Disclaimer: Don't own 'em. Don't make money off 'em. If pressed, I'd admit they belong to somebody else though I'm not sure who, but really that's slavery. They should be free! Rated NC-17 for m/m smut. I thought I had started this for a challenge but I can't find any that make sense now, so maybe I didn't.

Soundtrack: Pepe & Angel Romero: Rodrigo's Concierto de Aranjuez, Fantasia para un gentilhombre, Concierto Madrigal. Chet Baker: Deep in a Dream (cd). Plus miscellaneous Billie Holliday and Nat King Cole songs I forgot to make note of.

Thanks to my betae, who have opted to remain nameless, for their amazing assistance. Without them this story would be full of comma-splices, lacking semi-colons, full of boring episode recaps, and just not very well-polished in general. Some suggestions I didn't take, so assume anything that isn't up to par is my own fault.
--Kellie

It was a little bit amusing, Illya thought, looking down at the man on the stone floor at his feet, that despite being one of the few agents in Europe not looking for UNCLE's missing hotshot, he appeared to be the one who had found him. Now, granted, Illya didn't have the photo to compare the fellow with, but his memory was excellent, and this particular face was . . . distinctive. Despite some fairly extensive bruising and swelling, the man-in-the-moon profile, cleft chin, and oddly discontented mouth were quite recognizable.

He crouched down, put a hand on the American's shoulder and shook him. "Hey."

The man didn't stir, his body moving like a rag doll under Illya's touch. He thumbed back an eyelid and swore softly under his breath. Clearly he couldn't count on the man assisting in his own rescue. With a sigh he fished his communicator out of the cargo pocket of his military-style trousers, connected it to the base of the bare bulb that hung from the ceiling, and turned it on. "Open Channel L."

"Channel L Open."

Illya recognized the voice on the other end of the call. Denis March. Not a favorite. "Kuryakin here. I've found your missing American and will bring him in as soon as I've finished what I came here to do."

There was a moment of silence. "You mean Solo?"

Right. That was it. At the briefing he'd been so busy being appalled that any parent would saddle a child with such a ludicrous first name that the last name hadn't stuck. "Yes. Solo."

"Where are you?" March asked, sounding incredulous. "You're supposed to be in . . ." There was a pause, some rustling, clearly he was checking the assignment logs. "Portugal."

"I'm right where I'm supposed to be. I found Solo in the dungeon."

"The dungeon?"

"Yes, the dungeon." Illya thought it was a trifle over the top himself, but this was THRUSH they were talking about, after all.

"Where did you find a dungeon?"

"In the castle, of course."

"What castle?"

Illya sighed. "The one THRUSH is apparently planning to use as a conference facility. The one in which I am planting surveillance devices," he said irritably, annoyed that he was being questioned by March as if he'd done something wrong. "Speaking of which, I have more of said devices to place, so if you would kindly just tell Mr. Beldon I found our missing agent I would appreciate it. Kuryakin out."

He unhooked the communicator and stowed it away, wishing the UNCLE engineers would figure out a less awkward means of communication. Perhaps something with its own power supply. Sometimes there simply wasn't any electricity available when you needed to contact Headquarters. And usually those were the times when you most needed the back-up you couldn't request.

Illya sighed, leaned down, and managed to get Solo into a sitting position against the wall. From there, he was able to put a shoulder in his midsection and lift him into a fireman's carry. He 'oofed' a little as he hefted the other man. Solo was more solid than he looked, and his weight, especially combined with the pack Illya already carried, was not inconsiderable. He staggered down the hallway with his burden, looking for the under-stairs cupboard he'd spotted while reconnoitering.

Finding it, he was in the process of wedging the other agent into the small space when he heard footsteps overhead. By the sound of it, there were two large people coming down the stairs. Swearing under his breath, he plastered himself on top of the American and managed to pull the small door closed just as the footsteps left the stairs and moved past their hiding place.

"Why do we have to keep patrolling?" a man complained. "We're out in the middle of nowhere, no one is going to break in, and the American is in no shape to break out." The words were in Portuguese, not surprising. THRUSH tended to hire locals for things like thug duty.

"It's our job. They said to keep watch, so we keep watch. Otherwise, Joo, we don't get paid."

"I wish I hadn't taken this job," the first man, Joo, said.

"Shut up, or they might oblige you. And they have no retirement plan."

The voices receded as they moved away from the staircase, fortunately headed in the opposite direction from the cell Illya had just emptied. Illya let out the breath he'd been holding and tried to shift Solo so that they could both fit more easily in the cramped space. As he did, his elbow knocked against the inner wall, making a hollow sound, and he winced, hoping the guards had been too far away to hear it. He pushed at Solo's shoulder, tugged at his knees, and suddenly stopped as his brain made connections between the sound, and basic physics.

If sound traveled like that, there was open space on the other side of the wall. And the wall was clearly not very thick, or it wouldn't have flexed to pressure like it had. Knowing it wouldn't take long before the guards discovered Solo missing and that they'd need a new bolt-hole quickly, he propped himself up on one elbow and began to run his fingers along the wall, searching for a join. The wood was rough, leaving splinters in his fingertips, but finally he found a spot where two boards joined irregularly. Making a mental note of the angle of his hand and arm at that spot, he squirmed around, trying to reach the screwdriver in his knapsack.

"You know," a warm, mellow-sounding voice said into the darkness, "...usually I make an effort to be introduced to someone before we get this friendly."

Illya had gone still at the first word, startled, but relaxed as he realized it was just Solo, back amongst the living apparently. He was a little surprised by how calm Solo seemed, and even more surprised that a macho American would make a joke like that. "Shhhh," he hissed. "Guards."

Solo nodded, at least it felt like a nod, and Illya kept trying for the screwdriver, but even with his flexibility his arm just didn't want to bend quite that way.

After a moment, Solo lifted his head and put his lips nearly against Illya's ear. "What are you doing?"

"Trying to reach my screwdriver."

"Allow me." A pair of arms came up around him, hands patted around until they found the knapsack, and after a bit of rummaging, a soft sound of satisfaction came as a puff of warm breath against his ear. A moment later fingers trailed down his arm, found his hand, and the heavy, fluted handle of a screwdriver was pressed into his palm. "There you are, Doctor. You can operate now."

For a moment Illya wondered how the hell Solo knew he had a doctorate, but then he realized it was just another joke. He wasn't used to working with agents who knew what a sense of humor was. "Thank you, nurse." He felt Solo chuckle silently as he shifted to a better angle, and started to wedge the screwdriver blade between the boards. It took some work, but he finally managed to pry the plywood sheet back enough to get a grip on it, and some pulling loosened it enough that he thought he could get a look at what was behind it, if he risked using a light. "Can you get the torch out of my knapsack as well?"

"Torch? You wouldn't have a pitchfork in there too, would you?"

"That's flashlight to you, Amerikanski, and no. Would that I did. It would make a better prybar than this screwdriver."

"Amerikanski?" Solo queried, hands busy in the pack again.

"Illya Kuryakin, at your service," Illya offered.

There was a short silence. "Ah. I've heard of you."

"Then we are even, Mr. Solo. The torch?"

More rummaging, and then Solo was sliding the solid, tubular shape of his torch into his hand. "Here you are, slave driver." Solo's voice sounded strained, despite the lightness of the comment.

Illya shielded the lens with his hand and thumbed the switch on. A vague pinkish glow filtered through his fingers and he gradually shifted them, letting more light through slowly so as not to shock their vision. When the lens was fully uncovered, he let himself look into Solo's face. In the dim light Solo's eyes were the color of strong coffee, his face pale where it wasn't colorfully bruised. The tension that had sounded in his voice was also evident in his expression, which was tight with stress and pain.

When Solo realized Illya was looking at him, he gave a wry smile that was more of a grimace. "So, anything worth exploring back there?"

Recalled to his duty, Illya aimed the torch into the dark hole, and saw the light sweep dimly across a

wide, vaulted chamber. "Oh, yes. Definitely." He put the torch down and wrestled with the board, yanking it back and forth until it came free. He slid it out of the way, and rolled off Solo and into the newly revealed room. Solo whimpered softly when Illya moved, and Illya stared at him.

"Ribs?" he asked, suddenly understanding.

Solo nodded. "Yeah."

"You didn't say anything," Illya said, feeling a little guilty.

"It wasn't like you could help it."

"True." The guilt vanished, and Illya rolled to his feet, looking around. The room was quite spacious; it would easily hold twenty people, or more if they didn't mind being close. There were even a few furnishings. A table, some chairs, something that looked like a wardrobe, and three large trunks. The muffled sound of shouting caught his attention and he crouched down again. "Come on, they've figured out you're gone and they'll start searching."

Solo nodded, painfully pushed himself to his hands and knees, and crawled into the room. Once he was inside, Illya pulled the plywood back across the gap and wired it in place with a few twists from the coil he carried in the knapsack, then got to his feet again, brushing the dust off his hands.

"What if they know about this room?" Solo asked.

Illya looked at him, propped against the wall, his color, if possible, even worse than before, and was surprised that the man was able to think so practically in the shape he was in. In answer, he gestured with the flashlight "There are no marks in the dust save those we've put there. It's clear that no one's been in this room in years."

He turned slowly, playing the flashlight around the room, discovering a woodstove backed into the embrace of an old stone hearth, the newer metal chimney venting up the stone flue. What looked to be about a half-cord of wood was stacked neatly in a fuel box built into the wall beside the original fireplace. The wood would be overly dry for the stove, but if he could find water he could damp it a little to offset that. Sconces around the room held dust-covered candles, and a pair of kerosene lanterns hung on iron swivel hooks from the two large support columns "In fact, I'd say it's been about twenty years since anyone used this room."

Solo glanced around curiously. "Why do you say that?"

"I suspect it was created as a refuge during the war. Once the war was over, there was no need for the room and it was eventually forgotten about."

Solo nodded. "Makes sense." He sighed and leaned his head back against the wall, and Illya saw a slight tremor go through him.

"Are you all right?"

Solo nodded, but another tremor shook him. "Just a little chilly, that's all."

"Here, I'm fine, you take this." Hoping the other agent wasn't going into shock, Illya quickly dropped his knapsack and stripped off his jacket, kneeling to urge Solo forward so he could slide it behind him, then helping him thread his arms through the sleeves. Fortunately it was the blousy sort of jacket that could fit more than one size. "Better?" Illya asked, after zipping it closed.

Solo nodded, then looked at the pack. "You wouldn't happen to have anything to eat in there would you?"

Illya had to fight the survival instinct that told him to lie, and instead he nodded. "Three chocolate bars, some beef jerky, and some hardtack. Oh, and a canteen of water and a flask of whiskey. Medicinal, of course."

"What a coincidence, seeing as how I am in need of medicating," Solo said, giving the bag a longing look.

Illya rummaged to find the flask, and then held it out. "Here, take what you need."

Solo accepted the flask and lifted it, putting back a healthy swallow and then sucking in a breath that almost turned into a cough. A second sip seemed to stave that off, though, and he relaxed after a moment. "Thanks. That might just take the edge off."

"You're welcome." Deciding it would be wise to conserve the torch's batteries, Illya got up and used one of the waterproof matches from the little metal canister on his belt to light several of the candles.

'You have excellent taste in liquor, Mr. Kuryakin." Solo took another sip. "This is an Islay single malt, unless I'm very much mistaken."

"You're correct. Lagavulin, actually. I'm going to have a better look around."

Solo nodded, watching him. "Rumor has it that you should have Gerald Strothers' job."

"True."

"Which? That it's a rumor, or that you should have his job?"

"Both," Illya said, opening the door to the wardrobe. One side had built-in shelves, the top shelf hosted a wine rack in which rested a half-dozen bottles, their waxed seals intact. The next held two dozen thick pillar candles similar to those in the sconces, most of the others holding canned goods, both commercial and home-made. A couple of the jars had burst, but the spilled contents had long since dried so there was no unpleasant odor. The lids on the other jars were flat and sound-looking. The cans, save for two that were swollen with spoilage, also looked in amazingly good shape for being twenty years old.

Solo chuckled. "I admire honesty in a man. What've you found?"

"Well, we won't starve, and we could get nicely pissed, provided the wine hasn't turned." Illya pulled a bottle from the wine rack and displayed it. "This one's a Do, but I think there are others. Considering where we are, probably Vinho Verdes or Douros. Whoever stocked the shelter is to be commended."

"Speaking of where we are. . . where exactly would that be?"

Illya turned, startled. "You don't know?"

Solo shook his head. "I remember going to bed in Paris, and waking up in a dirty cell getting the tar beat out of me."

Illya nodded. "Which is why everyone is looking for you in France. However, we're in northern Portugal, not far from a little village called Mono. THRUSH has leased an old castle here to use for their upcoming summit. I'm sure that's why you were brought here. A . . . trophy of sorts."

Solo lifted a hand to his throat. "I must say I prefer my head attached rather than stuffed and mounted. What made you look for me here?"

"I didn't. I was in Porto on another assignment, and someone. . . happened to mention the summit, and thought I ought to plant a few bugs before things got going."

Solo's lips quirked; clearly he'd caught Illya's implication that the mention might not have been entirely voluntary. "So I was just a bonus."

Illya lifted an eyebrow. "Of sorts."

Solo frowned suddenly. "Wait a minute, wasn't Portugal neutral during the war? Why would someone need a bolt-hole like this in a neutral country?"

"Officially they were neutral. Unofficially, they laundered money for the Axis and just to show how even-handed they were, charged rent to the Allies for bases. Their secret police were quite efficient, and more than one of their leaders both during and after there war were quite . . . paranoid, which makes it possible the room was used more recently, I suppose, but in any case it's clearly been abandoned for years."

Turning his back on the cupboard, Illya moved to the largest of the trunks and tested the catch. It opened easily, if dustily, and he rubbed his itchy nose on his sleeve as he pawed in the contents. As he'd hoped, the top layer was a woolen blanket, but the featherbed that was folded under it was an unexpected find. The scent of cedar from the chest walls was mixed with lavender and rosemary drifting faintly from the long-dried sprigs that had been tucked in with the fabric by some careful housekeeper. The combination was pleasant. Much better than dust.

He started to lift the featherbed out, planning to lay it out for Solo, and then stopped, an inner voice that sounded disconcertingly like his mother's scolding him for even thinking about putting the carefully stored bed on a floor that had nearly a centimeter of dust on it. He pushed the bed back into the trunk and went back to the cupboard, recalling that a broom had occupied part of the narrow, unshelved portion. As he retrieved the broom he realized that the collection of finished wooden posts wound with ropes that that leaned against the broom was the disassembled frame for the bed.

Whoever had stocked the room had thought of everything. He wondered if they had ever had to use the room, and then thinking about how everything was still in place all these years later, he wondered if they'd needed to, but not been able to get to it in time.

Depressing thought.

He found a good spot near the woodstove and began to sweep, carefully so as not to simply stir up the dust, but rather moving it to a different spot, further away.

"Felt like doing a little housework?" Solo queried, and then coughed, followed by a bitten-off moan and a grimly set jaw.

"Well, I'd have you do it, but I think you have seniority and I don't want to get in trouble with the boss."

That brought a wan smile to the other agent's face. "Speaking of the boss, why don't you have Gerald Strothers' job?"

"Frankly, as long as Harry Beldon heads UNCLE Europe, I wouldn't have the job."

Solo's gaze sharpened and traveled down his body, then back up in blatant assessment. "Did he. . . ah. . . try something?"

Illya snorted, wondering just how much Solo had heard about Beldon. And about himself. "Harry 'tries something,' as you so circuitously put it, with everyone he meets. Old, young, male, female, animal, vegetable, mineral. But that doesn't disturb me, he's an egalitarian lecher, he doesn't discriminate. I'd be more offended if he hadn't tried something. I simply think he's past his prime. It has nothing to do with his age, he's just gotten lazy and careless. In our line of work a lazy, careless boss can get you killed."

"Thankfully that's one thing I don't have to worry about," Solo said fervently.

"Which is why Northeast has so many applications for transfers from Europe. Everyone knows Waverly's on the ball."

"And here I thought it was just our standard of living."

Napoleon huddled down into Illya's jacket and grew quiet, dozing. Illya watched him thoughtfully for a moment, strategizing. They didn't dare try to travel. Solo couldn't outrun a kitten in his current state; he needed a day or two to rest and recuperate before they made a break for it, and so long as THRUSH didn't discover their hiding place, they had nearly the perfect place to do it. Illya returned to sweeping, though he'd decided to go ahead and set up the bed. Solo would do better off the floor.

Deciding he'd swept a large enough area for now, Illya crossed the room to put the broom away and as he did, his toe caught on something and he nearly measured his length on the floor. He pushed himself up to a crouch, looking around for what had tripped him, and saw that one of the stones had a slightly raised section. Unlike every other block of flooring, it was circular, save for a small protruding notch, which was what had tripped him. The pavers around it had been cut to fit it like a key in a lock. Opposite the notch was a set of four depressions along the edge of the circular stone, and in the center was a hole just large enough to put a finger in.

Illya stared at it for a long time, weighing his curiosity against the possibility that it might be a trap of some sort. Finally curiosity won out. After all, everything else in the room appeared to be survival oriented: why would they booby trap their own safehouse? He put his thumb in the hole, his fingers in the four depressions, and pulled. The stone canted upward easily on a hinge hidden in the raised notch, revealing a hole in the floor about thirty centimeters in diameter. The air that wafted upward from it was cool and damp.

Scrambling to his feet, he snatched the torch from where he'd left it, coming back to shine the light down the hole. About three meters down it reflected off the bottom in ripples. Water. One of the few things he'd been concerned about. The well made their refuge truly habitable. He was certain that it was the castle's original well, and this room had once been the fallback position if all else failed. He was also willing to bet that somewhere in the room he would find a vessel just the right size for the well mouth, and a rope or chain on which to lower it. Thoughtfully he replaced the well-cap and set about assembling the bed.

It took over an hour for Illya to finish putting things the way he wanted them. As he'd expected he'd found the bucket for the well in one of the other trunks, along with a washbasin and pitcher, a set of enameled steel cookware and three place settings, all better suited to a movie Western than a Portuguese castle. Hidden in the shadows of an archway he'd also discovered a long, narrow corridor that sloped upward, the elevation increase helped along by three short flights of steps.

Cautious exploration had led him to the real entrance to the room, which let into a kitchen pantry, from what he could tell looking through the slits in the hidden door. The corridor extended a little way past that, terminating in a closet-sized room which appeared to be an original garderobe, which took care of the only worry he'd had, other than water. It would be no worse than using an outhouse, and considerably better than trying to chip up pavers with a screwdriver and dig a latrine pit with a spoon. Not to mention that it was far enough away from the main room that it shouldn't contaminate the well. Still, he planned on boiling all their drinking water. You never knew.

Solo had slept through it all, and Illya thought it was about time to get him off the floor. He moved to crouch beside his fellow agent. "Mr. Solo?"

There was no response, and Illya reached to put a hand on his shoulder planning to shake him awake. Instantly he noticed that could feel the heat of Solo's body even through the jacket. He swore softly, realizing that Solo hadn't been going into shock earlier, he'd been shaking with a chill. He was running a fever. He shook him gently. "Mr. Solo?"

That time it got through. Solo blinked awake, looking bleary and startled, one hand coming up in a defensive movement. Illya let go and leaned back, reducing the apparent threat. "It's all right, it's just me. If you'd care to get up, I've heated some soup, and after you eat you can rest more comfortably since I've assembled the bed."

Solo looked confused, then leaned to one side so he could look around Illya at the room. "You've been busy."

"Somewhat. I also found the well, the exit, and most importantly, the loo."

"Wait, let me get this straight. You cleaned, you made a bed, literally, and you cooked?"

"I heated," Illya corrected. "Someone else did the cooking quite a long time ago. And I only had to assemble the bed, the parts were here already."

"It still counts." He shook his head admiringly. "All this, and a gorgeous blond on top of it? You'll make someone a wonderful wife, Mr. Kuryakin."

Illya rolled his eyes. "My mother will be thrilled by the news." He stood, then leaned down and held out a hand. "Come on, up."

Solo clasped his hand and Illya braced him to his feet, steadying him when he swayed a little, and followed him over to the table, ready to catch him if he wobbled. Though slow, however, Napoleon's steps were careful and steady. He sank down into one of the chairs and looked down at the bowl blankly, then back at Illya. "Seriously, thank you for doing everything. I owe you one," Solo said, then he shook his head. "Actually, I owe you two now."

"Eat," Illya ordered roughly, oddly irked by Solo's gratitude.

Solo nodded and spooned up a bit of broth, sniffing, and then eating. Illya took the seat across from him and set to as well. The can had been intact and the contents had smelled fine, but even so he had boiled the soup long enough that he was sure no bacteria could possibly have survived.

After only a few mouthfuls, Solo put down his spoon and sighed. "I think that's all I can risk." He picked up the cup next to the bowl, looked inside, and sniffed. "No wine?"

"Perhaps next time. I thought water would be best now. Oh, and here." He dug his aspirin tin out of his pocket and pinched it open, offering it. "These should help."

"I didn't know they had Boy Scouts in the Soviet Union."

"We have better, the Vsesoyuznaya Pionerskaya, and after that, Komsomol," Illya returned blandly.

Solo flashed him a smile that let him know his humor had been appreciated, and took two of the pills. washing them down with several quick swallows that emptied the cup, and then he looked pointedly at Illya. "Not that I'm not grateful for the domesticity, but shouldn't we be trying to get out of here?"

Illya shook his head. "There's no reason. We're safe here for now, which we won't be once we leave this room. And you're not in any shape to be climbing or running. We'll stay here a few days while you recover."

Solo's gaze narrowed. "I don't need to be babied."

He stood, took a step, and Illya had to scramble out of his chair and catch him as he started to topple. "You were saying?"

"Um . . ." Solo said muzzily. "I take it back. Baby me all you like. I, ah, you mentioned something about a loo?"

Illya hastily pushed him back to arm's length. "You're not about to be sick on me, are you?"

That brought a laugh, followed by a wince. "Don't worry," Solo managed after a moment. "It's just that all the liquids woke up my kidneys."

"Ah." Illya paused for a moment, eyeing him up and down.

"Well, what are we waiting for?" Solo asked impatiently.

"If I carry you over my shoulder it will hurt your ribs, but you and I are close enough in size that it would be awkward to lift you any other way."

Solo looked disgusted. "How about we just walk there? I think I can manage if you . . ." his voice trailed off and he looked at Illya more closely. "I can't believe I fell for that," he exclaimed softly, grinning.

"You did say I should baby you."

Solo sighed, shaking his head. "I'm going to have to remember this about you. A sense of humor is a rare commodity in our line of work."

Odd that he'd thought something similar not long ago. "Come, you can lean on me if you need to."

"I can, can't I?" Solo asked cryptically. "Get a move on, would you?"

Illya nodded and retrieved the torch from the table, using it to light the way as they made their way down the narrow corridor. When they passed the exit he shielded the lens with his hand and nodded toward it. "That's the real entrance and exit, it lets into a kitchen pantry. I'll go out that way tonight after things quiet down."

Solo stopped walking to look at him. "Go where? Why?"

"I still have a transmitter and camera to plant. I should be able to accomplish that and return fairly quickly."

"Are you sure that's wise? They'll be on the alert."

"They won't be looking for someone breaking into the place. They'll be guarding exits hoping to stop you from getting out, though by now they must think you're long gone."

Solo nodded slowly, still frowning. "I suppose you're right."

"I am always right," Illya said. "Come, not much farther."

Solo snorted derisively, but let Illya help him the rest of the way down the hall and into the tiny garderobe. He looked around it, then back at Illya with a lifted eyebrow. "This is the loo?"

"It is. And before you complain, consider that it makes up in historicity what it lacks in atmosphere."

"Historicity?"

Illya nodded. "Judging by the design, it must have been original to the castle. You're . . . excreting where royalty once excreted."

Solo laughed, and then winced, hugging his ribs. "Stop making me laugh, damn it. And I'm beginning to think the whole `live like a king' thing was overrated."

"It was." Illya set the flashlight on the wall sconce next to the unlit candle, and nodded at the jacket Solo still wore. "There are tissues in the left pocket of my jacket should you need them. Let me know when you're ready to leave."

Leaving Solo to his mission, Illya went back to move the slide that covered the eye-slits in the exit so he could look into the pantry. There was activity in the kitchen, two men preparing a meal. From the proportions of the ingredients, they were cooking for about a dozen men, which implied a rather small security contingent for a conference expected to draw THRUSH heads from all over Europe. He guessed that meant most of the security would arrive with the participants, which made sense. THRUSH kingpins trusted each other about as much as a farmer would trust a fox to guard a henhouse. That would actually be helpful to him, since they would be unfamiliar with the rooms and so less likely to discover his surveillance devices.

From what he could see the kitchen appeared to have been recently modernized, the appliances were new, the pots and pans bright and not battered. A huge walk-in freezer occupied all of one wall, filled, no doubt, or soon to be, with expensive delicacies for ostensible gourmands who were probably too stupid to appreciate their bounty. That fit with the remodeling and redecorating he had noted elsewhere while placing bugs and cameras. Clearly no effort had been spared to make the old castle fit for THRUSH royalty. He and Solo were just lucky that no one had decided to rebuild the pantry while they were at it.

"What's so interesting?" Solo whispered in his ear.

Illya managed not to jump, somehow, but his pulse was thundering so loudly in his ears it took him a moment to regroup and answer. "Nothing. Just reconnoitering." He eased the slide back into place. "You didn't call me."

"I'm feeling a little better."

"Good. The aspirin must be working."

Solo nodded. "I think the food helped too. Now if I just had a couple of Ace bandages I'd be set."

"I have three in my knapsack."

Solo lifted his gaze toward the ceiling and folded his hand together with a look of piety. "Thank you, Lord, for sending me a guardian angel."

"In the form of a godless unbeliever," Illya said drily. "Come, I'll make a mummy of you."

"I don't think that's physically possible," Solo said, leaning on him only a little as they started back.

Illya sighed and shook his head, and let that one alone. By the time they had reached the main room and Illya had wrapped Solo's midriff tightly enough in elastic bandages to give his injured ribs some support, Solo's brief surge of energy had flagged again, and he barely protested when Illya ordered him into the bed. He slept quietly, not snoring or tossing, and the sound of his steady breathing was oddly soothing in the quiet as Illya read the brittle copy of The Three Musketeers he'd found in the trunk under the bedding. It was nice to have something to read, and even nicer that it was in the original French. He liked to keep up his language skills.

He blessed his good fortune in having something to do when it turned out to be nearly four hours before his periodic checks of the pantry revealed that all was dark and quiet. Glad to finally be able to get to work, he emptied his knapsack of everything but his toolkit and the last few devices he needed to plant, then headed out to finish his task.

* * *

Illya's fingers were so stiff and he was shivering so hard that it took him three tries to get the door to open, hoping all the while that the cooks didn't come in to start breakfast while he was standing there fumbling with the door mechanism. He was ravenous, too, and it was tempting to steal some food, but he couldn't be sure the items wouldn't be missed and he'd almost been caught once already. Finally he triggered the release and the door scraped open. He slipped through it and turned to reclose it quickly, only to find other fingers already there doing it for him. He was too exhausted to really startle, but he did have a moment of slightly feeble hope that it wasn't a guard.

"Where the hell have you been?" Solo hissed as the door closed, leaving them in total darkness. "You've been gone forever!"

"Sorry, there were . . . complications." Illya leaned against the wall, the flush of relief he felt at discovering the other person was just Solo dissipating the last of the adrenaline that had kept him going. "Why are you out of bed?"

"Because I was about to come looking for you," Solo said irritably. "I thought you'd been caught."

"Not quite, just almost," Illya admitted. "If not for the fortuitous intervention of a mouse-chasing feline I would have been."

There was a click, and sudden light made him flinch as Solo swung the torch his way. He winced away from it, but felt Solo grip his arm.

"Come . . . what the . . . you're soaking wet!"

"I commend your powers of observation." His eyes adjusted to the light, and he pushed himself away from the wall and began to walk away from Solo, to where he knew there would be warmth.

"And you're limping."

"That's nothing." Right on cue his knee locked up and he stumbled. Solo was at his side in an instant a warm hand on his shoulder, the contrast making Illya feel even colder.

"Nothing? It doesn't look like nothing."

"Really, it is. It's old. It just stiffens in the cold. I'm uninjured."

"All well and good, but you're wet, and your lips are starting to match your eyes, which isn't as attractive as it might sound." Solo helped him upright, and this time kept a hand on his arm as they walked.

"I had to hide outside on a ledge. It's raining."

"For how long?"

"How should I know how long it's been raining?" Illya snapped irritably. "It was raining when I went out there and it was still raining when I came back in." They finally made it back to the main room and Illya headed over to the stove, crouching to open the load door and look inside, glad to see the embers were still live.

"I meant how long on the ledge," Solo said, handing him a smallish piece of wood.

Illya pushed it carefully into the stove, setting it well amongst the coals. "I wasn't looking at my watch, I had to use my hands to hold onto the wall. How long was I gone?"

"About four hours."

"Then I was outside about three hours."

Solo muttered a curse under his breath. "You're probably hypothermic, or close to it. Strip down."

Illya didn't argue, just started peeling off his soaked clothing as Solo retrieved a blanket from the bed. Once he'd shed his clothes, Solo wrapped the blanket around him.

"Don't they pay you European agents? You're skin and bones."

"Send it home," Illya muttered, yawning, ambushed by fatigue.

"Keep enough to live on, idiot, you can't support anyone if you starve," Solo admonished, and steered him toward the bed. "Get in, I'll add some wood to the fire."

He sat down on the bed and looked at the cupboard. "I'm hungry," he complained.

Solo pawed through the contents of Illya's knapsack which he'd left behind on the table, coming up with one of the chocolate bars. He unwrapped it and handed it to Illya. "Here. Eat."

Illya did so, savoring the rich taste, the way the candy melted even in his cold mouth, and the way it made his stomach shut up. Solo went back over to the stove and stoked it, filled a pan from the pitcher of water Illya had drawn earlier, and set it on the stove to heat. Then he picked up Illya's clothes from where he'd dropped them and draped them over the backs of the chairs, setting his boots close to the stove to dry out. It was nice to have someone do those things for him. Usually he would have had to do it all himself. After a few moments he realized something that had been nagging at him for a while, but his thinking had been too fuzzy to make the connection.

"Solo?"

"Why don't you make it Napoleon? And yes?"

"Napoleon," Illya said obediently. "I am not shivering."

Solo stared at him for a long moment, and oddly, Illya could tell the moment the import of that statement sank in, despite the fact that his expression didn't really alter from one of mild curiosity. Only his eyes betrayed his concern. He looked over at the water he'd just put on the stove and shook his head. "Damn it," he swore softly. "That's not ready yet." He frowned, then came over to the bed and tapped Illya's shoulder. "Lie down. You're too cold and I'm too hot, hopefully together we'll average."

Illya stretched out. Solo stripped to his briefs and bandages and slid in beside him, wrapping an arm around his waist. He was wonderfully warm, and Illya sighed, pressing closer. Solo's hands began to move on his skin, their warmth just past pleasant and into painful as the chafing began to restore blood flow. Illya squirmed and pushed at Solo, fighting the discomfort.

"Cut it out," Solo growled, rolling over on top of him, pinning him.

He was well-fed-American solid, and his weight was more than Illya could move at the moment, muzzy-headed as he was. Some part of him knew Solo was trying to help, so he stopped struggling and let Solo do as he wished. Warm hands cupped his face, warm fingers rubbed gently at cold cheeks, and nose, and eyelids, then moved up to massage his scalp as warm breath was exhaled over first one ear and then the other. That sensation made him shiver responsively, and it was as if that gave his whole body permission to unlock. He started to shiver in earnest then, great, nearly convulsive shudders.

"That's it," Solo said encouragingly. "That's good." The warm body continued to blanket his, and the warm hands continued their roaming, down his neck, over his shoulders, down his arms, back up again, down his chest. Gradually the shivering lessened, becoming less fierce, and Solo pushed up on his hands, looking down at Illya. "I'm going to get up now," he said, and started to move away.

Illya locked his legs over Solo's. "No."

"It's okay, Illya, I'll just be a minute. The water must be hot now. Let go, all right?"

Illya sighed, and let go. "All right."

Solo slipped out of the bed and made a beeline for the stove, pouring some from the pan into a cup. Returning to the bed, he urged Illya to sit up and helped him wrap his fingers around the mug, whose contents steamed visibly. "Drink this, it'll help."

Obediently Illya lifted it and drank some of the hot liquid. It was almost hot enough to scald, but not quite. He made a face. "Too weak."

Solo frowned. "You're too weak to swallow?"

Illya shook his head. "The tea. It's too weak. Should be stronger. And I like it sweet."

Solo chuckled. "I'll remember that for next time, but sorry, pardner, it's not tea, just hot water. We don't have any tea, or any coffee for that matter, either of which would be welcome at this point."

"Oh." Illya sipped some more. "Is. . . it's not so bad, then." By the time he'd finished the entire cup, his shivers had waned to gentle, intermittent tremors, and his mind was starting to focus again. "Another?" he asked, holding out the cup.

Solo filled it again and gave it back to him. Illya drank more quickly this time, and when he'd finished he set the cup down on the floor next to the bed and stretched out again, reaching to pull the blanket back around himself.

"Shove over," Solo ordered, and when Illya obeyed, slid in behind him, still a welcome source of warmth.

Illya leaned back into him gratefully. After a moment Solo's hands started moving over his shoulders and chest, warm palms occasionally straying to his flanks before moving back up. It was comforting, and oddly hypnotic. The realization that he was starting to get hard made it clear that it was also more than a little sensual. He reached out and caught Solo's wrists in his hands. "Stop now."

There was a moment of silence, and then Solo tugged his hands free and slipped out of the bed on the other side, bending to pick up his clothing. After a moment he turned, undershirt and trousers held loosely in his hands. "I . . . ah. . . I'm sorry if I made you uncomfortable."

Illya looked at Solo, registering the flush of color in his face, and the awkward way he held his clothes. He held a ten-second debate with himself, but the conclusion was inevitable. He'd discovered some time back that a surprising number of his fellow agents were more . . . flexible than the average person on the street. Perhaps something to do with the psychology of constant concealment, or the somewhat elastic morality they were required to cultivate. In any case, whether or not he was reading Solo correctly, there was no point in alienating him. "You didn't."

Solo studied him for long seconds, and then his lips curved upward ever so slightly. "Good. So then you. . . ?"

Illya felt a smile tugging at his own mouth. "Right now I just need to concentrate on getting warm."

"Of course. I understand completely."

"Good." Illya paused for a beat, and then lifted an eyebrow. "Speaking of getting warm, unless you feel it would put too great a strain on our acquaintance, your company would still be a help."

There was no hesitation. Solo was back in the bed in a heartbeat, his clothing once more abandoned on the floor. He kept his hands to himself this time, though, just supplying a source of radiant heat. After a moment he spoke. "So what happened up there?"

"I was in the grand solar putting in the second bug, when I heard voices in the hall. I managed to roll behind a couch just as the door opened and two guards came in, talking between themselves about having heard something and debating what it had been."

Solo shifted a little, pulling the blanket up over Illya's shoulders. "Sorry. You're still cold enough to radiate."

Illya nodded impatiently, and continued. "They started searching the room, and were seconds from finding me when there was a noise in the hallway and they both left to investigate. I took advantage of the moment to open the glass in the lancet window and squeeze through it. I barely fit, and it was impossible to close the window again. I had to block the gap with my body to keep the wind and rain from alerting them to the open window. They came back in, laughing at having been startled by a cat, and proceeded to settle in with a bottle of wine and a deck of cards. I had to wait for them to go off to bed before I could go back inside."

"Why didn't you climb to a different window in another room?"

Illya laughed humorlessly. "You'll understand the answer to that when we leave here. Let's just say it was not an option."

"I see," Solo said, though he clearly didn't. "We can try to plant that bug tomorrow night."

Illya shook his head. "No need. I did it before I came back here."

Solo shook his head and gave a low whistle. "You're something else."

"What would you have done?"

There was a short pause, and a sigh. "Probably the same thing. Except I'm not sure I'd have fit through the window if you almost didn't."

"True," Illya said, reaching back to pat Solo's hip. "But that's nothing a few weeks retraining at Survival School wouldn't cure."

His wrist was caught in an iron grip. "Watch it, buster."

Illya chuckled, and Solo dropped his wrist in favor of wrapping both hands around his throat in a mock-strangulation. "You're a cheeky little bastard, aren't you?"

"Mm," Illya said noncommittally. "I beat your score, you know."

Solo's hands relaxed. "I do know that. I told you I'd heard of you. Jules made sure of that."

"Mr. Cutter does like to foster rivalries, it's one of his 'excellence' techniques."

"One I think does more harm than good, frankly."

Illya nodded, and suddenly yawned. "Sorry, long night."

"For both of us. Time to sleep."

"Candles," Illya said.

Solo sighed. "Bossy, too."

"But right."

"Yeah, yeah." Solo got up again and went around the room dousing the candles before returning to the bed. When he'd settled in again, he wrapped an arm around Illya's waist and tucked the other one under the folded blanket that served them as a pillow. "Night sweetie," he said insincerely.

"Good night, dear," Illya echoed, smiling into the darkness, his eyelids already closing.

"You only beat two of them, anyway," Solo said.

"Go to sleep," Illya said, his grin even wider.

It had been three.

* * *

Illya woke up feeling overheated, and it took him a moment to remember where he was and why there was someone extremely warm plastered up against his back. When the puzzle pieces clicked into place, he realized the aspirin had worn off and Solo's fever had elevated again. Carefully so as not to wake Solo, Illya eased himself out of the bed and groped for the torch that lay on the floor beside it, shielding it with his hand so he could find and reclaim his clothing, which fortunately had dried during the night. Turning off the torch, he dressed quietly and then sat down to think.

In the cold light of morning- well, actually the cold dark of morning since the candles weren't lit and the stove had gone out- he was appalled by his lack of discretion. Clearly he'd been more affected by the incipient hypothermia than he'd realized, to have come so close to flat out telling Solo things best kept hidden. In fact, taking a step back to analyze everything that had occurred since he'd found Solo, he was honestly confused both by his own actions, and Solo's.

It suddenly seemed oddly coincidental that Solo had turned up in a totally different country from where he was supposed to be, in a place where Illya hadn't planned on being, either. Not being a big believer in destiny, Illya wondered if his informant in Porto had set him up to find Solo here.

Perhaps Solo had been conditioned in some way? No. Ridiculous thought. It was simply too farfetched. Not only had Solo not been missing long enough to have been conditioned, Illya had seen no sign of the sophisticated sort of set up that would have required. No drugs, no audio-visual devices, not even a doctor, mad or otherwise.

Alternatively, he supposed Jules Cutter's rivalry-fostering might have succeeded a bit too well and Solo had seized the opportunity to secure blackmail material on a potential competitor. Again, farfetched.

Apart from the fact that UNCLE knew about the sexual proclivities of its agents thus making blackmail unlikely to succeed, there was also the fact that he'd never heard a truly negative word about Napoleon Solo from anyone who'd worked with him. That didn't put him completely above suspicion, but though he'd heard griping about Solo's incessant womanizing and his 'damnable luck' as someone had put it, everyone seemed to agree he was a top-notch agent.

Apart from all of that, for reasons he could not explain, Illya trusted him. It made no sense at all and he would probably end up regretting it, but there it was. He sighed, frustrated both by his own absurd paranoia and his inability to force events or his own emotions to fit a logical pattern.

A soft sound brought him to alert, but then he identified it as the creak of the bed-ropes and relaxed. Solo must have turned over. A moment later he heard a soft mutter, then a louder gasp, followed by . . .

"Illya?"

He resisted the urge to correct Solo's pronunciation. "Here." He found the matches on the table and lit a candle. Solo's face looked pale in the faint light, and shiny with sweat. "More aspirin?"

"Please," Solo gritted. "Just one. Rationing."

Illya nodded. It was a wise idea, as their supply was limited and their stay indefinite. He got out an aspirin, poured a cup of water from the now-cold pan on the stove, and took both over to Solo, helping him sit up since his cracked ribs made it difficult to do on his own. Solo took the aspirin, downing it and the entire cup of water, and then leaned back against Illya with a sigh.

"Thanks."

Illya nodded. Solo tilted his head to look at Illya. "So do you usually sit around in the dark?"

"I didn't want to wake you, and I suspected the smell of a match used to light a candle would do so."

"You're probably right. Thanks."

"I'm concerned about the fever," Illya said after a moment. "Considering the beating you took, it could mean peritonitis."

Solo shook his head. "I think it's just a bug. I was feeling a little off even before they worked me over."

"Are you sure? You've no abdominal pain?"

Solo considered the question and then shrugged. "I can't say I have no pain, but I think I'd know if it was bad enough to be peritonitis."

"Where does it hurt?"

Solo made an ambiguous gesture toward his right lower abdomen, and Illya frowned, some vague memory about appendicitis and the McBurney Point surfacing. "Lie down."

"Why?"

"I want to check something."

Solo sighed, and maneuvered himself back down. "Fine. Happy?"

"Not yet." Illya tugged Solo's briefs down to his hipbone on the right side, mentally estimated where two-thirds of the way from there to the navel was, and pressed on the spot firmly. Solo made a strangled sort of coughing sound, and Illya looked up at his face, which sported a tortured-looking smile. "Did that hurt?"

Solo shook his head, and this time the sound he made was definitely a laugh, not a cough. "No, it tickled. And if you ever tell anyone I'm ticklish, I promise you will live to regret it."

Arranging his face into the most solemn lines he could manage, Illya held up a hand. "Your secret is safe, I swear it on Lenin's Tomb."

For a few seconds Solo looked relieved, but then his eyes narrowed. "Safe from everyone but you," he grumbled.

Illya gave him an arch look. "Didn't the estimable Mr. Cutter teach you to never forget a potential tactical advantage?"

"Uh huh. So what's your secret weakness?"

"I could tell you," Illya began.

"But then you'd have to kill me," Solo finished.

Illya felt a shiver go through him, and shook it off, giving Solo a bland smile he hoped disguised his sudden discomfort. "Precisely. Are you hungry? There are some twenty-year-old oats in a sealed canister. They may even still be edible."

Solo nodded, and Illya turned away to go find the container of oats. He felt a little rattled. The level of rapport he and Solo seemed to have established and the ease with which they had done so was completely disconcerting to him. He simply didn't . . . connect to people like this. Not often, at any rate. Certainly not since he'd come to the West, cultural barriers had seen to that. The severity of his rattled state was clear when he realized, after filling the pan with water and setting it on the stove, that he hadn't kindled the fire yet, and breakfast would be a good long while coming.

As he shaved some kindling off a larger log with his knife, he felt Solo watching him, and looked up, surprising a slight frown on the other man's face. "Is there a problem?"

Solo shook his head. "No. I was just . . . are you always so . . . efficient?"

Illya blinked at him in confusion. "What?"

"Never mind. I'm just jealous," Solo said with a sigh. "I'm guessing breakfast will be a while?"

Illya nodded, ducking his head to watch the shavings curl onto the floor, hoping the position hid the flush on his face. "Yes. I should have lit the fire when I got up."

Solo chuckled. "Oh, thank God, something you didn't do right the first time. I may get out of here with a shred of ego intact."

"From what I've heard, that shouldn't be a problem," Illya shot back, though as soon as it was out of his mouth he wished he could recall it. What on earth was wrong with him? "I'm sorry, I shouldn't . . ."

Solo held up a hand, shaking his head, smiling a little. "It's all right. I know what my reputation's like. And it's not entirely undeserved. However, I think you, of all people, understand that what some people call egotism can be something else entirely."

He held Illya's gaze challengingly, but it still took Illya a moment to realize that he'd just been tarred with his own brush. When it sank in, he started to smile. "Indeed. Sadly, not everyone does." They stared at each other for a moment, that sense of accord springing up again, weirdly intense, until Illya felt like he needed to say something, anything. He cleared his throat. "I should start the fire."

Solo nodded, breaking eye contact, and Illya turned away to open the stove and arrange kindling and wood in the fire-box, relieved, but still somewhat perplexed by his own actions and reactions. Maybe he was a little stir-crazy from being confined in such close quarters with Solo. He chose not to dwell on the fact that he'd been out of the room for hours the previous night.

"So who all is invited to this THRUSH shindig?" Solo asked, and Illya heard the bedropes creak as Solo changed position.

"Oh, the usual suspects. Marton, Gervais, Boyer, Nicopolous, Olivetti, I'm sure the other names are just as familiar."

There was a brief silence. Illya lit the kindling and waited to see if it caught. Finally Solo spoke.

"An entire Who's Who of THRUSH will be gathered in one place and all we're doing is planting bugs?" he asked incredulously. "Why aren't we calling in a missile strike?"

"Because we're the good guys, remember?" Illya said, standing up, satisfied the fire had caught.

Solo sighed. "Right. Right. For a minute there I forgot. There are times it would be so much easier to be on the other side."

Illya nodded. "This is true." He took out the can opener and went to work on the tin of oats with the can-opener from the second trunk. "I often must remind myself that THRUSH is more like a hydra than a dragon. Cut off one head, or even several, and the rest still lives, and grows new heads to replace the old."

"How very literary of you," Solo said, and Illya could feel him watching, like a physical thing. "Speaking of literature, were there any more books or did you get the only one?"

"There was only one, but you're welcome to it, if you read French."

"Actually, I do. Want me to read aloud while you cook? It would pass the time."

Illya almost declined the offer, but Solo sounded a little plaintive. He was probably bored. It wouldn't hurt anything, and he was right, it would pass the time. He put down the tin and paused a moment to whittle a couple of spills from one of the logs, which he lit from the candle on the table and then went around the room lighting other candles so there would be enough light to read by. He wished there was kerosene for the lanterns but the jug of lantern fuel he'd found in the wardrobe had long since evaporated. Once he had the candles lit, he picked up the book from the table and took it over to Solo.

"Where did you leave off?" Solo asked, flipping through the pages.

"You can start from the beginning," Illya said, going back to the can-opener. "It will read better that way."

Solo shrugged, opened the book, and began to read. He had a pleasant voice, but a very unusual accent. It certainly wasn't continental, or Asian, or Caribbean, which didn't leave many options. Illya finally decided it was most likely Qubcois. Illya had never been to Quebec or spoken with anyone from there, so it was the one accent he wasn't familiar with.

By the time the stove had heated up enough to cook on, Solo was on chapter three, and his voice was getting a little husky. Illya poured another cup of water and took it over to him. As Solo drank it Illya studied him curiously.

"I thought you were an American."

"I am."

"Ah. Did you attend school in Canada?"

Solo smirked. "No. Try again."

Illya thought for a moment, and then nodded. "Your mother?"

That time Solo made a face. "Lucky guess."

"There weren't many other options. Do you want to keep reading or rest your voice?"

"How long until breakfast?"

"Ten minutes, give or take."

"I'll read until then. After we eat maybe we can do something else."

"Such as?"

"I don't know. Play chess?"

"No chess set."

"We could improvise. You have any loose change? Maybe a piece of paper?"

"Both. We'll see what we can do with them later."

Solo nodded and went back to reading. He was good at making the voices sound individual, just the way Illya's mother could. It made the story more interesting. Illya went back to stirring oatmeal until it seemed to be done, then he spooned, or rather, shoveled it into two bowls. He had some vague idea that Americans ate their oatmeal sweetened, so he went to the cupboard and got out the jar of what he was fairly sure was some kind of jam. The seal broke with a tiny hiss as he opened it, and the paraffin layer over the contents was clean and intact.

He fished out the paraffin and stuck a finger into the contents, and then brought it out again and sucked it off. Sticky. Sweet. Fruity. Definitely jam. Plum, unless he missed his guess. Sudden silence made him look up to find Solo staring at him, lips slightly parted as if caught mid-word by shock. Embarrassed, Illya yanked his finger from his mouth, feeling himself flush again. He sometimes forgot how obsessed with cleanliness Americans were. "Sorry. I was just checking to see what it was. I should have used a spoon."

Solo shut his mouth, swallowed, and shook his head, waving a hand nonchalantly. "Don't feel you have to use the good silver on my account. I'm a field agent. I can eat ants with the best of 'em."

Illya relaxed a little and shared a commiseratory smile with Solo. That had been the worst part of survival school, in his opinion. He hadn't complained, but there was a small part of him that thought growing up in Ukraine during the thirties should have exempted him from having to go through that again. He set the jar on the table, plunked the bowls down on either side and looked at Solo again. "Do you need help getting up?"

Solo shook his head, pushing against the bed with both hands to help lever himself up slowly and obviously painfully. "Nah," he said a little breathlessly. "I can do it." Illya let him, knowing how annoying it was to be fussed over, and Solo made his way over to the table, the blanket wrapped around himself in lieu of clothing. As he settled onto the chair and arranged the folds of cloth he pointed to his ribs. "I'll probably ask you to rewrap the bandages soon. They've loosened up."

Illya nodded, taking his own seat. Napoleon looked at the jar between them and lifted his eyebrows. "So, what is it?"

"Plum jam, I believe. There's no sugar or syrup, so I thought you might like it for the cereal."

Solo looked around, puzzled. "Cereal?"

Equally puzzled, Illya pointed at his bowl. "Cereal. Is there another word I should use?"

Solo shook his head, laughing. "No, no, of course it's cereal. I just. . . for a minute there I was looking for the corn flakes. We tend to forget, back home, that oatmeal was cereal a long time before corn flakes and puffed rice were."

"Then Americans don't generally call oatmeal 'cereal'?" Solo shook his head, and Illya filed the tidbit away. "Good to know. Idioms are very important."

Solo reached for the jam and put two spoonsful in his oatmeal, stirring it around. "You know, you don't sound Russian," he said, lifting a bite to his lips.

"Thank you," Illya said, and then took his own first bite. It needed salt and butter, but it was certainly better than starving.

Solo swallowed and looked around. "Water?"

Illya got up and retrieved Solo's cup from beside the bed, filled it, and placed it near his hand. "I wouldn't do this if you weren't injured."

"Of course not," Solo agreed, picking up the cup and taking a drink. After he put it down again he looked over at Illya, who had resumed his place and his meal. "You know, when I said you didn't sound Russian that was supposed to be a conversational opening. You were supposed to tell me why you don't sound Russian."

"Ah. Well, it's because I work at it. Sounding Russian is a liability in the . . ." he caught himself just before he identified his Soviet alma mater, and while he might trust Solo personally, there were things he was much better off not revealing; ". . . in our profession. I attended a very rigorous language school before coming to the West. We were docked a day's pay for every dropped article after the first month. Our professors were all from Oxford, or Cambridge, except for the one who was an actor with the Royal Shakespeare Company."

"No Americans? No Texans, or Minnesotans, or even any Hollywood actors?"

"No. You see, when you speak English frequently, the accent tends to creep into your native speech, and no one wanted to sound American. It makes your friends and family nervous."

Solo stared at him for a moment, frowning, but then he slowly nodded. "I never thought of it that way, but I, ah, guess can see how it might, all things considered."

"All things considered." Illya echoed, and then returned to his oatmeal. It definitely needed butter and salt. Surely the kitchen wouldn't miss a bit of either. They weren't the sort of thing one measured strictly in a kitchen. And tea. Even the bagged sort would be better than nothing. Coffee would be nice as well, but he had a feeling a percolator would be missed. Later he would have to see about obtaining a few more supplies. After a few moments of silence, it occurred to him that Solo had been making a friendly overture, and he looked up to find Solo watching him. Immediately the other agent looked down at his bowl, swirling his spoon around in the oats with great interest.

"What's it like, working for Waverly?" Illya asked after a few seconds of casting around for a likely topic.

Solo gave a wry smile. "Terrible. And great. One minute he's a cold-blooded son of a bitch without any regard for human frailty, and the next minute he understands something about you that you've never mentioned to anyone, let alone him, and is making allowances for it. Sometimes you want to throttle him, and sometimes you want to go down on your knees and thank God for letting you work for a man like that. He'll never let you down when you really need him. He expects a hundred and ten percent, and somehow despite everything, you never do less than that for him. I'm sure you know what I mean."

Illya stared at him blankly, and shook his head. "Frankly, no." He shrugged. "Leadership, in my experience, has little to do with personal effort. One does one's best because it's what one does. It's a matter of pride."

Solo studied him for a long moment, and then shook his head. "I'm sorry to hear that. I mean, not that you take pride in your work, I could tell that from the moment we met, but that you've never had the chance to work for someone like Alexander Waverly. I hope someday that changes."

Illya quirked a smile his way. "As do I, which is why mine is one of those many transfer applications from Europe we spoke of yesterday."

Solo's gaze narrowed. "After my job, are you, Mr. Kuryakin?"

Illya shook his head. "It will take me a year or two to become conversant enough with the customs, conventions, and interstate highway system of America to even think about going after your job, Mr. Solo, so you are safe for now."

"Pretty sure you'll make the transfer list, eh?"

"Mr. Waverly, as you have mentioned, is no fool."

Solo chuckled. "That he's not." He lifted his cup in a mock salute. "I look forward to seeing where you land. I have a feeling there'll be quite an impact crater."

Illya felt his own smile widen. "Oh, no, Mr. Solo, I have never blown a dismount."

"Dismount?" Solo lifted an eyebrow with a slightly salacious expression.

Illya wondered what double-entendre he was missing. He wasn't about to let on he didn't know. "I was a gymnast, back home," he explained.

"Ah." Solo looked faintly disappointed. "In any case, I'll be watching your career with interest. And it's Napoleon, remember? You used my name last night, why are we back to formal now?"

Illya thought about it for a moment, and smiled a little. "I suppose it seemed more natural to call you by your first name when we were both unclothed."

Solo's eyebrows lifted again, and he licked oatmeal off his spoon suggestively. "That's easily remedied."

Illya snorted and applied himself to finishing his meal. Solo sighed after a moment and followed suit. He also finished eating first. Probably because without salt and butter, Illya found the oatmeal a little difficult to choke down. He kept reminding himself that food was food and he was lucky to have it, but after living in the decadent West, his tongue had somehow gotten the idea that food was supposed to have flavor. A slight clinking sound made him look up to find Solo holding the jam, tapping the jar with his spoon, a query on his face. Illya thought about it for a moment, and then held out his hand for the jar.

Two spoonsful of jam helped immensely.

"Thattaboy," Solo said, smugly as Illya finished his meal. "As skinny as you are, every calorie counts."

Illya schooled his expression to blandness as he collected their dishes. He'd had a rough year so far. He'd been in hospital three times, once with pneumonia after a session of Thrush water-torture, a second time with a relapse of said pneumonia after trying to go back to work too soon, and most recently some sort of nasty intestinal thing he'd picked up in Africa. None of that had helped his physique and he knew it, but he wasn't going to let Solo provoke him into being defensive.

"We are not all fortunate enough to live in a land of . . . plenty," he said with a quick glance at Solo's blanket-swathed midsection. Solo looked down at himself, frowning, and Illya hid his grin by turning away to take the dishes to the basin to wash them. A moment later he heard a rustling sound, and a soft grunt of effort, and then he sensed Solo's presence behind him.

"You cooked, I should wash," he said.

Well, that was a surprise. He hadn't figured Solo the sort to volunteer for a menial task. He turned around to see if the offer was serious, and found himself almost nose-to-nose with Solo, who had left his blanket at the table and was attired in nothing but Ace bandages and white cotton briefs. And was sucking in his stomach in a way that had to make his ribs ache.

"Would you like me to rewrap those before you do the dishes?" Illya queried, slipping a finger beneath the edge of the lower bandage. "They've definitely become loose."

Solo sighed. "Please," he said, wincing a little as his stomach muscles relaxed.

The relaxation didn't make that much difference in Solo's girth, which was really quite acceptable and only a tiny bit soft. His own belly could betray a similar softness when he was healthy. Illya felt vaguely guilty about inciting that wince, but only vaguely. If Solo was going to make personal remarks, he deserved what he got. "Come over to the light."

Solo followed him closer to the cluster of candles on the table and stood patiently while Illya unwound and then rewound the bandages. The activity gave Illya the opportunity to study him in more detail than he'd previously been able. Not a tall man, he was perhaps an inch or two over Illya's own height, barrel-chested, with strong shoulders and smooth, fair skin that contrasted strikingly with his dark hair and eyes. He had that peculiarly American almost-triangular silhouette, though his quadriceps and gluteus muscles were better than most. Truthfully there was little to twit him about as far as his body went, with the exception of slightly underdeveloped calf-muscles. He should run more. And Illya would have to have been blind to miss the soft, heavy curve beneath the white cotton briefs in front. He made it a point to look away quickly, but the image lingered in his mind's eye.

He finished wrapping the second bandage and clipped it in place, thinking that it would probably be a good idea to make sure they didn't share the bed again. The need to keep watch should take care of that, one could sleep while the other watched. He stepped back. "There. All finished," he said, patting Solo's shoulder in a comradely fashion. Solo's skin was warm and silken under his hand.

"Thank you. Ah, do you think you could help me get my pants on? It kind of hurts to bend over."

"Certainly." Illya crossed over to the bed to pick up Solo's trousers where they lay on the floor beside it, and his undershirt as well. The trousers weren't in bad shape but the shirt reeked of stale sweat and was stiff with blood in places. Illya realized at once why Solo had only asked for his trousers. He wrinkled his nose and headed for the stove with the shirt, opening the load door.

"Hey!" Solo protested. "That's the only shirt I have."

Illya used a stick to push it into the flames, watching with satisfaction as it caught fire. "It is not, however, the only one I have. You may borrow one of mine. You don't want to put that back on."

"I wasn't looking forward to it, no," Solo agreed.

Illya went to the pile of things he'd removed from his knapsack before setting out the night before, and pulled out the heavy jumper he'd packed. Hand knit of charcoal-grey wool, it was a favorite. He'd picked it up in Ireland for ridiculously little money, but it was a little large and so should fit Solo reasonably well. Retrieving the trousers from where he'd dropped them on the bed, he returned to Solo's side and knelt to help him into them. Solo hesitated for a moment and Illya looked up at him to see why. The slightly unfocused expression on Solo's face and the increasingly prominent swell beneath his briefs explained it all too well.

Clearly he hadn't been imagining things last night. For a moment he was tempted, but . . . technically he was on a mission, and even if he weren't, Solo's bruised ribs would make things problematic to say the least, so Illya dropped his gaze and pretended not to have noticed as he helped Solo step into his trousers, then drew them up to his waist and held them there while Solo fastened them.

It was difficult though, to stand so close and feign indifference when he wasn't indifferent at all. He liked Solo, and that seemed to be mutual, something of a rarity in his experience. And Solo was his type, if he could be said to have a type; not too large, attractive, dark-haired, smart-mouthed, and with something indefinable about him that hinted he might not mind being on the bottom in bed from time to time.

"All done now, thanks."

Solo's dry tone brought Illya out of his thoughts to realize he was still holding the man's trousers up when there was no need. He stepped back immediately and held out the jumper. "Now this?"

Solo looked at him for a long moment, then at the cloth bunched in his hand, and finally shook his head. "After I finish the dishes. Otherwise I'll just get the sleeves wet and that's annoying."

Illya nodded and draped the jumper over the back of a chair and then went back to his stash, rooting out the small field notebook he always carried. Tearing out several sheets, he folded the edges together to make a single, larger page and then took that, his pen, and all the change he could find back to the table where he sat and began sectioning the paper into an eight by eight grid, shading every other square.

Finishing that, he sorted out his change. He had twenty-one pennies, which gave him enough to use one for each pawn with some left over. The thrupences with their crowned portcullises went for rooks, four shield-embossed half-crowns became the knights, four sixpence featuring ships became bishops, and he used shillings, face and reverse, for the kings and queens.

"Remind me not to volunteer for dish duty when it's oatmeal," Solo said, coming to stand next to him. "That stuff dries like glue. Hey! You did it!" He sounded, and looked, delighted.

"You asked."

"Yeah, but I didn't think you would. You play?"

"Would I know how to make a chessboard if I didn't?"

"Ah, good point." Solo reached for the jumper on the chair and started to pull it on, then stopped abruptly with a wince. "Ouch."

"Need help with that, too?" Illya asked.

Solo made a face. "Yes, please."

Illya stood and bunched the jumper so he could slide it up one arm, over Solo's head, and then thread the other arm through the sleeve. He realized that Solo must have washed himself up as well as the dishes, because he didn't reek like his shirt had. He smelled clean, and a little like the soap Illya had stolen from the kitchen. Good, really.

"Honestly, I can dress myself, at least under normal circumstances."

Damn it. Daydreaming again. He yanked the jumper the rest of the way down and resumed his seat. "White or black?"

"How can you tell which is which?"

"We'll just have to remember."

Solo eyed him, and shrugged. "All right." He sat down across from Illya. "Black."

Illya hid his surprise. Interesting choice. He wondered if it was confidence or curiosity that prompted it. He considered his first move for a few moments, and then made it. Solo considered longer, and countered. When next he looked at his watch it had been nearly three hours, and he'd lost the game in all but name, and developed a healthy respect for Solo's strategic abilities. He reached out and turned over his king, conceding.

"Care for another game?" Solo asked with a sharky smile, fingers sliding the coins around on the paper like a shell-game barker, lining them up in their proper places.

"Not at the moment," Illya said regretfully. "I need to get some sleep so I can keep watch tonight."

A flash of disappointment crossed Solo's face, and Illya wondered briefly if it was for the game or for the realization that they wouldn't be sharing the bed again, but the expression was gone too quickly to really be analyzed as Solo nodded.

"Good idea." He picked up The Three Musketeers from where it lay on the table and opened it, shifting a little so the light fell more evenly on the pages. "Sleep well."

"Thank you." Illya stripped off his trousers and polo-neck, and slid into bed, closing his eyes, clearing his mind, slowing his breathing. Within moments he felt the telltale tug of unconsciousness and let himself go.

* * *

Illya woke to the growling clench of an empty stomach, and the feel of warm fingers on his upper arm. He opened his eyes, finding himself almost nose to nose with Solo. "Yes?"

"It's been four hours. I made lunch, or maybe dinner, it's kind of halfway in between. You hungry?"

"Always." Illya put a hand on the side of the bed and pushed himself up. Solo's hand fell away from his shoulder as he did, sliding down his arm, fingers tracing the curves of his triceps, biceps, then his forearm.

"All muscle," Solo murmured, withdrawing his hand. "Deceptive."

Illya smirked. "Useful."

"Very."

Solo held out a hand to help him up, but Illya shook his head, not wanting to strain the other man's sore ribs. He stood and stepped into his trousers, feeling Solo's gaze on his fingers as he fastened up the buttons.

"Where'd you find black BDT's?" he asked conversationally.

"Military surplus and a packet of dye. They are practical, comfortable, and wear like iron."

Solo chuckled nostalgically. "That I remember. There was a time I used to pray they'd wear out so I'd have an excuse to wear something else."

After a moment of confusion, Illya realized that Solo was letting him know he'd served in the military and that his dislike was predicated on the difference between having to wear them as opposed to doing so voluntarily. "My Naval uniform coat is very warm and fits quite well, yet I still prefer not to wear it unless I have to," he said, offering Solo a similar tidbit about himself.

A smile lit Solo's face but he made no comment, just nodded at the table. "Come on, chow time."

Solo had fortified a can of soup with a jar of preserved beans and another of potatoes, turning it into a sort of stew. The result was surprisingly good, and much more filling than the soup alone would have been. Once they'd finished the stew, there was tinned fruit for afters, and for the first time in days Illya's stomach didn't feel half empty when the meal was over. He collected the dishes and washed up, then returned to the table where Solo was blatantly fondling the makeshift chessboard.

"I'll take black this time," he said.

Solo didn't argue.

The game took longer this time. He was on his guard and playing with more focus. It helped, but not enough. Nearly five hours later, he pushed his chair away from the table and stood, stretching stiffened muscles, and offered Solo his hand. "Excellent play, Mr. Solo. I have not given up two games in a row since I left Kiev."

"Napoleon," Solo corrected, his grip strong and firm, his palm dry "Who did you play in Kiev?"

"My grandfather, lyukavye staryj rebanyok."

Solo looked puzzled. "I thought your name was Kuryakin. Or was it your maternal grandfather?"

Illya laughed. "It was indeed my maternal grandfather, but that wasn't his name, it was his title. Everyone who played him called him that. In English, it would be 'wily old bastard.'"

The corners of Solo's eyes crinkled in amusement. "Should I be flattered?"

"Immensely. It's a shame he's gone. It would have been interesting to see lyukavye staryj rebanyok play lyukavye molodoi rebanyok."

"Molodoi?" Solo queried, picking up on the change, but mangling the pronunciation.

"Young," Illya said. "If you will excuse me, I must use the loo."

Solo nodded and began to reset the board. Illya took the torch and made his way down the passage to do his business. On the way back, as he passed the kitchen exit, it struck him that he had heard no noises and smelled no food other than their own in some time. Curious, he opened the view slit and peered out. The kitchen was dark. Quiet. No sign of life. He frowned and looked at his watch, confirming the time. There should have been activity. The two cooks from last night should have been busy preparing supper for the guards. In fact, he would have thought the important guests would be arriving by now, making it even busier. Something was wrong.

Cautiously he opened the door and stepped into the kitchen. A quick glance around showed none of the supplies that had stocked the shelves the previous night were still in place. A look into the freezer confirmed that it too was empty. He went out into the dark corridor and listened intently, hearing not a sound that would betray occupation. Thoughtfully, he returned to their hiding place and closed the door behind himself. When he reached the main room, Solo looked up, studied his face, and frowned.

"Something wrong?"

"They're all gone." Illya said. "At least, from what I could tell with a brief reconnoiter."

"Gone?"

Illya nodded. "The place seems deserted." He thought for a moment, and then realized what must have happened, and swore. All that work for nothing.

"What?" Solo prompted at the curse.

"They've moved the conference. THRUSH must have concluded that with your escape the site was compromised, and moved the location of the conference."

Solo considered that for a moment, and then sighed. "Well, hell. Sorry about that."

Illya shrugged. "It couldn't be helped. The alternative was not acceptable."

"Thanks. So what now?"

"I should check in."

"They'll just tell us to come home."

"Probably."

They looked at each other for a long moment, possibilities and options clear. Illya looked away first. "I'll go call in."

"What's the hurry?"

Solo's voice stopped him in his tracks. He turned. "No hurry."

"We're not entirely sure they're all gone, are we?

"Ninety percent, I'd say."

"We should do a thorough check, though, just to be sure." Eyes bright, alive with humor, and . . . something else.

Illya nodded slowly. "True. And we should put away all of the things we used. And I should remove the surveillance devices. No point in wasting them."

"'Conservation of resources is the hallmark of a good UNCLE agent,'" Solo quoted from the lecture they'd clearly both received at orientation. "Besides, they might've left a clue as to where they've gone."

"True," Illya agreed, though it was highly unlikely. What was the point of abandoning one location for another if you were going to leave clues behind?

"Let's go, then."

It took them about an hour, working methodically, to search the castle and remove and store all of the surveillance devices. While Illya irritably yanked wires loose in the Grand Solar, Solo went to the room's sole window and opened it, looking down.

"Holy Cow."

"Excuse me?"

"Illya, there's no ledge there."

"I know."

"And it's got to be at least a two-hundred foot drop straight down the side of a mountain."

"I know."

Solo came over to stand next to him, taking one of Illya's hands in his, examining it minutely.

"What are you doing?" Illya asked, trying to free himself.

Solo let go and reached for the other one, turning his wrist upward to the light, stroking a finger up and down the flesh. "Looking for the suction cups. Or spinarets."

"What are you nattering on about?" Illya grumped, pulling his hand away, far too aware of the touch of Solo's fingers on the sensitive skin of his inner arm.

"For you to stay out there for three hours in the rain means you have to either be The Fly, or Spiderman."

It took Illya a moment to place the reference, and then his eyebrows shot up. "You read comic books?"

Solo grinned. "Guilty. So, which is it?" He took Illya's chin in his fingers and turned his head first one way and then the other. "You certainly have the jaw to be a super-hero."

Illya twitched himself free. "I told you, I was a gymnast."

"Darn. And here I thought I'd found out your secret," Solo purred.

Their gazes met again. Illya swallowed hard, and then turned away to finish his work. He felt Solo's eyes on him for several more moments before he returned to the window to close it, without further comment. For his own peace of mind, he decided it was time to contact Command. Predictably, once he did so, he was told to bring Solo to the Lisbon office immediately if not sooner. Solo grumbled a bit about having to hike down at nearly midnight to where Illya had hidden the car, but it was good-natured.

Halfway into their five-hour drive they stopped in Coimbra to break their fast with coffee and rolls which improved both of their moods and Illya's driving considerably. On arrival in Lisbon, Solo was whisked away to be examined, debriefed, and then rendered up unto Alexander Waverly as was his due.

According to the agent who took Illya's report, the Old Man himself had come to Lisbon to claim his not-so-fair-haired boy. Illya was dismissed after giving his report, and he took himself off to find a guest-house and a good eight hours' sleep before he was on the road again for the twenty hour drive it would take to get back to England.

* * *

Illya heard the crisp tread of bootheels stop in the corridor outside his cell, and tried not to tense, because he knew tensing would make things worse. He wrapped his numbed fingers more securely around the chains to his manacles, because that allowed him to take some of the weight from his wrists and shoulder joints. He heard the key in the lock, and closed his eyes, waiting for it to start, as it always started.

"Well, this is a fine mess you've gotten yourself into," a voice said, an amused, chocolatey baritone that he knew he should know. "What am I going to do with you my dear Mr. Kuryakin?"

Illya finally recognized the voice. Impossible. He strained to look over his shoulder to confirm what his ears told him. The movement made his fingers slip, and he dropped the length of the chains, wrenching his arms. He managed to keep the scream inside, except for a faint, whining exhale that became a name. "Solo?"

Solo swore softly, and arms wrapped around his thighs, bracing him, taking his weight, boosting him upward. "Can you grab them again?"

Illya nodded, and strained, and managed to catch the chains once more.

"Good. That's it. Now hold on, I need just a minute or two."

He nodded again, not trusting his voice. He closed his eyes again, focusing on his fingers, on keeping them strong and steady. The sound of metal scraping concrete impinged on his thoughts, and he realized Solo was moving the cot from the other side of the cell. Another moment, and hands touched his ankles, guiding his feet to a solid purchase on the cot.

"There. That's better." The mattress gave slightly and he froze, afraid it would tip, but it didn't. Solo's fingers touched his briefly, then he heard the faint metallic scratching sound of a pick in a lock. Seconds later the cuff on his left wrist sprang open and his arm fell to his side, deadweight. A few more seconds, and the right was free as well, and deprived of the prop the manacles had become, his body crumpled forward.

He heard Solo's boots hit the floor, felt himself caught and eased down to sit on the cot instead of hitting the hard floor. Not that it mattered. He was in agony anyway, fire coursing up and down his arms, across his shoulders, knives stabbing at his joints. He felt fingers on his chin, lifting his face.

"Illya? Illya, look at me."

He did, focusing on Solo's gaze, serious and intent. Noticing for the first time that his eyes were not brown, but a rich dark hazel.

"Can you walk?"

Whether or not he could, he had to. He had to get out of this place before THRUSH managed to break him. He forced his neck to move, his head to nod, and tried to put his hands on the cot to push himself to his feet. A whimper forced itself past his teeth as he fell back, his head knocking against the wall. He barely felt it, the discomfort subsumed, eaten whole by pre-existing pain.

"God damn them," Solo muttered. "Illya, do you trust me?"

The gaze that met his was steady. Did he trust Solo? "Yes," he managed to whisper, closing his eyes for a moment against the dizziness that admission cost him.

"I'm sorry, but it will be better this way."

At that, Illya opened his eyes again, and saw the barrel of Solo's weapon lift, aiming at him. A strange feeling of calm suffused him. It was better this way. As the saying went, dead men told no tales. He nodded, and closed his eyes to make it easier for Solo. He knew it was hard to kill a man when you were looking in his eyes.

The hiss of the silencer was like a benison.

* * *

Illya's first emotion on returning to consciousness was a sense of outrage. He had been so certain there was no afterlife that he was offended by the notion he'd been wrong. Then the pain in his shoulders and elbows and wrists reasserted itself and his second emotion was also outrage. That he should have to bear that pain in the afterlife, after everything he'd done for the cause of Good, seemed manifestly unfair. Although really, he knew better than to think life, or death, was fair.

Something soft and moist and warm touched the back of his neck, once, twice, three times, each time higher, a fleeting pressure, and his name was whispered quietly, regretfully. A moment later strong, fingers began to probe his shoulders, merciless as they worked his flesh, provoking shocks of sharper pain. He wrenched himself away, rolling over, opening his eyes.

The afterlife looked peculiarly like a shabby hotel room, and the demon who tortured him was curiously familiar.

"Napoleon?" he asked incredulously, his voice hoarse and rasping.

The smile that brought was bright enough to hurt his eyes. "It's about time you stopped calling me Solo."

"You shot me," Illya said, trying to understand how he could be alive, how Napoleon could have missed from point-blank range.

Napoleon held up a small feathered dart, like those used to tranquilize animals. "Sleep dart." Sudden dismay wrinkled his brow. "My God! You didn't really think I was going to kill you?"

Illya nodded, confused, and winced as the motion sent fire licking along his nerve endings. Napoleon stared at him, openmouthed, aghast.

"And you just let me?"

"Better you than them," Illya said, pragmatically. "Where did you get the dart?"

Solo was still frowning. "The new Special's been modified to take either bullets or darts. Didn't you know that? I thought all the branches had them now."

"We are always the last to get new toys," Illya said. "Please, have you any morphine? Codeine? Or failing that, whiskey? Even vodka?"

Regret chased the frown from Napoleon's face as he shook his head. "Sorry, the best I can do is aspirin. But if you let me, I might be able to help." He held up his hands, wiggling his fingers.

Illya considered that. If he were back in London, they would doubtless have sent him to some musclebound fellow named Lars or Sven who would pummel him back into working order without regard for the pain it caused. Napoleon had been through it himself, Illya was sure, and surely could be no worse. "Aspirin first. Four, please."

Napoleon nodded and fetched him a glass of water and four familiar tablets, and he even put the tablets in Illya's mouth and held the glass for him as he gulped medication and water down gratefully. Putting the glass aside, Napoleon carefully eased Illya's undershirt off, and then guided him down on his belly on the lumpy mattress.

"This is going to hurt," he said apologetically.

"Go on."

Napoleon's touch was tentative at first, but rapidly grew more confident, and the pain grew with the confidence. Illya clenched his teeth against the sounds that wanted to come out because that was what a man did, but then Napoleon lifted a hand from his shoulder, and stroked his hair.

"You don't have to keep quiet. If it was me, I'd be bawling like a baby."

The hand on his hair was, in its own strange way, more painful than the one on his back. A sound escaped him, choked, taut. Napoleon's fingers slid comfortingly over his hair once more before returning to his back. He had too much pride to scream, but the occasional moan or groan didn't seem to be too great a betrayal, because Napoleon knew what it was like. And if the sheets beneath his face were a little damp, no one knew that but him.

After a while Napoleon moved to straddle his thighs so it was easier to work on his back, and Illya tensed at the unmistakable pressure of an erection against his backside, but Napoleon's hand returned to his hair, stroking, soothing.

"Relax, Illya. If you'd trust me to kill you, surely you can trust me with this."

There was something to that. He relaxed, and Napoleon kept working. It didn't hurt as badly as it had before, and his mind started to work again. He remembered the shock he'd felt at hearing Napoleon's voice in the cell, and had to ask. "Isn't Antwerp a little off the beaten path for you?"

"Ours is not to question why," Napoleon quipped, but then a moment later he went on, his voice more serious. "Actually, I was working in Brest when I heard you'd gone missing. Since I was in the neighborhood, it seemed like a good opportunity to return a favor."

That almost made sense until Illya really thought about it. "Brest is nearly nine hundred kilometers from Antwerp."

"Exactly. Right next door, so to speak."

"If you have very large doors."

Napoleon tsked. "You Europeans think everything is so far away. You'll get over that once you come to the States."

"If I come to the States," Illya corrected.

"When," Napoleon re-corrected. "Now hush, you're breaking my concentration."

It was easier not to think, so Illya let himself be hushed. The pain lessened gradually, fading half-dead embers instead of active flames. He found himself yawning. Napoleon got off of him and pulled a blanket over him, patting his shoulder.

"That's better. You're safe here, go on to sleep. Things will be better in the morning."

Strangely, Illya did feel safe, something he very rarely experienced. Turning onto his side, he let himself drift off.

* * *

Things were better in the morning. Illya woke up refreshed and mostly functional, the pain diminished to a dull nagging ache that only escalated if he moved unwisely. Napoleon was gone, but a small table held a vacuum flask of coffee, a bottle of aspirin, a bag of fresh pastries, and a note informing him in a slightly difficult-to-decipher scrawl that while Napoleon had been obligated to return to Brest to complete his mission, Illya was in the Brussels safehouse being guarded by a couple of local agents. He was also to report back to London as soon as he could after waking.

Poking his head out of the door, Illya confirmed the information and dismissed his minders once they had handed over a change of clothing, a new communicator, the keys to a car, and most importantly, a weapon. A weapon of a quite different design from his previous one, supplied with two types of magazine- one loaded with bullets, the other with now-familiar darts. The Brussels agents had been more than a bit jealous.

He studied it for a while, discovering how the different magazines fit, and finding the tiny lever that changed it over from one function to the other. He wished he had access to a shooting range so he could sight it in, though if he did have to use it, it wouldn't be the first time he'd had to learn a new weapon on the fly. He put in the bullet magazine, just a little more comfortable with that familiarity.

Fortunately the drive back to London was uneventful. He checked in at HQ where he was debriefed, given the expected psych evaluation, and then sent down to Medical where he was poked, prodded, and told to go home and report back in twenty-four hours. It would have seemed a kindness if he hadn't known they needed the time to go over the results of his evaluation to determine whether or not he'd been compromised while in THRUSH hands.

He stopped at the market on the way home and bought a few things to replenish what had undoubtedly gone bad in his absence, and spent a little time clearing the spoiled food out of the icebox once he reached his flat. That done, he made himself a sandwich and coffee, and finally took a hot bath to rid himself of the smell of fear and pain that still clung to him.

Unfortunately the predictability of mundane tasks didn't help. Even after his bath when he tried to relax with a book, he still felt restless and unsettled, his mind repeatedly drifting back to the feel of Napoleon's hands on him, the feeling of Napoleon's thighs against his own, the press of his cock, and that odd sensation against the back of his neck that sometime during the drive back he'd finally identified as kisses. Very disconcerting.

And then there was the whole shooting thing.

He got up and poured himself another cup of coffee and this time dosed it liberally with whiskey before settling back into his chair to stare blankly at the tiny garden his landlady kept out back, taking occasional sips.

Why had he let Napoleon do that? There was only one answer. He trusted him. Past all good sense, apparently. But . . . why did he trust him? He'd met the man once. Yes, they had spent the better part of two days together, and they clearly found one another sexually attractive, but was that any reason to trust him? No.

Perhaps he had been influenced by everything he'd heard about Napoleon Solo over the years. Though he was sure much of it wasn't true, he'd heard so much he'd almost felt as if he knew the man before they'd ever met. Which could have explained part of his trust, however he had heard just as much about Gerald Strother and he didn't trust him so far as he could throw him. Which, granted, was probably a fair distance. Still, it rather negated his theory.

Back to square one.

A tap at the door brought him to his feet, coffee sloshing over his hand. It wasn't rent day, and he wasn't expecting anyone. Since his recent unplanned visit to THRUSH had begun similarly he was more than a little leery of unannounced visitors. He picked up his new gun and quickly swapped out the bullet magazine for the dart one, flicked the function lever and took off the safety before going to stand to one side of his door.

"Who is it?" he called warily.

"Your knight in shining armor. Okay, well, Brooks Brothers, and I'm not technically a knight, but I did rescue you."

The voice was unmistakable and he drew a breath of relief. He took a glance through the peephole in the door and saw that Napoleon appeared to be alone, but knowing that the field of vision was limited he was still cautious as he unlocked his door and opened it, gesturing the other agent into the room with his gun.

Napoleon stepped inside, hands lifted, fingers curled in an exaggerated and slightly ridiculous fashion. "Turnabout is fair play? I shoot you, you shoot me?"

Illya