, hugging them tightly, looking like the young child he had been, waking up to find someone else he'd grown to care about had left him.

Not sure how it would be received, but somehow helpless to resist, Napoleon found himself wrapping his arms around his lethal partner to offer comfort.

There were a few seconds, as Illya stiffened, when Napoleon thought he'd pay for his temerity with his head, but then Illya relaxed and dropped his forehead to Napoleon's shoulder, letting Napoleon hold him close.

Napoleon rested his cheek on the top of Illya's blond hair and allowed himself a secret fantasy that he could do this whenever he wanted. That he could touch, and hold, and then take Illya into his bedroom and tumble him down onto the bed.

It couldn't last, of course, and sooner than Napoleon wanted, Illya withdrew from Napoleon's arms. There was an awkward moment but then Illya looked around the room and frowned. "What did you mean when you said I did this? How?" He looked at his hands as if expecting to see blood there.

Napoleon shrugged, crossing his arms over his chest as if it might fill the hole the absence of Illya's body pressed against his had caused. "You started convulsing and, bam, things started exploding."

Illya shot him a look.

"The tables were floating, too," Napoleon said calmly, enjoying the pole-axed expression on his partner's face. Not that Napoleon felt any calmer. Over dinner Illya had been talking about people with the power to move things with their minds. Now it looked like Illya was one of those people. Either that, or Napoleon was losing his mind.

The look this time was outright suspicion. "What are you doing?" Illya asked. "Why are you saying these things? Is this some sort of joke because of what I said earlier?"

Napoleon didn't miss the flash of hurt in Illya's eyes. It made him want to hug the man again, but he didn't think Illya would go for it this time. "Illya," Napoleon said seriously. "All I know is we heard about a case today that clearly upset you. Over dinner you spoke of people with powers to manipulate the minds of others and move things around. Then, you got sick. You were almost delirious in the cab, telling me you loved me in Russian--"

Napoleon paused in his narrative to see how that announcement went over. Because he was looking for it, Napoleon saw the fear, consternation, and hope cross the Russian's face before Illya pulled himself together and replaced it all with one of his stone-faced expressions.

Interesting, Napoleon thought. Illya hadn't denied it or said it meant something else. He continued. "Then, I got you here, and you were muttering names, and still saying sweet nothings to me or whoever you thought you were talking to," Napoleon amended.

"What did I say?" Illya asked, the words torn out of him.

"Dushka moya," Napoleon answered. "Did someone from your childhood call you that?"

Illya hesitated but then shook his head, his blue eyes on Napoleon's. "You said I started convulsing?"

Napoleon accepted the distraction. "Yes. Then, like I said, first the vase went, then the paperweight. Then the crystal," Napoleon added with a frown, looking over at the china cabinet. He couldn’t see what the damages were from where he was sitting. With any luck, it had sounded worse than it was. "That was when the tables started flying."

"Have you looked for wires or explosives?" Illya asked, ever practical, and certainly not willing to accept that he was responsible.

"No," Napoleon conceded. He got up and moved to the fireplace, mindful of glass crunching underfoot. There was no sign that anything had been used to cause an explosion. Moving to the china cabinet, he opened the door carefully, catching a couple of items that were perched precariously. Five goblets had shattered, which had in turn broken several plates. Three of the twelve glass panes were cracked. Not as bad as Napoleon had feared.

He turned to find Illya checking out the feet of the coffee table, frowning and looking very unhappy.

"Did you find something?" Napoleon asked.

"No," Illya said darkly. He righted the coffee table. "I do not understand."

Napoleon shut the cabinet; he'd clean it out later. "Can you remember anything else this woman said to you? Did you see this Dooku person who killed that Barriss fellow? Were any of these gypsies related to you? Was she related to you?"

Illya let out an unhappy snicker. "What are you saying, Napoleon? Are you suddenly believing in aliens, and thinking that I'm one of them?" he asked derisively. "I'm as human as you are."

"I know you are," Napoleon assured him, sitting on the couch near to where Illya was sitting on the rug by the coffee table.

"So what's this about? Why are you saying I did this?" Illya asked as his arm made a half circle around the room.

"Give me another explanation, then," Napoleon suggested reasonably.

"Why are you being so calm about this?" Illya demanded irascibly.

"I have no idea." Napoleon thought about it. "Nope. No idea. Maybe because it's you and I--"

"You what?" Illya prompted.

"I trust you. I know you."

Napoleon could see the quick flash of gratitude in Illya's eyes, but then they narrowed. "This is absurd. I am no different now than I was yesterday."

Napoleon pursed his lips and stared at all the broken glass. "A little different, maybe." He pointed at the table. "See if you can move it."

Illya shot him an incredulous look. "Napoleon, I cannot move things with my mind."

"Someone did," Napoleon argued. "And I'm pretty sure it wasn't me."

"Maybe we were both drugged," Illya suggested. "Maybe we are dreaming."

Dreaming? That was possible, but if so it was the realest dream Napoleon had ever had. But if it was a dream--. "Hmm," Napoleon said, staring at Illya. "Who is your soul, Illya Nickovetch Kuryakin?"

Illya's eyes widened. "What?"

Napoleon moved down to the ground so he was sitting right next to Illya. "Duska moya. Why did you say that?" He reached up with one hand and brushed Illya's disheveled bangs to the side. "Who is your soul?"

Like a deer in headlights, Illya froze, staring back at Napoleon.

Napoleon let the backs of his fingers slowly move down the side of Illya's face, past his temple, his cheek, his jaw, and then his neck, where Napoleon let his hand stay, fingers resting on Illya's bounding pulse.

There wasn't a sound from Illya. He swallowed; his Adam's apple shifting up and down.

"Am I your soul?" Napoleon asked, taking some encouragement that Illya hadn't retaliated in any fashion. Anger, frustration, annoyance, all those emotions would have had Illya standing, pacing, possibly leaving. But the emotions keeping him here, keeping him still, making his pulse pound, those were of a different sort. Napoleon spread his fingers, his thumb brushing the area of Illya's chin right below his bottom lip.

Illya's lips parted just enough to let out a small sigh. The blue in his eyes was being eclipsed by black.

Boldly, Napoleon let his thumb trace Illya's bottom lip. The man had lips any woman would pay money for.

This time the lips parted further with a moan.

Napoleon was instantly, achingly, hard. He pushed his thumb in between Illya's lips, let out a groan of his own when Illya's tongue tasted it. "Am I your soul?" Napoleon asked again, softly, his face only inches from Illya's. "Because you're mine," he whispered, pressing a kiss to the corner of Illya's mouth.

That small kiss snapped Illya out of his paralysis. He lunged forward, pushing Napoleon to the ground.

For a mind-numbing frightening second, Napoleon thought Illya was going to kill him. Or try to kill him. Napoleon wasn't sure who would end up living if it came down to a fight to the death between them. He hoped never, ever to find out. But then Illya's tongue was in his mouth, and Illya was grinding down on Napoleon's erection, and Napoleon realized this was an entirely different kind of fight. His favorite kind.

*****

An hour later, for some reason, Luke and Han were put back together in another room that was still meant to keep them in, but was more of a conference room than a brig. Someone had come to talk to them about their weapons, specifically the light saber. Luke kept the explanations simple after ascertaining that their questioner knew nothing of the Jedi. Han just kept asking about his ship.

When they were finally left alone, Han scowled, "They better not have done anything to the Falcon."

"I don't think they know what to do with us at all," Luke said. "I’m guessing they're calling for someone with more authority to come and speak with us."

"Or dissect us," Han said glumly.

Luke shook his head. "I'm not feeling that they mean us harm. I can tell they're frightened, excited, that some of them don't believe us, but I'm not sensing anything hateful."

Han rolled his eyes, hands gesturing around the room. "I'm sure they're watching us right now."

"They are."

"Sure you want to be telling them this stuff about you?"

"You mean that I can sense their emotions?" Luke asked. When Han nodded, Luke shrugged. "If the New Republic and Earth are ever to be allies, we can't keep secrets."

"Yeah, maybe," Han said grudgingly, "but I like your brain where it is. I'd just as soon it not end up in some jar someplace with electrodes connected to it."

Luke grinned at Han although it quickly turned into a frown. Unexpectedly, he felt a new disturbance in the force, not the one that had brought him here. He closed his eyes.

"You pickin' up something?" Han said worriedly.

"Yes." Luke reached out trying to learn more.

*****

Napoleon let out a groan as Illya slid into him. They were still on the floor by the couch, and Napoleon hoped like hell he'd remembered to lock the door. Then, as Illya withdrew and thrust back in, Napoleon didn't care anymore.

"Bozhe moi, Napoleon," Illya gasped out as he plunged in hard enough to force Napoleon inches along the carpet. He'd have knee and elbow rug burns for sure. He was just glad there wasn't any glass in the immediate area.

"God's got nothing to do with it," Napoleon gasped out in return, pushing back against Illya, loving the feel of Illya's body draped over his, Illya's teeth grazing his neck. Then, when Illya reached around and took a firm grip on Napoleon's cock, Napoleon changed his mind and bellowed, "God," and came over all over Illya's fingers and his very expensive carpet.

Illya began to fuck him in earnest, pistoning in and out of Napoleon's body. Napoleon didn't notice anything at first because he was still seeing stars from his own orgasm, but when the coffee table brushed against his hand, it was hard to ignore.

The table was moving again. He heard something slide off the counter in the kitchen and smash to the floor. Just as Illya impaled him one more time and then stopped, groaning, coming deep within Napoleon, a thunderous crash signified that his television had just met its untimely demise.

Illya collapsed on top of Napoleon, completely still and, fortunately, everything in his apartment stopped moving at the same time. Napoleon couldn't help letting out a short hysterical laugh. His life had seemed so normal--at least as normal as life ever got for a spy--this morning.

Illya regained consciousness and growled happily.

Napoleon grinned. Only Illya could growl happily. He pushed the coffee table away so Illya had room to roll to the side. Illya opened his very sated blue eyes and smiled at Napoleon. "Did I hear something?"

With a snort, Napoleon rolled his eyes. "Nothing gets past you, master spy, does it?" He gestured at the table. "It happened again. The table moved, something in the kitchen broke, and the TV is dead."

Illya's eyes opened wide in consternation, and he lifted himself up on his hands to glance toward the corner of the room where the television now lay on the ground, large shards of glass an indication that the picture tube had broken. The sated look was gone, replaced by one of panic. "Napoleon--"

Illya looked like he was about to bolt, so Napoleon grabbed his arm. Sorry their afterglow had been so spectacularly ruined, Napoleon sat up, wincing a little, both for his sore ass and for the continuing damage to his rug. He'd send it out for a cleaning.

"We'll figure it out," Napoleon promised. "There's a reason for what's happening. We'll get up, take a shower, have something to eat," assuming his kitchen was habitable, "and we'll go over everything again."

Illya dropped his head and closed his eyes, looking defeated.

Napoleon leaned over and wrapped his arms around Illya, holding him close. Whatever was going on, he and Illya would face it together. He was relieved when Illya held him in return.

Then Illya stiffened in his arms and sat back, shaking his head. His brows were furrowed in confusion.

"What is it?" Napoleon asked, looking around nervously, thinking he needed to pack away what remained of his fragile valuables until they figured out what the hell was going on.

"Did you hear that?"

"No. Hear what?"

Illya might have looked defeated a moment ago, but now he looked frightened. There was only one time, in Napoleon's memory, when Illya had looked frightened, and he'd been drugged to feel that way. "Illya, talk to me."

"I must be going insane," Illya said in a worried tone.

Napoleon shook his head. "You're the sanest person I know. Tell me what happened?"

"I heard a voice--" Illya stopped and looked around the apartment with a suspicious eye. "You truly heard nothing?"

"I didn't hear any voices except yours and mine," Napoleon assured him.

"You must check me for any possible implants," Illya said. "I don't know when Thrush did it, but they must have put some sort of device in me to make me hear things and--" he stopped again, making a frustrated hand motion that took in the damage around Napoleon's apartment.

"What did the voice say?"

Illya let out a sigh. "It said, 'Hello, can you hear me, who are you?'"

Napoleon frowned. "That doesn't sound like someone planning on using you to take over the world."

Sagging back against the couch, Illya sent Napoleon a rueful smile. "No, it doesn't. But then it means I am going insane, hearing voices inside my head."

"Sorry, I don't buy it," Napoleon said, standing, holding out a hand to help Illya up. "Let's get cleaned up."

Illya accepted the hand and, once up, took a moment to fully appreciate Napoleon's naked body.

Napoleon preened under his obvious admiration. And he returned it. Illya's body was perfect. Leaning in he kissed his partner on the lips, delighted he could do so now.

It was quite a while later before they finally made it into the shower.

*****

Luke was out of it for so long, Han got nervous. He shook Luke, saying sharply, "Luke, snap out of it."

Blinking his eyes, Luke stared at Han. He looked dumbfounded.

"What is it?" Han shifted closer to him on the couch they were both sitting on.

"I got in someone's mind," Luke stammered out. "The way I get in Leia's, in yours. He was wide open to me."

"What does that mean?"

Luke shook his head, his eyes casting around the room as if to find an answer somewhere in the plain room they were held captive in. "If I didn't know better, I'd say he--" Luke licked his lips nervously, "that he was family, related somehow. You and Leia are the only two I can speak to that way."

"I'm not family," Han pointed out.

"Close enough. I know you, know your mind, you welcome me there," Luke said with a loving smile.

"Who was it?"

"I don't know. I was unexpected, though. I frightened him."

"Is he who we're here for?" Han asked.

"No. No, I can still feel that there's someone here who's strong in the dark side of the Force. But this new person, he's strong, too."

"Start over, Luke. What records do you have that show any of the Jedi have come to this planet?"

"There's not much. Most of the Jedi records were destroyed in the Clone Wars, but I found two references to a planet in this solar system, and as this is the only inhabited one, it must be this one."

"So who came here? Do you know?"

"Luminara Unduli, and possibly Count Dooku."

"Count Dooku?" Han asked, not recognizing the name.

"He was Darth Tyranus."

Han whistled. "Palpatine's Sith apprentice before your father?"

"My father killed him," Luke said with a sigh. "Dooku was a well-respected Jedi before embracing the dark side."

"What was he doing here? For that matter, what was Luminara doing here? Why come to a planet that no one's ever even heard of?"

"Maybe that's why," Luke offered. "Although, if I had to hazard a guess, Dooku came here to hide something, what, I don't know. Luminara wrote a little more in her journal. She found this planet accidentally; she was often pressed into service on far-flung worlds. She liked it here. She, hmmm." Luke stopped talking.

Han rolled his eyes. People who said he was hard to get information out of had never had to deal with Luke. He had this annoying tendency to start thinking mid-stream and go off to la-la land. "Luke." Then louder, "Luke!"

"Hm? What?"

"You were talking about Luminara," Han prompted.

"She wrote something in her journal that I thought I'd understood. I did the same thing when Yoda said it to me."

"Don't make me smack you around, kid," Han mock-threatened.

"Sorry," Luke said with a wry smile. "She wrote in her journal that the Skywalker child might end up being the Jedi's only hope."

"You figured they were talking about you?" Han asked, knowing that Luke, had indeed, been the Jedi's only hope.

Reddening, Luke nodded. "Of course, I didn't have access to her journal until the war was over, and the New Republic was in place, so I never gave it much thought. Yoda told me there was another Skywalker, but I thought he meant Leia. So did Ben, but maybe Ben didn't know."

"Didn't know what?"

"Maybe my father had another child. Maybe Dooku brought him here, and maybe Luminara knew about it as well."

"You telling me that you have a brother somewhere on this planet that you never knew about?" Han said in disbelief. "Aren't you reaching a little?"

"Of course I'm reaching," Luke said in exasperation. "But I'm sure there was no love lost between my father and Dooku. Dooku had a long established power base, but he must have seen Anakin as competition. By the time Leia and I were born it would have been too late for Dooku to do anything, but if my father had had another child by some other woman before he married my mother, Dooku might have taken it, planning to use the child against Anakin."

"You're spinning quite the fairy tale," Han said dryly.

"Then you explain why I could feel him so well," Luke countered. The only explanation I can come up with is that he's related to me. I know Amidala didn't have any more children. She died giving birth to me and Leia."

"Maybe whoever this guy is, he's just really strong in the Force."

"If he was trained, I never would have been able to get in his head."

"So he's untrained," Han explained reasonably. "You've been finding untrained potential Jedis on almost every planet we've gone to. Why should this place be any different?"

"I never feel them this strongly. I can usually only sense beings of tremendous power." Luke glanced at Han. "But I can always sense Leia. And you."

"How about the other guy, person, whatever?" Han asked. "Can you still sense them?"

Luke closed his eyes and nodded. "They're close to each other." His eyes sprang open in alarm. "I think he's hunting the one I just mind-touched." He grabbed Han's arm. "We have to help him."

Han lifted his hands in a what-do-you-want-me-to-do-about-it way. "We're sort of stuck here, Luke. That lock won't open for me." Although, it would open for Luke. Han thought about the story Luke had just told him, not sure he bought it. A brother? A half-brother, he corrected himself.

Just then, the door to the room they were in opened and an older man entered, wearing a heavy topcoat and a fedora. He had bristling eyebrows and smelled of pipe tobacco. Two armed soldiers accompanied him.

Han and Luke stood up.

"Gentlemen," the man said, "my name is Alexander Waverly. I'd like a few minutes of your time."

*****

Napoleon and Illya had redressed and were in the kitchen eating dinner. Fortunately, it had only been Napoleon's wooden fruit bowl that had crashed to the floor and it was essentially unharmed, although some of the fruit hadn't been so lucky.

Illya was, not surprisingly, refusing to talk about it. Not the sex part. He was, surprisingly, more touchy-feely than Napoleon expected. He kept stroking Napoleon, kissing him, groping him. Napoleon was finding it hard to stop grinning. To be let inside so effortlessly was heady.

Maybe Illya was so willing to indulge in touching because, compared to talking about having some sort of kinetic power and being somehow connected to their latest case, touching was easy.

"Illya," Napoleon tried again.

"It is some trick," Illya said for the tenth time. "We will bring in more sophisticated equipment and find how this apartment was rigged."

Pursing his lips, Napoleon considered his stubborn partner. "Let's put the minor earthquakes to the side for the time being," he suggested. "You still can't deny that somehow this case involves people you once knew."

Illya looked like he wanted to deny it, but he sullenly nodded.

That was a little progress. "So how do you suggest we find out more about this gypsy woman? Do you think there's anyone alive who might remember her?"

A quick flash of pain crossed Illya's eyes. "They are all dead," he said flatly, ending that conversation.

Both of their communicators went off. Napoleon reached his first. "Solo, here."

"Mr. Solo, is Mr. Kuryakin there with you?"

"Yes, he is. Do you wish to speak with him?"

"That's not necessary. I believe him to be in some considerable danger. Please keep him under surveillance at all times."

Illya looked distinctly put out about that.

"May I ask why?" Napoleon inquired. Mr. Waverly could be annoyingly closed mouthed sometimes.

"This case has taken an interesting turn. I'm having a courier bring some files to you for review. I'll expect you both in at 0700." Waverly closed the connection.

At that moment, the buzzer rang. Illya reached for his gun and moved to the door. "Who is it?"

"Mandy Stevenson," came a woman's voice.

Napoleon stood to the other side of the door, gun out, while Illya opened it. He saw Illya relax and open the door fully. Mandy gave them both an appreciative look and handed Napoleon the file.

"Did you peek?" Napoleon asked her with a grin, holding up the file.

She gasped. "Never."

Napoleon's grin grew wider. "Thank you, my dear. I'd invite you in but--" He held up the file.

"Right, right," she said seriously, although she looked longingly within.

"Good night," Illya said, and shut the door in her face.

"Illya," Napoleon chastised.

Illya shrugged his shoulders and took the file from Napoleon, moving to the kitchen. He broke the seal and pulled out a stack of photographs. Napoleon joined him and as he saw the pictures, he felt a chill go down his spine.

"Are these the other victims?" Napoleon asked. Stupidly, while they'd been looking at the backgrounds of all the victims, Napoleon hadn't bothered to search for pictures. It had never occurred to him that it was their appearance that tied them together. They all looked disconcertingly like Illya. Just like the man they'd watched die on the footage in Waverly's office.

Illya spread out a map of the world that had been included in the file. The killings were heading their way. In fact, the last one, the one they'd watched, had occurred in New Jersey. The first one had been in Kiev. "Is he looking for me?" Illya asked calmly as if it were an academic question.

"Either that or he hates blue-eyed blonds," Napoleon said back. "Waverly seems to believe he's after you." It wasn't like Waverly to hand out cautions without good reason.

Illya studied a still of the killer. "I don't recognize him." He looked a little closer. "Then, again--" his voice trailed off.

"Then again?"

Illya squinted his eyes, staring intently. "It is not possible."

Napoleon wanted to smack him. "Illya, just about everything that's happened today isn't possible, so let's just move past that, all right?"

Illya shot Napoleon a disgruntled narrow-eyed glare. "It can't be him. It was almost thirty years ago. He'd be much older."

"One of those people you were talking about earlier?" Napoleon guessed.

Nodding, Illya considered the picture again. "I was very young, although," he said with a don't-dare-contradict-me look at Napoleon, "I have an excellent memory."

Napoleon grinned. "No arguments there."

"But from what I can remember, this could be the man I saw kill Barriss, but as I said, thirty years have passed since then. It can't be him." He shook his head in disgust. "I should have recognized him when I saw the footage."

Maybe, Napoleon thought. Or maybe that woman, Luminara, really did do something to Illya to make him forget and seeing the film had forced the memories free. Farfetched, yes, but nothing about this case was ordinary.

"Okay, so either the man has aged incredibly well, or he's a look-alike," Napoleon said. "Regardless, it must have something to do with what you saw as a child. It's too much of a coincidence to be anything else."

Illya reluctantly nodded. "But if it is because I saw a man who looked like this kill someone, why wait thirty years to eliminate a witness? I was only a child and far easier to kill back then."

That was a grisly thought that made Napoleon wince. "I suppose we'll need to wait until tomorrow to get more answers."

Illya looked distinctly annoyed by the whole affair. But then he seemed to rally. "Then I suggest we go to bed," Illya said with a gleam in his eye.

Napoleon liked that idea. This was one of the reasons he enjoyed having sex with men: there was never a bad time for sex. It was reassuring that while Illya broke the mold in almost every other way, in this, he was all man. "Just give me a minute," he said, rising, and heading into the bedroom. He grabbed all the breakables in the bedroom and tucked them safely amongst his sweaters and underwear. Then the smaller television was pulled off the chest of drawers and placed on the floor.

He glanced up to find Illya in the doorway, frowning furiously. "What are you doing?" he demanded.

It seemed obvious to Napoleon but he just moved to the doorway and put his hands on Illya's waist, pulling him in for a kiss. "What can I say? When we make love, you make the earth move, dushka moya."

*****

They'd been put in a VIP suite which suited Han just fine. He lay in bed with Luke, very glad that someone with some common sense had rescued them from their incarceration. They'd even been given their weapons back, although the Falcon was still missing in action.  <