They were older. Something that only happened to the best spies. They'd been lucky. They come through everything, not unscathed, but together and altogether. More than forty years, unreasonably fortunate.

Their love had outlived countries. There had been years they'd barely seen each other, sacrificed once they ceased risking capture at least every month. They compromised less now. They could see the world to tomorrow from the same city. Mostly. Get up together, or slip into the same bed at least.

Their youth had been shed along with their blood. Scars wrote their story in flesh.

Illya grinned at Napoleon.




Napoleon smiled, intrigued by Illya's wicked upturn of lips. The years had been kinder to his love, leaving him honed and spare like a fine blade from a master swordsmith. He resisted plunging his fingers into the once more long hair.

Illya kissed him methodically and to great effect, like setting explosives. Napoleon sank his fingers into the once electrum strands now patinaed to honey oak. He let Illya pull back, still cradling his head. He smiled as Illya wove his fingers between his, taking a captive's pose.

He was the one happily snared. Sickness, health. Richer, poorer. Death, beyond.