Kirill woke with the worst hangover of his life. His head was being used as an anvil by the world's most industrious blacksmith, and he seemed to have gone blind during the night. When he finally pried his eyelids open, he wished he had gone blind. Late afternoon sunlight stabbed through the slatted window and into Kirill's eyes like shards of glass. Kirill groaned and rolled over, or tried to. He quickly found that he couldn't move.

"Awake at last, Boris?"

Kirill turned his head and a cold wash of dread froze his belly. He hadn't been mistaken. The voice belonged to his target: Jason Bourne. This was bad and more than bad; this was the worst. Not only had he failed in his mission, he had been captured alive.

Kirill grunted as a hard toe nudged him in the ribs. "Fuck you," he muttered reflexively. In English, so Bourne would comprehend the insult.

"Fuck me?" Bourne answered. "Oh no, no, comrade; fuck you."

The Russian curbed the smoking retort that rose to his lips. Better to listen and find out what Bourne had in mind for him.

Jason Bourne hooked a chair with his foot and dragged it closer. Sitting down, he gazed coldly at his prisoner. Lying on his belly with wrists and ankles hog-tied behind his back, Kirill appeared helpless, but Bourne knew better. Carefully, the American kept all his appendages well away from the Russian's strong, white teeth.

"I won't ask you how you could shoot an innocent woman that never did you any harm," Jason said. "That would be pointless and a waste of breath. The people that trained me are as soulless as those that sent you after me. So we can dispense with all the assessing of blame and name-calling. What I want to know is how you're going to make it up to me."

Kirill concentrated and managed to focus on Bourne's quintessentially all-American face. His bewilderment must have shown in his inky eyes.

"Not quite what you expected, huh, boichik? I'm afraid you're just going to have to face the possibility that Marie's death has sent me over the edge. In fact, I don't think you could predict with any degree of reliability just what I might do next."

The Russian agent gave Bourne his black look: the one that made hardened criminals cringe and caused street smart Militia officers to drop their eyes. The American stared equably back, his blue stare lifeless. For the first time in recent memory, Kirill didn't feel confident that he would come out the victor.

"What's the matter, comrade? You look a little green."

Kirill maintained his silence as Bourne pulled his bloodstained t-shirt over his head revealing a sculpted torso. The Russian considered making a move while the cloth obscured Bourne's vision, but the moment passed while he was thinking. Whatever the American had drugged him with had left him thick and slow, and Bourne tied a wicked knot.

"I'm sure you're wondering, in a fuzzy kind of way, just what it is I'm going to do with you," Bourne said, as he unbuttoned his jeans. "I know it'd be useless trying to get information out of you, so I'm not even going to try. Instead, I'm going to extract a little retribution."

Kirill frowned. He could easily understand the desire for revenge, but it was not a word generally found in the lexicon of men like Bourne. Vengeance was much too costly, and black ops agents were hardly encouraged to have personal agendas. Kirill was beginning to believe that Bourne was as disturbed as he claimed.

"You took my woman," Jason said as he rose from the chair. "Left me without the companionship of my lover. Now what can you offer me in reparation? Hm?"

The Russian tried to follow Bourne with his eyes as the American paced in front of him. As Bourne walked back and forth, hands fiddling with his fly, Kirill strained to make his brain work. He couldn't believe that the American agent would take him alive just to torture him, no matter how insane Bourne appeared to be. Westerners were too civilized for that.

"You're probably thinking that I'm not ruthless enough to torture you for no good reason," Bourne said, as he shoved his jeans down to his knees. "And that's where you'd be right… up to a point. I know this won't bring Marie back, but I've got this idea that it will somehow make me feel better about all this. I doubt it, but I'm going to do it anyway."

"What? What are you going to do?" Kirill asked in spite of his resolve.

"You speak very good English, but that's beside the point. Since I have to do without Marie's love for the rest of my sorry life, I guess I'll have to settle for meaningless sex."

That chilly jolt of dread flashed through Kirill's lower regions again. Surely, Bourne did not intend to rape him. However, the possibility began to seem more likely when Bourne shucked his boxers and exposed himself.

"What are you doing?" Kirill asked, despising the slight tremor in his voice.

"I'm getting ready to have casual sex," Bourne said matter-of-factly.

"You can't," Kirill blurted out.

"That's where you're wrong. As long as you're tied up and I'm not, I can do pretty much anything I can live with."

"This is," the Russian searched for the right English word, "not moral," he finished lamely.

"You've got to be fucking kidding me."

The absurdity of men like them discussing ethics impinged on Kirill's growing panic and jarred him back to cold practicality. He needed to stop focusing on what might happen and deal with what was happening right fucking now. That was the only way to prevent his worst nightmare from becoming true.

"You won't rape me," Kirill said, regaining some of his famous equilibrium.

"Don't kid yourself," Bourne said, applying lotion to his half hard cock. "I'm just trying to figure out how to fuck you without getting killed in the process. I'm not even sure it's possible with you tied like that, but we're gonna find out."

Kirill heard soft footsteps behind him and flinched when Bourne grasped his waistband. Bourne used a knife to cut the cloth of the Russian's trousers, baring a round, well-muscled backside. Kirill braced himself when he felt the tip of the blade touch his bare skin, but the pain never arrived. What he felt was the scary-delicious sensation of a cold, sharp edge tracing patterns on his flesh.

"What are you doing?"

Bourne paused. "I'm thinking about cutting my brand into you so you'll always have a reminder of this one precious life you took."

"Why are you stalling? Could it be that you do not have the stomach for this? If I intended to rape you, you would be… how do you Americans say it? Squeaking like a pig?"

"Squealing."

"Ah yes. You would be squealing like a pig already with my big cock tearing up your ass."

"You're a sick man, Boris, and you're making this easier for me with every word."

"My name is not Boris, is Kirill."

"Do you think I give a fuck? All you are to me is a finger on a trigger, but you're here within my grasp. I'll deal with the men that sent you later. For now, you'll have to do."

Kirill spat and cursed in Russian as Bourne cut his pants away, leaving him naked from the waist down. He struggled at the limits of his bonds, but only succeeded in tightening the knots. Red-faced and beginning to sweat profusely, Kirill glared up at his captor. Bourne lifted Kirill's chin on his instep, meeting the Russian's dagger stare.

"Now we come to the risky part," Bourne said. "I have to get in position. I have no illusions about your combat capabilities so I'm afraid I'll have to do this."

Bourne pulled back and smacked Kirill with the side of his foot, stunning the big Russian. Quickly, Bourne moved between Kirill's legs, pushing his knees wide apart. It was a tight squeeze and Kirill made it tighter by trying to crush Bourne with his thighs. For several minutes they strained against one another, muscles standing out in stark relief, until Bourne ran a finger up Kirill's damp crack.

Startled, the Russian lost ground and Bourne forced his knees even farther apart. The ropes cut into Kirill's ankles and wrists as he was spread open and lifted to rest on Bourne's oak hard thighs. Bourne gripped his shaft and touched the glistening tip to Kirill's opening. The clenched port flexed and a dark little thrill slithered down Bourne's spine. There was a primitive joy in seeing one's enemy so helpless and at one's mercy.

"Wait."

The half-whispered plea broke Bourne's near trance. "What?" he asked harshly.

"You say you do this for your dead lover? Is this the tribute she would want?"

"Fuck!" The Russian was right. Marie would not thank him for this. She would be appalled. She would turn her face from this ugliness in horror and disgust. Bourne was doing this for himself and no one else, if he were going to be honest about it. Scalding shame warred with the new coldness at his center, but couldn't melt his resolve. Unable now to summon the heartless brutality necessary to commit rape, Bourne settled on a compromise.

"What are you doing?" Kirill asked suspiciously, as Bourne gently stroked his flank.

"I'm going to show you what you deprived me of. I'm going to love you the way Marie would want me to."

"You are crazy," Kirill said, believing it for the first time.

"Yeah, I know. You know how I know? 'Cause everything I'm doing seems perfectly rational to me."

Bourne continued to caress the Russian in light, gliding touches that arced ever nearer his primary and secondary erogenous zones. Kirill did nothing by half measures; he was a full-bore type A personality, super charged and highly sexed. Bourne's skilful fondling was having an effect despite the circumstances, or maybe because of them. Kirill could not stop Bourne; the choice had been taken from him. In a strange way, this made Kirill's unexpected pleasure in the other man's touch somehow acceptable.

Kirill shivered as Bourne's fingers brushed his nipple and the teasing hand returned to tweak at the furled bud. At the same time, Bourne reached under his prisoner and groped for Kirill's rising manhood. The Russian gasped at the feel of a rough hand on his arousal, squeezing firmly, testing the hardness and resilience.

"I've never touched another man's cock," Bourne said. "Feels bigger than mine."

"Good."

Kirill's terse, sincere remark surprised a smile out of Bourne. The American eased his grip, sliding his fist up and down the suede skinned column. Kirill groaned as his shaft stiffened to a straining tautness. Bourne rolled a hard nipple between thumb and forefinger as he pumped the heavy rod against his palm.

"I loved it when Marie did this to me," Bourne said. "Does it feel good, Boris?"

"It feels good, yes. So?"

"Just curious. Hope you're all warmed up for the main event."

Kirill tensed as Bourne pulled his cheeks apart and seated his cock again. He thrashed in his bonds in a futile attempt to escape as Bourne worked the head of his arousal in and pushed forward. Kirill let out a coughing whuff of air as he absorbed the sudden pressure, dealt with the pain, and set himself to endure more. He'd been hurt worse by his own superiors during interrogation resistance training. If Bourne expected Kirill to scream, the American was doomed to disappointment.

Bourne paused with a little less than half his length sheathed. "Something else Marie used to do for me," he said. "Clinically it's called a prostate massage. We called it pushing the joy buzzer. She used two fingers, but I just don't like you that much, Boris, so let's see what I can do with my hard on."

Kirill gritted his teeth as Bourne eased out a bit and pushed back in at a new angle. The Russian did his best to mask his reaction when the blunt cock head dragged across his prostate, but Bourne's killer instincts picked up on the small change in breathing. Diligently, Bourne thrust at the same depth and speed until Kirill couldn't hold in a moan of bliss. It did feel good, very, very good, and since he couldn't fight it, he stopped trying.

"This is how we made love," Bourne's voice had taken on a raspy edge. "Slow and easy, taking our time and paying attention to details. We had a lot of hot sex, don't get me wrong, but this is what I like best. Stretching it out until neither of us can take any more and then coming together like a volcano erupting."

"Shut up," Kirill panted, before lapsing into a string of rapid, breathless Russian, cursing Bourne for making him feel this way.

Without his being aware of it, Kirill was rocking back against Bourne in an instinctive counter stroke, maximizing the pleasure for both. Bourne reached under Kirill again and took hold of his captive's quivering arousal, shuttling his fist up and down rapidly. The Russian came with a soft grunt, spilling hot, sticky fluid over Bourne's knuckles. As he thrust deeper, Bourne continued to stroke the hard flesh, his fingers sliding easily in the slick cum, coaxing the shaft to stand again.

"Please," Kirill whimpered in his native tongue. "No more."

Bourne betrayed his understanding of Russian. "This is what it's like when you care for someone more than yourself," he replied in the same language, as he pulled smoothly out.

"No!"

"What? I thought you wanted me to stop."

"Finish," the Russian gasped.

Surprised, but not unwilling, Bourne entered Kirill again, driving eagerly in until he was sheathed to the hilt. Kirill gasped, trembling all over as Bourne drew back and thrust again, burying his length in the tight passage. The American cried out his pleasure as Kirill bore down on the shaft that stretched him. Bourne shortened his stroke, barely withdrawing before shoving back in with a soft slap of flesh on flesh.

Kirill tightened his internal muscles, hugging the pleasingly hot hardness that shunted in and out of him, filling him, completing him, driving him to the brink of willing submission. Bearing down with all his strength, Kirill exerted the only control he had over the situation. Bourne panted heavily, his thrusts growing erratic as the sweet tension coiled tighter at his center, his hands slipping on his mount's sweat-dewed flesh as he strove for release.

"Give me more," Kirill whispered.

Bourne obliged to the best of his stamina, rocking Kirill to another climax. As Kirill's opening clenched on his plunging shaft, Bourne's release rolled through him like a tsunami. Lurching forward, he sank his full length into the quaking channel as his seed spooled out deep inside Kirill. Both men shuddered through the aftershocks of a powerful mutual orgasm, deadly enemies briefly united.

Bourne pulled out slowly and lowered Kirill back down on his belly. Averting his eyes from the raw skin of the Russian's wrists and ankles, he pulled on his pants and straightened his clothing. Stepping into the silly rope sandals Marie had bought for him, he looked down at the man that had taken her life. He waited out the red wave of rage before he spoke.

"Well, that was a surprise."

"For me as well."

"What will you do if I cut you loose?"

"Try to kill you."

"Thought so. Dasvedanya, comrade."

Kirill was ready for it this time, but the impact of Bourne's kick put his lights out just the same. When he woke, he was free, and decorously covered with a towel. He still felt like he had the world's worst hangover and now his ass hurt, too. In the next moment, he had remembered all that happened in this sweltering hut. Bourne had shown him something about himself, made him face something so well hidden he hadn't even suspected it.

And some day, Kirill would kill him for that.