Good Company      Good Company by ChannelD  
 

The Thrush satrap lay in smoldering ruins, except for a few outbuildings,
leaning at unstable angles. The smoke still rising indicated that this had
happened fairly recently. Napoleon Solo put out a hand to halt his party,
and stopped within the shelter of the woods - scraggly and sparse as they
were. He drew his weapon. 

"What ... what's happened?" Zak blurted. His young face was drawn with
shock. "Where's your partner? Where's the helicopter? How are we getting
out of here?" 

Napoleon made a short, chopping motion with his free hand, and the trainee
fell silent. But his questions still hung in the air, and Napoleon knew
that if he looked into the two equally young faces behind him he would see
them written there as well. Where was his partner? Illya was supposed to
meet them, information in hand, helicopter at the ready. But how they
would get out of here was a question for later. That first question took
precedence. What had happened here? 

"You three stay under cover," Napoleon said. "If you see anybody
approaching fire your weapons, once each, five seconds apart, changing
your positions immediately - in three separate directions. Keep low."
Without further explanation he moved towards the destroyed satrap. 

If Illya was alive he could be in the woods, hiding like they were. In
that case he would have been watching for them, and even now making his
appearance. Napoleon looked around. No. The other possibility was that he
had taken cover in one of the structures left standing. 

There were three. One was a metal storage shed, and when Napoleon pulled
on the handle he recoiled with pain. The structure was hot. So hot that
anybody inside would be dead. Illya would know better anyway than to
choose that building. Unless he had been locked in there ... Napoleon
turned away, and to a smaller building. It was wood, and had fared better.
The door was wood. and still smoking. Napoleon turned the knob, and the
sound of a pistol being cocked answered him. He threw himself to the
ground and rolled, seeing the trainees doing the same. Then there was
silence. Napoleon called out, softly. 

"Illya. Is that you? Signal Two-C if so." 

A bullet thudded into the wooden door from inside. There was a pause, then
two more in rapid succession. Then the door opened from the inside, and
Illya Kuryakin staggered out and fell on his face, still clutching his
gun. Napoleon ran to him. 

He was burning up. That was Napoleon's first impression, and for a moment
he wildly thought that the interior of the building had cooked him. Then
reason came, and he said, "You're sick!" 

"Yes." Illya coughed and tried to rise. Napoleon helped him. "And hurt.
It's not good, Napoleon." 

"Any other survivors that you know of?" He was moving into the woods as he
spoke and Illya, leaning on his shoulder, was keeping pace. Behind them he
could hear the trainees hurrying to catch up. 

"Not here. But a good sized group of supervisors left earlier. I don't
know when this is, so I'm not sure when that was, but it was before the
explosions, naturally. I couldn't get out of my cell and into the armory
until their numbers went down a bit." 

"You blew it up? Did you get the information you were sent for first?" 

"No. No I didn't, and if Mr. Waverly doesn't like it ... well. It's gone,
like it or not. They were going to finish their operations here and leave
by next week, so I thought better blown up than the alternative of them
taking it with them." 

"You always think blown up is better," Napoleon complained. They had
reached a sheltered knoll and he stopped to lay Illya out, to evaluate his
condition. 

"When it comes to Thrush, yes." 

"Illya. Oh my ... Illya." It was all he could say. Illya was covered with
whip marks, burn marks, heavy bruises from what had to be some sort of
club, boot prints. His breathing was labored and there was an ominous
crackling in his chest. His pulse was rapid, and thready. And his
temperature had to be a hundred and two at the very least. "What the hell
happened?" 

"I was recognized," Illya said flatly. He shivered, and Napoleon pulled
his clothes back together from his exam - nothing he could do now about
any of it - and removed his own jacket, wrapped it around him. "Recognized
as soon as I walked in. By somebody with an old grudge." 

"Well, damn. Who?" 

"Anton Vitter." 

"Damn," Napoleon repeated. "Vitter? He wasn't on the personnel list." 

"No, he was a last minute replacement. A fact with which he was very
disgruntled until he saw me. Then it was all party all the time. He was
delighted." 

"I'm sure." Napoleon hesitated, looked around. None of the trainees were
in earshot. Clearly horrified by Illya's injuries, and the situation, they
were huddled together several yards away. Napoleon lowered his voice
anyway. "If I remember him correctly, he had more than a grudge against
you. He had a rather unhealthy interest in you." 

"Yes he did, and yes he still did, and yes, he did. Until I blew up his
laboratory with him inside it. And that's all I'm saying about it." 

"All right," Napoleon said soothingly. "Any chance your chopper is
intact?" 

"No, but that's not my fault. Vitter said it was probably booby trapped,
so they blew it up." 

"Damn," Napoleon said for the third time. "Can you travel?" 

"Of course I can travel." To prove it he dragged himself to his feet,
ignoring Napoleon's outstretched hand. "And we need to. When the rest of
them get back they'll look for me - us. Why do you have three other people
with you?" 

"Trainees, remember? Fresh from Survival School, on their first field
mission. Which was supposed to be rather a walk in the park, followed by a
friendly reunion between partners, and a nice helicopter ride home." 

"Ha." Illya stood and looked at the young men. "Well, welcome to
espionage," he said drily. "I was supposed to be undercover as a low
ranking clerk until the day I snuck their data out of their computer, met
you to arrest everybody, and fly home. Instead ..." he coughed, then
coughed some more. 

"Instead you got tortured," Chuck said in an awed voice. "I mean, really
tortured. Did you talk?" 

"Shoot him for me please, Napoleon. I used up my bullets with your Signal
Two-C." 

"I am not shooting Chuck. Part of my job is to get them all back in one
piece. Hard to justify losing one because you took exception to something
he said." They were walking now, back the way they had come. They would
just have to keep walking, that was all. They had parachuted in, safely
out of range of Thrush's radar umbrella. But now they were on foot. Now,
Thrush would be actively looking for them. Now, they had a sick and
injured man on their hands. Now... now, it was a whole new ball game. 

Michael Lydel walked along the path, eyes fixed on the pair in front of
him. Solo had taken the lead again, followed by his wounded ... his
tortured, Lydel thought, and shivered. His tortured partner. Lydel had
always worried about the possibility of torture, never been quite sure of
his ability to stand up under it. When he had watched Solo recoil from the
first shed, shaking his hand, Lydel had thought of a human being inside
there, being cooked alive. He had pictured those final moments, and had
been glad that Solo couldn't open the door. He hadn't wanted to see what
that would have left of a human being. 

He had never met Illya Kuryakin, never even seen him, but his reputation
had gone before him; first at Survival School, then in UNCLE New York. He
was said to be brave and brilliant, sarcastic and short tempered. He
taught some advanced classes in explosives, and a basic orientation to the
science sectors that everyone had to take, but Lydel hadn't had either of
them yet. He and Solo were UNCLE's best team, and it had been a huge
privilege to be selected for this mission. But now ... Lydel looked at
them. Kuryakin was barely keeping on his feet, and Solo was nonetheless
setting a stiff pace. They conversed occasionally - Lydel could hear their
voices, but not what was said. 

But he could see the injuries, although Solo's jacket hid much. There were
rope marks around Kuryakin's neck, and blood ... blood! Was soaking
through the jacket. Lydel quickened his pace. 

"Hey," he blurted, and Kuryakin turned his head enough to indicate that he
was listening. "You're bleeding!" 

Kuryakin snorted. "Bullwhips tend to do that," he said, and then he
coughed. He coughed and he coughed until he was on his knees, gasping for
breath between spasms, gagging and retching, although bringing nothing up.
Solo had turned and come back. His eyes, Lydel saw, were moving constantly
around them, and it brought a new thrill of fear, that Solo clearly
anticipated pursuit. Where there was pursuit, there could be capture. They
could all end up in the hands that had wrought such damage already. He
found himself willing Kuryakin to stop coughing, to get up and walk, to
hurry because the enemy was behind them, the enemy was coming. Then he was
ashamed, and felt stupid, because there was no sign of pursuit; there
might be no pursuit. But when Solo grabbed Kuryakin, slung him over his
shoulders in a firefighter's carry and started off again, fast, the fear
returned. Solo was moving fast because it was true that the enemy was
behind them, true that the enemy was coming. They didn't have the luxury
of time to stand around and politely let Kuryakin have his cough out. In
fact, he was nearly strangling on it now, with the added strain of his new
position, and just as Lydel thought they were going to have to stop again,
even as he saw Solo falter, look around them, presumably for cover, the
spasm passed. Kuryakin drew a deep, shuddering breath, and passed out.
Solo did stop, and adjusted his hold, then they were off once more,
walking away from the enemy and, hopefully, towards safety. 

Illya's next awareness was of cold. He was cold, he was so terribly cold.
He couldn't do anything about it because he was awkwardly hanging, head
down, and being shaken around. They must be torturing him some more. For a
moment there he had thought he was free ... but no. It must have all been
a dream - the explosions, the tiny suffocatingly hot building, Napoleon's
arrival. 

"Sir?" An unfamiliar voice. "He's awake." 

Immediately the forward motion stopped and he was swung over and around,
on the ground now. He blinked, and was looking into Napoleon's face. Oh.
Well, he didn't know what was happening at all, that was clear. He
couldn't make sense of the fragments of jagged memory and images, and he
was too sick and too tired to try. But it was nice to see Napoleon. He
smiled at him. "Hi." 

"Hi there." Napoleon laid a hand on his forehead, and swore. "This is bad
luck. What did you go and do, catch a cold on top of everything else?" 

"No. They sprayed me with weaponized Legionnaire's bacilli, to test it.
Their scientists said all they needed was a human trial to show Thrush
Central. Vitter was happy to volunteer me. That's when I decided the whole
place needed to go." 

"What? You mean they used germ warfare?" That was from Zak, but en masse
the trainees backed away from Illya. 

"Legionnaire's isn't contagious person to person," Illya said testily.
"That's why they want to use it. Safer for them." He coughed - a shallow,
dry little cough and Napoleon frowned. He put his ear to Illya's chest and
heard the underwater sounds there. Nothing stirred when Illya coughed. He
frowned again. 

 "So pneumonia at the very least," he said. "With fever." He stroked
Illya's hair back with a gentle hand. "This is going to be hard on you." 

"You know what you need to do," Illya said, and Napoleon made a sharp hand
gesture. 

"No." 

"You need to leave me." 

"No." For emphasis he picked Illya up again, draped him over his
shoulders, and set off. The trainees dutifully fell in behind. 

"If you leave me with a fully loaded gun or two I can watch the trail and
have your backs. Right now this is the only way out of here. If they're
looking, they'll come this way. I can take out as many as I can, then
myself. You have to think of these trainees, Napoleon. Their lives are
your responsibility." 

"Number one, they are here to learn. I am not teaching them that we leave
our people like garbage on the trail. We don't work that way, and you know
it." 

"Cutter says you ... we should." This was Zak again. "He says you go by
the numbers. Four of us, one of him. He says it's simple math." 

"I do not agree. Neither does Mr. Waverly agree. And there are five of us.
Not four, and one. Five." His breath was coming shorter now - Illya was no
lightweight, and the trail was uneven - but he'd be damned if he'd show
weakness to these young men, already questioning his decisions. He could
walk, and he could carry Illya, and he could plan their route, and he
could carry on a conversation too, damn it. But he wished they'd shut up
and maybe they saw it, because they fell back a little and Napoleon could
hear them talking among themselves. They hadn't bargained for this,
obviously. Well, as somebody said, welcome to espionage, he thought, and
laughed a little. 

They walked for the rest of the day, and through the night. Distance
between themselves and the satrap was imperative, and they had to reach a
place from which they could choose to go in a variety of directions before
they could feel at all secure. Illya passed out again at some point -
Napoleon felt him become heavier, suddenly, and start to slide. He braced
himself against a tree, resettled Illya across his shoulders, and kept on.
He was worried about the fever, which he could feel through their clothes,
and even more worried about the labored breathing and occasional very
small cough. But there was nothing he could do but keep moving. 

They finally reached a place where the trail petered out into several
smaller paths. Napoleon frowned, and told Zak to find the map in their
packs. He put Illya down, wrapped him as securely as he could in his
jacket, and studied the map. His frown deepened, and he went over to
Illya, knelt beside him. Shook him. 

"Illya. Wake up, Illya. Illya." 

How annoying. Illya turned away from the sound, which was so insistent. It
bothered him. All he wanted was to sleep. He was hot, and cold, all of his
muscles hurt, his head ached miserably, and his forays into sleep offered
the only refuge. He wouldn't answer. He wouldn't listen. He ... 

"Agent Kuryakin! I need you to report!" 

Napoleon's voice was harsh and he forced his eyes open. Napoleon needed
his report? Well, all right. He would do that. "Um ... what?" 

"Do you have any idea where these trail heads lead?" Napoleon propped him
up so he could see them. 

"Journeys end in lovers meetings," Illya said, and laughed. It was nice to
have Napoleon there. He'd stay awake just for the pleasure of it. 

Napoleon laughed too, but without humor. "Illya - I need you to stay with
us, please. Focus. Look at this trail, the one we're on. Look at how it
goes into a delta of smaller paths. We don't have time to do it wrong. Now
that one," he pointed, "is larger. Logic says it is more traveled, and is
most likely to lead to a road. Am I right?" 

"No. All roads lead to Thrush." 

"Hmmm." 

"He doesn't know," Chuck said impatiently. "Or he's delirious." 

"All, Illya? And don't interrupt," he added, shooting a look at Chuck that
made him pale. "All of them?" 

"Yes. It's a trick. We must have missed the real turn off." 

"Then we retrace our steps. Can you walk if I help you? You could watch
for it." 

The silence from the trainees was deafening. Back? They were going
backwards? Napoleon could almost hear their dismay, their disbelief. Their
loss of faith in him, in his leadership. Well, with faith or without it
they had to follow orders. "Behind us," he snapped and, arm around Illya's
waist, taking most of his weight, they started back up the trail. 

"There," Illya said wearily, a dying gasp of a word. He had made no
complaint about the walking, but he leaned more and more heavily on
Napoleon, and had twice stumbled and would have fallen if Napoleon hadn't
had a grip on him. "See that deadfall? They put it there to keep anybody
from knowing there was an installation up here. It leads straight to the
nearest town." 

Their faith returned. He could see it; the awareness that they had just
narrowly escaped a Thrush trap. He could see it too in the eagerness with
which they followed his next orders. 

It was a terrible struggle to get through and over the deadfall, which was
covered with thorn bushes. Illya had to be carried by Napoleon and Lydel,
both trying desperately to hold him high enough to keep him from becoming
entangled in the briars. All were gashed and bleeding when they finally
emerged, and then Zak had to go back in to retrieve his shoe. Napoleon
insisted that they rebuild the blockage as best they could, and that took
more eons of dragging vicious thorn branches in bleeding hands. By the
time they were finally making their way down the trail - which then
descended at a steep incline, making it so much harder to carry Illya that
Napoleon almost asked Lydel for more help - he had handled Illya with care
earlier - but clamped his mouth shut. He might really need the help at
some future time. 

Outside the small town was a smaller motel. Napoleon stared at the lights
of it, sorely tempted. Right in there was warmth, and beds, food - hot
food - and a door that could shut and lock. But the risks ... he looked at
Illya, and was freshly alarmed. Although he was still conscious, there was
a blue tinge to his lips now, and he had stopped shivering entirely as his
body lost even the energy to try and warm itself. Another night outside
might be too much for him. 

"All right," he said, and set Illya down. "Zak. I want you to go check in.
A single. Just you. Ground floor. We can see all the windows from here.
Lights on, shades up like you're looking around. Shades down. Light off,
then on again. Then come to that back entrance there, and let us in. Be
sure nobody's around. If they are, light a cigarette. There should be a
machine in the lobby. Stand by the back door and smoke. When the coast is
clear toss that one away - and light another. Got all that?" 

"Um ..." 

"Good." Napoleon handed him a few bills. "Go." 

"Yes, sir!" Clearly both apprehensive and excited at this first solo
assignment, Zak walked towards the small, shabby motel. 

Why had Solo chosen Zak, Lydel wondered. He didn't mind, he wasn't jealous
- he was much happier sitting back here, under cover, watching Zak cross
the open, brightly lit parking lot. But why? He looked at Solo, who was
watching the ground floor of the motel intently for the signal, but
frequently sweeping the area with those sharp brown eyes that never seemed
to weary. 

Kuryakin sat beside him, knees drawn up, arms wrapped around them. He too
was looking around them, behind them, above them. Lydel was glad to see
that he wasn't shivering anymore. He must be feeling better. Maybe he'd be
able to move faster tomorrow. Cutter had been adamant about playing the
odds, about putting the good of the group, of the mission, above all else.
Without Kuryakin, they'd have been much farther along by now, which meant
they'd be much safer. But no. He frowned. Without Kuryakin they would have
taken one of those other trails, and `all roads lead to Thrush'. Then he
saw Solo rise from his half crouch, and extend a hand to Kuryakin, who
swatted it aside and got to his feet unaided. Solo snorted with laughter,
and Lydel felt better immediately. If those two could joke around
together, then surely things couldn't be as dire as they seemed. Kuryakin
couldn't be as sick as he looked, and the enemy couldn't be as close as
Lydel feared, if Kuryakin could slap his partner's hand, and Solo could
laugh about it. 

The light was on, and Zak could be seen peering out through the slats of
the blinds. Then the blinds closed and the light went off. It came right
back on, and they moved closer to the motel. The back door opened, and Zak
waved at them. 

"You first," Napoleon said to Chuck, at the same time seeing Illya go
limp, crumple to the ground. He let nothing show in his voice. "Go." He
waited, and watched, and the young man slipped inside the building.
"Lydel. Get the number from Zak, and send them on to the room. You wait to
hold the door for me, then hurry ahead, clearing the way and warning me if
someone is coming. We have no excuse for any of this, so we have to be
fast. Go." 

So Lydel went, and now it was him in the parking lot, him exposed and
defenseless. He was glad to reach the door and deliver his message, and
gladder still when he remembered to ask for the room number before they
left. 

Napoleon waited, and when Lydel beckoned he grabbed Illya up and hurried,
because they were right out in the open now. Slipping inside was a relief,
and he watched Lydel close the door behind them, then followed him through
a shabby little hallway to an equally shabby door. Zak opened it, and they
were inside. Without waiting to be told, Zak locked it and put the chain
on. Then, at Napoleon's rapped out order, he and Chuck shoved the desk
chair under the doorknob. Napoleon laid Illya down on the bed, and they
all stood and looked at him. 

He lay still, panting for breath. His face was flushed with fever, and his
eyes moved restlessly under the closed lids. He jerked suddenly, hands
going up in a defensive gesture. His lips parted but before any sound
could escape Napoleon clamped a hand over them, hard. Illya opened his
eyes, and Napoleon put a finger to his lips. Illya nodded and Napoleon
released him. 

"Shower?" he asked and Illya nodded. 

"Chuck. Turn on the shower, and shut the bathroom door to keep the steam
in. Zak, take that top blanket to the laundry room and put it in the
drier. Lydel, make sure there are enough towels. Go through our backpacks
and find anything that can be used for warmth. Socks," he added, feeling
Illya's cold feet as he stripped him. As before, his injuries silenced the
trainees. Napoleon understood. It was shocking to see what could - and
would - be done to flesh and bone, done to one human being by another. He
half carried Illya into the bathroom, stripped down to his shorts, and got
into the shower with him. Illya leaned against the wall, eyes glazed,
while Napoleon washed him all over. He washed away the sweat and the dirt,
the blood and any lingering remnants of Vitter's touch. Before he turned
off the hot water, he glanced out into the small bathroom. "Get that
blanket from the drier and stand by," he directed. "Have those towels
ready. We don't want him to get any more of a chill than necessary. I wish
warming pans were still a thing." 

"I'd think you wouldn't want him to get a chill at all," Chuck ventured as
he held the towel out. "I mean, all this ..." he gestured ..." to keep him
from getting cold after a shower? Wouldn't it be better not to get him wet
at all?" 

"Yes," Napoleon said shortly. "But open wounds like his need to be clean,
and sometimes it's necessary to wash it all off of you ." 

"I can't stand stinking of my own fear, and other men's sweat," Illya said
as Napoleon settled him in the bed and drew the covers up, topping them
with the blanket fresh from the drier. Then he dressed quickly, pulling on
his own clothes again, and sitting on the bed. 

"Fear?" Chuck said doubtfully. "But surely you don't ... you're not -" 

"Oh, I hear Cutter again," Kuryakin said tiredly. "Yes, fear. When they
torture you it hurts, and when you hear them coming to do it some more
you're afraid. Everybody is. Pretending you're not has its uses, but you
don't want to lie to yourself long term. You just handle it, and everybody
handles it their own way." 

 "Yes," Solo put in, "and your way is to insult those torturing you so
they do it harder. Never been clear what the point of that was, partner." 

"It lets me keep my dignity," Kuryakin said, and closed his eyes. 

"He needs body heat," Solo said tersely. "So he and I share the bed. Make
yourselves as comfortable as possible. "Lydel, you're on first watch. The
rest of you get some sleep. Wake Zak in three hours for his turn, unless
somebody comes to the door, or the phone rings. Zak answers. Because he is
the only one here. Don't forget that. And remember, hotel staff will
expect to be cleaning up after one man. So not too much mess, but not a
complete absence of it either. A spotless room would be remembered, and so
would a sty. If anybody does knock at the door we all - except for Zak,
obviously - pile into the bathroom, turn out the lights, shut the door and
hunker down. Zak, I won't try to give you a script because there are too
many unknowns. Just stay in character. A tired guy, woken in the middle of
the night - a nice guy, but tired. If things get out of hand I'll be out."
He yawned, laid down, back to back and Kuryakin stirred. 

"Thank you," he whispered, and Solo reached around and patted his
shoulder. 

"Wake me if anything at all makes you nervous," he directed. "Wake me at
four if I'm not up yet." He stopped talking and went to sleep, while the
young men were still staring at the pair on the bed, waiting for more
instruction, more words that might hopefully save their lives. But there
were none, and after a while Zak and Chuck found a restless sleep on the
floor, and Lydel sat in the battered desk chair and stared at the door. 

Maybe he wasn't cut out for this. He had always worried, always wondered.
He had thought graduation from Survival School would cure him of that,
because Cutter bragged that nobody made it through his school who wasn't
born to be a field agent. Lesser beings washed out. But even after
arriving in New York, Lydel had worried that he wasn't up to the job, that
he was ... well, that he was no Napoleon Solo. And now here he was, and he
felt none of the exhilaration he had heard about. He only felt afraid. He
was afraid that at any moment a sound would come; an explosion, a gunshot,
a door bursting inward and they would all be captured. He himself could be
dragged back along the trail they had so recently traveled. He could be
whipped, burned, kicked. He could be killed. No, he wasn't at all sure
that he was cut out for this. He turned, and peered at the bed. How could
Solo sleep? And go back to sleep time and again, because time and again he
was - they all were - roused by Kuryakin tossing in the bed, throwing off
the covers, then scrabbling frantically to pull them back over himself.
And every time Solo sat up, turned the pillow, shaking out the blankets,
tucking them back around him when Kuryakin quieted again. Lydel could hear
his voice occasionally; easy, reassuring, even light sometimes, but, as
before, none of the words. 

It was a broken night's sleep. Illya was restless; tossing, throwing off
the covers then burrowing, shuddering, back under them. Napoleon abandoned
the polite back to back position and gathered him in, held him close, over
and over again. "Thank you," Illya whispered every time, pressing against
him, pushing his face into the crook of his shoulder, shaking. "Thank you,
thank you." 

"You don't have to thank me," Napoleon said repeatedly. "You'd do it for
me - you have done it for me. It's okay." Illya nodded, but the next time
he had to get up to use the bathroom, creeping into Napoleon's welcoming
arms on his return, shuddering with cold, it was the same. 

"Thank you," he whispered against Napoleon's throat. "Thank you, oh thank
you, thank you." Napoleon held him, and patted his back. 

"You're welcome," he said at last, feeling ridiculous but not wanting
Illya to feel ignored, and out of other responses. "You're welcome, you
are more than welcome, Illya." And Illya nodded at that, tried to cough,
and lay still. When Napoleon made his own bathroom trip he saw how dry and
cracked Illya's lips were, and brought him a cup of water. "No," he hissed
right in his ear when Illya turned away from it. "You drink it, or else I
will have to make you. I don't want to do that when you're so sick. Please
drink." So Illya drank, and moaned into the pillow, and shivered so
violently his thigh cramped, and Napoleon rubbed it until it eased. 

Illya couldn't help thanking Napoleon, just like he couldn't help
clutching at him, even though he was aware of Napoleon's discomfort, aware
that they were not alone. He was grateful. Every time he crawled back
under the covers, every time he turned over in tortured sleep, chest
hurting, wanting to cough - needing to cough, but unable to - head
pounding, freezing cold - so cold. It was ridiculous, he scolded himself.
He tried to reason with his body, because the shivering hurt, like
everything else. Breathing hurt, and his muscles hurt from the shivering,
despite Napoleon's warm hands rubbing them. `You're not cold, he argued
with his brain. You're under blankets, sharing body heat with Napoleon, in
a room that's seventy-five degrees at least. You saw them turn the
thermostat up. This is such wasted energy. Stop shivering. You don't have
to make heat. Work on coughing up some of the crap we're ... I am drowning
in.' But it didn't help, of course; he shivered so violently that his legs
cramped again and again, which seemed so harsh on top of everything else
that he could have wept for himself. He didn't, but he was entitled to
feel sorry for himself, wasn't he? He was dying. He could feel it. His
body was shutting down - the loss of the cough reflex, the out of control
shivering, alternating with complete immobility while the cold crept in,
crept closer to his core, and how long since he had eaten, or drunk more
than the small amount Napoleon was able to force into him? He didn't even
want to try, because his body was done with those petty tasks; focusing
instead on the need to breathe in and out, to keep blood flowing to his
brain, and his center. He was dying. 

 But in Napoleon's arms, he didn't feel any of that. He was warm there,
after the first few agonizing moments, and he was safe. How could he die,
wrapped in the security of Napoleon's embrace? Napoleon held him as if
defying anything - including death - to part them. So Illya was grateful;
desperately, pathetically grateful, and then even more grateful for
Napoleon's whispered reply. `You're welcome', Napoleon said. `You're very
welcome, Illya.' Like it was normal, like he wasn't dying at all, and they
were just having a polite little exchange. `Thank you.' `You're welcome.'
Like that. 

So for the remainder of the night Illya lay there, eyes open then closed,
then open again as he drifted in and out of sleep, and they all went in
and out of sleep with him. It wasn't a good night, but they were still
free, and in out of the cold, and that would have to do. 

 

The next night they didn't find shelter at all. They had stayed in the
scrubby woods, trying to parallel the little used state road. The trainees
took turns being in front, moving branches aside for those behind them,
watching for obstacles in their path. 

Illya had walked for most of the morning. It was more a stiff legged
stagger than a walk, and a nearly blind stagger at that; hence the
necessity for clearing obstacles away before he fell over them, or walked
into them. It wasn't fast, but Napoleon knew he couldn't carry Illya
forever, much as he would want to; that at some point his body would give
out just as Illya's was doing, so any ground Illya could cover on his own
was good. Well, not good. Better than the alternative. They had eaten a
big breakfast before leaving - Napoleon grateful for the vending machine
room, where quantity of food stuffs went unnoticed. He hoped the next
place had one. 

But there was no next place. There was nothing, and then there was more
nothing, and then it was too dark to move ahead safely. They set up as
best they could, sheltering under a dense thorn bush, breaking off the low
branches to make a refuge of sorts, then lining it with their meager
supplies. Napoleon opened his coat, wrapped it and his arms around Illya,
trying to provide enough warmth. "Chuck," he snapped. "Lie on his other
side, your back to him." 

Chuck hastened to obey. Kuryakin was so sick! How long could somebody go
on like that? He felt like crap, everybody could see it, although he never
complained. Not to mention the injuries. "Closer than that," Solo was
saying. "Right up against his back." 

There was nothing further, after he obeyed. It was nice to have warmth
there, because he had been cold since they stopped moving. Then he
remembered why Kuryakin was so warm, and that sucked so hard he tried to
think about their situation instead. 

That sucked too, and he had been so excited to be chosen for this mission!
Chuck James wanted action, wanted to outsmart Thrush, capture enemy
agents, rescue civilians - preferably beautiful, female civilians. This
assigned hike in the woods, followed by a helicopter ride home, despite
its inherent tameness, was the next big step towards that goal. Plus he'd
get to observe the celebrated Solo and Kuryakin in action, and they in
turn would observe him - his courage, his skills, his ability. It was
everything he'd been working towards. But now - fuck. 

Well, he was observing them all right, and they were on a rescue mission,
of sorts. He liked Solo's insistence on not leaving anybody behind, but
had to wonder if that only applied to his partner. He had heard the rumors
about those two. They certainly seemed intimate. But Napoleon Solo was
such a man's man - and such a lady's man. Chuck couldn't really imagine
any man choosing a sexual partner like himself when women ... oh, women
were so fascinatingly different. You would only turn to other men if women
were, for some reason, not available to you. Maybe you were in prison, or
ugly. That was his theory, anyway. And Napoleon Solo certainly had his
pick of women. That wasn't even rumor, but fact. So why would he need to
screw a man? He wouldn't, Chuck had already decided. So he wasn't. End of
story. And anyway, the important thing was, would Solo be able to get them
all out of this? Chuck hoped so, he surely did. 

 Kuryakin stirred, then. He felt even hotter than when they had first
retired, and Chuck sat up, turning around. 

"Hey. Sir? You all right?" But he clearly wasn't, and then Solo sat up
too. 

"Illya? What ... okay. Back off, Chuck. Give him space. It's the fever." 

Kuryakin was twitching and shuddering in the throes of a seizure. He had
thrown off Napoleon's coat, his eyes were rolled up, showing only whites.
His back arched and his hands, clenched into fists, drummed on the ground.
Solo didn't touch him, just cleared the area around him and hung over him,
face dark and intent. When it released him, finally, when his body
collapsed onto the ground, Solo wrapped him up again in every bit of
clothing he could put his hands on. He wrapped Kuryakin up in bits and
pieces, and held him. 

"Napoleon." 

"What?" 

"I'm tired. And I hurt. Let me go." 

"No. So get your rest." 

Kuryakin sighed, a weary little sound that made Chuck wish there was
something he could come up with right now, something to ease that
suffering. Solo patted his back. When nothing had been said for nearly
half an hour Solo rose, carefully disengaging from his partner, who made
no move. 

"Chuck. Back to back again, as close as he'll let you get. But if he
doesn't recognize you, and pushes you away, go. I don't want him killing
you on top of everything else. I'm going to reconnoiter ahead. We can't do
this again." 

Without another word, he was gone. The three trainees looked at one
another in fear - real fear. They all wanted to call him back, all managed
not to. But without Napoleon Solo they felt terribly exposed, huddled in
their little thorn bush, terribly vulnerable. And Kuryakin was so sick. He
might well die, and none of them wanted to be on his final mission, to see
firsthand the end of the world famous team of Solo and Kuryakin. Nobody
wanted to be the one to face Solo on his return, and tell him his partner
had died - that they had let him die. Chuck pressed closer. Kuryakin was
beyond noticing, he thought, much less objecting. He lay perfectly still,
radiating heat. But within the next few minutes he had moved away from
Chuck, who returned to a sitting position; staying close since that was
where Solo had left him. After a moment both Lydel and Zak scooted over. 

"So what do you think?" Zak hissed. "Will he find anything? Will he come
back?" 

"Of course he'll come back!" Lydel was shocked. "He's not just going to
leave us here!" 

"He could get captured, or killed," Zak said. "And even if that doesn't
happen, if he got a chance to reach New York, he might think it was his
duty to take it. He might think it would be better to come back for us
with reinforcements later." 

"How much of a `later' does Kuryakin have?" Chuck demanded. "I think he'll
come back. And I think he'll find something, too." 

"Napoleon?" Kuryakin's voice was slurred. When no answer came he began
struggling inside the makeshift covers, trying to sit up. Alarmed, Chuck
leaned over him. 

"Hey," he said. "Hey, don't do that. Stay still." 

"Where's Napoleon?" 

"Scouting ahead," Lydel answered, and the struggle began again. 

"Help me." Kuryakin sounded sharper now, more alert. Lydel swallowed. 

"We're doing our best. But ..." 

"No, not like that. Help me to sit up." 

"I don't think he wants you ..." Zak began, but when Kuryakin threw off
the clothing Solo had wrapped around him and began trying to shift
himself, he leapt in to help. Lydel was on his other side, and as they got
Kuryakin into a sitting position Chuck stuffed the fullest backpack behind
him, between him and the tree, trying to make him as comfortable as
possible. Lydel pulled the clothing back around him before they returned
to their original positions. 

"How long ago?" 

"Maybe an hour?" 

"All right. What's our situation? Why are we still outside after dark?" 

"We couldn't find anyplace, and then Solo said it was too dark to move
safely." 

"What made him decide to go on ahead now?" 

"You had a seizure," Zak said, when it became obvious nobody else was
going to answer. "I think it worried him. He said we're not doing this -
sleeping outside - another night, and he was going on ahead to find
someplace in advance." 

"A seizure?" He fell quiet. 

"You feel better now?" Chuck inquired solicitously. 

"I suppose so, since I'm sitting up conversing with you." The long
sentence was too much for him and he gasped, coughed, and gasped again. "I
want to cough," he said pettishly, swiping at his throat as if to punish
it for its reluctance to follow his wishes. "I don't have the energy.
Where are we?" 

"Someplace between where we were last night, and where we're going to be
tomorrow night," Chuck said, and Kuryakin made an exasperated sound. 

"That's the best you can do? You need to learn to calculate distance by
time expended and energy output." He coughed feebly again. "I wouldn't
think we're making much distance, despite the time and energy." 

"Probably not," Zak admitted. "You should go back to sleep." 

"Can't. Senior agent here. Have to be ... alert." He coughed again. 

"Well, you're talking," Lydel offered nervously. "Maybe that means you're
getting better." 

"Maybe." He was quiet again, and after a while his eyes closed. The young
men watched him for a bit, then returned to their own conversation. 

Illya lay against the backpack and listened to them. He couldn't bring
himself to just let it go and pass out - it might happen, and probably
would, but it would take him against his will. He hurt so much everywhere
that it was hard to decide where it was the worst, but he tried because it
was something to think about, something to hopefully keep him awake. His
legs hurt from walking and cramping and, evidently, seizing; his feet were
sending messages of pain all their own. His back hurt mercilessly, and his
head... oh, his head. His chest was on fire, and every breath rasped as if
... as if ... he wearied of trying to think of a simile. It rasped, that
was all. Each separate one. His throat hurt. His ... his thoughts trailed
off, and his head hit the tree behind him painfully - more pain - jerking
him awake. He listened to the trainees, then, trying for distraction from
the desire for sleep, which was so strong, so very strong, and from his
pain. 

"This is a cluster fuck," Chuck was grumbling. "It wasn't supposed to
happen like this." 

"No shit," Zak agreed. "We should have been back days ago, celebrating our
first mission. Instead ..." he indicated the woods, their battered
condition, Kuryakin's motionless form, still propped against the tree. 

"Couldn't we just take a bus or a train?" Lydel asked wistfully. "I mean,
we don't know for sure that Thrush is after us." 

"We're supposed to assume that they are," Zak said. "Cutter says ..." 

"Always assume the worst," they all chorused, and groaned as one. 

"Hey." Zak's voice dropped into the following stillness. "Do you think
it's true - what some people say about those two?" 

"That they're fuck buddies on the side?" Chuck shook his head. "They don't
act like it. I mean, sure, Solo's having to carry him now, and keep him
warm, but there's nothing lovey dovey about them." 

"It doesn't have to be lovey dovey." This was Lydel. "It could just be
convenience. I mean, your partner's always there, isn't he. There have to
be times when that's handy." 

"It's against regulations. And Solo's all about the regulations." 

"Yeah. That's true. They sure are good friends, though." 

"Must be nice," Lydel said. "I mean, to have somebody care so much that
they'd go through all this hell to bring you out. They sure are good
friends, if nothing else." 

"Napoleon would do it for any of you," How Kuryakin's voice managed to be
sharp through the bone deep weariness none of them could say, but it
snapped them upright, and all three flushed. "He would do it for you, and
so would I. That's how we operate. We're not Thrush." He coughed again,
that feeble little cough that didn't sound as if it was doing anything for
him at all. "And we are not fuck buddies on the side. So all three of you
bite your tongues - hard - and shut up." 

The silence this time was thunderous. They exchanged glances - Kuryakin
had been awake and listening the whole time? Damn. The thought was clear
on all three faces. 

"It's very possible that Thrush is not after us at all," Kuryakin
continued after a moment. His indignation seemed to have given him a burst
of energy. "You're right, Lydel. It is very possible - even probable -
that when the supervisors returned from their meeting and saw what had
happened, they closed down the operation and made tracks. But it is also
possible that they are hot on our trail, interviewing motel clerks,
doctors and emergency room personnel, even drugstore pharmacists, because
they know my condition. They could be putting out bulletins to all
transportation services, posing as police, as Interpol, as FBI. And if
they catch us, they'll probably shoot us. Unless they want to interrogate
some fresh new trainees about Survival School, and our procedures there.
In any case, the only reason we are still alive and free is Napoleon
Solo's ability, so shut up. Don't make me hurt you." 

Since this seemed all too possible, despite Kuryakin's condition, they
shut up, and sat in silence for a while. 

"Does this happen often?" Lydel asked suddenly, unable to keep quiet any
longer. "I mean - that everything goes wrong, and you have no back up, and
... and the plan fails? I thought ... I'm good at making plans," he said.
"All my Survival School plans were carried out perfectly. I got really
high marks on planning and follow through. I thought - I thought that
would help me, out in the field. But this was a good plan, a simple plan,
a clear plan. I liked it, even though nobody asked me. And here we are
anyway." 

"Here we are anyway," Kuryakin echoed, and leaned his head back. Nobody
thought he was asleep this time, however, and they all sat and waited.
Finally he opened his eyes. They were sunken in his head, and dark circles
under them made it appear that he had been punched in the face. Well, he
probably had been. Maybe some of the darkness was actual bruising. "I want
to say it goes wrong more than it carries through. That might not be
statistically accurate, but it's pretty close. Because you're dealing with
so many variables, so many things that can interfere. In the classroom,
it's fairly algebraic. In reality it's more like chaos theory, with a good
dose of Murphy's Law thrown in. But having the good plan is vital. You
can't even start without it. And without Napoleon's good plan I wouldn't
have been rescued from that satrap, so I'm all for it. But you have to be
flexible, adaptable. You have to take in the new data - and that's all it
is, if you continue to follow the math model. New data, that I was
recognized, and my helicopter destroyed. New data, that I blew up the
satrap before you got there, and an unfortunate complication that so many
higher ups were away. But otherwise I couldn't have gotten out of my cell,
so ..." 

"How did you get out?" Zak asked. 

"Oh, oldest trick in the book. I pretended to be dying. I lay on my face
and twitched and gasped, and didn't answer the guard when he tried to get
my attention. If there had been a supervisor handy, the guard would have
called for instructions, and they would have taken precautions, I'm sure.
But they were all away, so everybody was supposed to handle anything
routine by themselves. I looked harmless. He knew they didn't want me dead
yet, so he came into the cell. Armed." He snorted, coughed again. "I had
him and his gun before the cell door closed behind him. Then I went to the
munitions shed, and distributed the goods where they would do the most
harm. I didn't make it as far away as I had planned, though. I
underestimated my injuries, or I overestimated my stamina. Either way, I
retreated into the nearest building when the projectiles started flying,
and I must have passed out. Next thing I knew somebody was at the door
trying to get in, so I got ready to kill them. But it was Napoleon, so I
gave signal 2C. There. You're all caught up." 

"Um ... " Lydel again. "I don't mean to offend you ..." 

"I hope not." 

"Well, I was just wondering - how do you know that by blowing up the
weaponized Legionnaire's you didn't spread it all over the area? Did you
think about that?" 

"Spread it all over the area?" Kuryakin looked horrified. "Do you think
that might have happened? It never once occurred to me!" And into the
ensuing stricken silence he laughed. It was a weak laugh, but real.
"Sorry, Lydel. It's a good question. And the good answer is that I
designed the explosives to implode the structure, crushing the core
basement, where the labs were, under so much debris that the contents were
rendered harmless. The bacterium needed very specific laboratory
conditions to survive, and now those conditions are gone." 

"Oh. I figured it was something like that." He hadn't, actually, had been
worrying at it from the first, but now he felt foolish. Kuryakin, like
Solo, knew his job. "I mean, Cutter thinks very highly of your skills in
explosives." 

"I love explosives," Kuryakin said. "That's an area where your good plan
will fall into place just as you set it up to do, as long as you know your
business. Assuming your materials are standard, if you follow your good
plan, you will get good results. It's when people get into the mix that
things get messy." 

"Like you being sicker than you thought, so you couldn't get away in time.
And like that guy coming in so late he wasn't on the roster, and
recognizing you. And holding a grudge." 

"Yes. Like that." 

"You ... you would really do all of this for one of us? For me, for
example? I mean, you don't even know me." 

"Not the point. Yes, I would really do all of this for you. Furthermore,
we would do it for any civilian. We would do it for a Thrush prisoner, if
at all possible. And it is disturbing to me that Cutter is giving out such
a differing philosophy. I'll talk to Mr. Waverly about it when we get
back." He cocked an eye at them. "Getting back. Another good plan that
might go awry. Something's coming." 

He said that in the same tone he had said everything else, but they
snapped to attention and looked about with frightened eyes. It was totally
dark, and none of them had heard a sound. Kuryakin had drawn his gun, so
they drew theirs. Kuryakin held up a hand. "Nobody fires unless I do," he
ordered in a low whisper. "It's probably Napoleon. And if one of you
shoots Napoleon, you'll wish you had shot yourself instead." They waited,
and then came the soft hoot of an owl. All three men relaxed, and lowered
their weapons. Then Kuryakin hooted back, the exact same sound, and their
heads swiveled in surprise towards him. Napoleon Solo was standing over
him, and his face was set. 

"Who got him up?" he asked harshly. "I thought I said not to disturb him."


"Nobody!" Zak blurted. "I mean - well, I mean nobody! He woke up by
himself! And he asked where you were, and when we told him you were
scouting ahead he said he was senior agent then and he would stay awake.
He insisted on sitting up - we tried to tell him ..." Solo was holding up
a hand. 

"Okay," he said. "Okay. Sorry." He dropped to a crouch beside his partner.
"Illya. I thought I told you to rest." 

"I'm not so far gone that I can't do my job," Kuryakin snapped back at him
and Solo grinned. He ruffled his partner's hair, and Kuryakin yanked his
head away. Then Solo sank to a cross legged sitting position. 

"I found our spot for tomorrow," he said. "But it's a ways, so we need to
start at first light. I'm going to get some sleep. You too, Illya. I'm
relieving you as senior agent since in my judgment the situation is stable
enough to leave two trainees on guard. Lydel and Chuck. You're on. As soon
as the sun starts to show, wake me. Zak, get some sleep." He stretched
out, back to Kuryakin, who gave a little moan of relief and pressed
closer. 

"Thank you," he whispered, and Solo reached around and patted his
shoulder. Kuryakin seemed satisfied with that, and in a minute spoke
again. "And if you think you hear so much as a cricket, much less an owl,
wake him," he said, and Solo chuckled. 

"Did I fool them?" 

"Yes." 

"Still got it," Solo said, and was asleep. 

"How does he do that?" Chuck marveled. "It's like he turns a switch." 

"It's a gift," Kuryakin said. "I don't have it. but I'm going down fast
anyway. Be alert. Our lives are in your hands now. If you fall asleep, or
mistake another animal sound for an actual animal, we could all be taken."
On that ominous note he too fell asleep. Zak stretched out, and heard
Chuck and Lydel talking softly. After what seemed an eternity of staring
into the black sky, worrying, sleep found him as well. 

They were moving before any of the trainees had thought it was light
enough. Nobody had woken Solo but he was sitting up, shaking Kuryakin and
pulling his pack together before any of them knew he was awake. It was
disconcerting. Both Chuck and Lydel would have said they were entirely
alert, but somehow they had missed all of that. Lydel tried to apologize,
but Solo waved it off. 

"I should have been more clear," he said. "And you're used to hearing
Illya toss and turn. Don't worry about it. We're all still here, still
alive, and I know where we're going. Illya? Able to walk?" 

"Yes." He dragged himself to his feet, leaning heavily on a tree. Chuck
offered him a cup of water, from which he drank a few sips while Lydel
tried to drape the sweatshirt he had been sleeping under around his
shoulders. Kuryakin let him, which worried them all. Lydel saw Solo's
brows furrow, and saw too Chuck and Zak exchange glances. 

"I could tie the sleeves together in front," Lydel offered. "Then you
wouldn't have to keep holding on to it." 

"Yes," Kuryakin said again, and stood still for it. Solo tousled his hair,
as he had the night before. 

"Feel like crap, do you partner?" he asked, and Kuryakin just looked at
him. "Sure you want to walk?" 

"Yes." The cup dropped from his hands as he turned towards the trail, and
Chuck scooped it up. Solo took the lead, Kuryakin behind him, and the
other three followed along, sometimes walking together and talking,
sometimes strung out in single file. It seemed incredible that they were
on the move again. It seemed incredible that this just kept going on, day
after day after day. Incredible - and incredibly discouraging. 

"It's like there's no end to this trail," Chuck grumbled, and Zak nodded. 

"I know. It's like a nightmare. Dirt and sticks and cold, and then dark.
And then again. And again." 

And again, Zak thought. Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow. 

"I want Illya closer to the middle," Solo said abruptly. "Zak, move ahead
of him. If anything goes wrong, Chuck, you move up closer to the two of
us. Lydel, you get Illya off the trail and under cover. They'd recognize
him for certain." 

"What about you?" Chuck ventured, and Solo shrugged. 

"Maybe yes, maybe no. But since I know where we're going, it's a moot
point. Shut up, Illya." Kuryakin, who hadn't said anything, nevertheless
nodded and stepped aside, letting Zak in front, and they were walking
again. 

How Kuryakin fell behind, neither Chuck nor Lydel could say. They felt
focused and on guard, but actually both were watching the ground at their
feet, and the area directly in front of them, and when Kuryakin slowed,
moved over, somehow they passed him and kept going. 

Illya fell. He had been trudging along, eyes fixed on the ground, mind
running on one track. One foot, other foot. One foot, other foot. One
foot, other foot. He couldn't think about anything else. He didn't really
register Chuck and Lydel passing him by as he slowed, moving over
instinctively to let the faster members of their party go ahead of him.
His head hurt, his chest hurt. He hurt all over - every burn hurt, every
whip lash hurt. Every deep tissue bruise from fists and clubs and feet
hurt. And he hurt inside because of course Vitter had raped him. Of course
he had. It was the fulfillment of some sort of wild revenge fantasy that
apparently he had carried around for the seven years since they had last
met. Illya would have spat on the ground, if he'd had any of the resources
needed to accomplish that task. He was tired. He was so tired. All he
wanted to do was lie down. He couldn't do this anymore. Then his face
hurt, suddenly. Had somebody hit him? Why ... but then he realized that he
was lying in the dirt. He had fallen. Well, shit. If he couldn't keep up
... he couldn't keep up. He saw that quite clearly. He couldn't keep up,
he couldn't even walk for the time being, and he would delay them -
probably fatally. So he didn't make a sound, didn't call the group back.
He had fallen behind and Napoleon, eyes alert for possible ambush, mind no
doubt calculating their route, hadn't noticed. So, problem solved. He
would lie here and die, then. They could keep going towards safety,
without his dangerous presence. And it was wonderful just to lie on the
ground, making no effort beyond that of breath. It took everything he had.
In, out. In, out. In ... "Illya?" ... out. "Illya!" 

So Napoleon had noticed after all. He sighed. Well, Napoleon wasn't here
yet. He had a little time still ... his eyes closed. 

Solo was furious. Chuck and Lydel couldn't blame him. They were as horror
stricken with themselves as he could possibly have been with them. One
minute Kuryakin had been in front of them, and then suddenly Solo turned
around and said, "Illya?" And Kuryakin was nowhere to be seen. Solo
shouted his name, then stormed back along the trail, the trainees hurrying
behind him - Lydel, at least, feeling childishly that he was afraid to let
the man out of his sight. Kuryakin was lying face down, motionless. 

"I'm ... I'm sorry!" Chuck blurted. "I don't know how ... I mean he was
just there! Just right there!" 

"I'm sorry too," Lydel said numbly. He had fucked up. They had both fucked
up. They had actually lost one of their party, and he particularly was
charged with whisking Kuryakin out of harm's way in case of trouble. 

"You didn't notice that he was gone?" Solo was checking Kuryakin's vitals,
hands swift and efficient but gentle, too - a contrast to his voice, which
was hard and clipped. 

"No," Lydel admitted miserably, and Chuck nodded. "I guess I was watching
for ... looking out for ..." he flushed, and stumbled to a stop. "I think
I was watching my own stupid feet," he finished, and Chuck nodded again. 

"Me too," he agreed. "I didn't even know I could be so stupid." 

"Zak?" 

"Me?" Zak, who had actually been feeling relief that none of this was on
him, was both hurt and stunned. "I wasn't supposed to be watching out for
him! I mean ... I know we all are!" he added hastily, because the look
Solo shot him nearly made him piss himself. "I know that! I just thought
... he was behind me!" 

"Keep your ears open," Solo said shortly. He rose, and stood beside
Kuryakin's prone body. "You should have heard the change in sounds behind
you - the absence of one member, the closer proximity of two others. Be
alert. All of you," he added and they nodded meekly, picturing how this
would look on their records. If they lived to get back and see their
records. Solo picked Kuryakin up, slung him over his shoulders again, and
set out. The trainees fell in behind him, maintaining a guilty silence. 

Finally Chuck broke it. "I thought I was alert!" he said. "I really
thought I was. I was thinking, while I was walking, about how I was
looking and listening and being ... being alert! But I walked right past
him! How - what is wrong with me! I thought I could do this!" 

Solo sighed. There was a weariness to the sound that made Lydel look at
him in surprise. Solo was tired? But - well, of course he was. He had
walked all night long. He had carried his partner on and off for the past
two days, and was doing so again now. The man was human, wasn't he? He was
responsible for this entire expedition, wasn't he? He was entitled to be
tired. 

"I could take a turn," Lydel offered. "I mean - I could take him for a
while." 

"Me too," Chuck chimed in, and Zak nodded. 

"Maybe," Solo said shortly. "If I really need the help." He gave them all
a look that indicated his doubts as to their ability to provide any such
thing, and began walking again. 

At some point during the day Lydel did take over. Solo had staggered,
caught himself, then within fifty yards tripped over a tree root and fell
to his knees. He remained there for a moment, then eased Kuryakin onto the
ground and rose, stretching and rubbing his back. He looked the three
trainees up and down; evaluating, weighing, deciding - what? Lydel didn't
know, and before he could try to work it out Solo pointed to him. "Lydel,"
he said. "Take him. Zak & Chuck, you're covering our rear. Try not to lose
them." 

He didn't look to see their flush but set out again, faster now without
his burden, clearly expecting Lydel to step up and maintain the pace, at
least in the beginning. So he did. Kuryakin was surprisingly heavy, but
the training had been good. He had drilled carrying packs, carrying
dummies, carrying classmates. This was the first time he had been carrying
a genuinely wounded man, but after an awkward few minutes he found his
grip, found his speed, and settled into it. 

Kuryakin never moved. He just lay there, limp, radiating heat, and
breathing. The effort that took was audible and it scared Lydel more than
the fever and unconsciousness put together. His lungs were filling up,
that was clear, and how much longer ... how much longer ... but then he
stopped thinking about that and began worrying about why Solo had chosen
him. Surely not because of any objective criteria - both Zak and Chuck
were more obviously physically fit than he was. Did Solo think they would
be better fighters than him? Did Solo somehow sense his fear, his self
doubt? Because this was twice now. Earlier he had been in charge of
whisking Kuryakin off to safety, and now he was carrying him. He couldn't
decide whether it was a compliment, or an ... not an insult, but a
negative evaluation of his field abilities. Of course, Solo had seen all
their records, all those tests and results and analyses of said results.
But surely he was currently evaluating this new data, their performance
now, here and now; when nothing had followed the plan, when their lives
were in danger, when physically they were already pushed to their limit.
And then he stumbled. He went to one knee, wavered, felt Kuryakin start to
slide. Grimly he hoisted him higher and used the same momentum to heave
himself to his feet. He could almost feel Solo itching to intervene, to
snatch his partner back, but then he only set out walking again. 

"Good recovery," he said without looking back, and Lydel flushed again,
with pleasure this time. `Good recovery', Solo had said, and now that the
initial embarrassment had faded he could see for himself that that was
true. He had not dropped Kuryakin, he had not fallen. He had not even
missed more than a few strides before he was moving again. Yeah. Good for
him. 

Dark was falling when Napoleon brought them up a little ridge, across a
dirt road, and to the parking lot of another motel. He had liked the looks
of it last night, and he did so again now. It was no fancier or better
maintained than the last one - in fact two letters were missing from the
fluorescent sign, so it advertised itself as MO EL & LOD E, but in
addition to the main building there were half a dozen small cabins, each
set under a tree. He wanted to get them into one of those cabins behind a
locked door for the night. 

"All three of you," he said. "Here." He distributed IDs and money. "Check
in as a group. Now people who work nights are often talkative - it passes
the time. Let them talk. You don't want to be remembered, either for
volubility or curtness. You're good natured guys, but you're tired. You
just want a quiet cabin. When you get it, I'll see you go inside, then you
watch for me. When I deem it safe, I'll walk up to the door, and you let
me in. Yes?" He waited, collected nods from each of them, and waved them
ahead. 

He looked at Illya, so still on the ground. So still, and so warm - but
alive, breathing in and out, heart still beating. Responsive to pain, as
Napoleon had noticed when Lydel swung him down too quickly, and his head
bumped the ground. He had rolled it, as if away from the sore place, and
then away again from Lydel, who was hastily repositioning him onto a
softer patch of turf. Every once in a while he struggled to cough -
inhaling and pushing it through his throat but nothing really happened,
and he fell back again. Was he awake, or truly unconscious? Napoleon
didn't know, and didn't want to disturb him enough to find out. Soon
enough he'd have to move him again ... and here they came. A teenage boy
was leading them across the parking lot, and sure enough he was talking. 

"It'll be quiet enough for you out here, that's a fact. Midweek we don't
get too many people. Good enough for you?" He was holding the door open,
and the light was on. Presumably one or all of the trainees had agreed
that it was, in fact, good enough, and the boy walked away, pocketing a
tip. Napoleon waited, and a car pulled in. A couple got out, and walked
into the main building. After a few minutes they came back out, took a
small suitcase each out of the trunk, and went back into the main
building. They didn't come out again, and Napoleon supposed they preferred
the brighter and more modern looking interior. Good. He watched to see if
lights appeared in any room with a direct sight view of the cabins,
because that might indicate a more sinister motive, might indicate that
they were followed, watched. But nothing happened, and finally he decided
he had to make his move some time. So he slung Illya over his shoulder,
carelessly, as one would carry a duffel bag, and hoped that in the dim
lighting that was how it would appear. He crossed the lot, making no
attempt to look covert, and the door opened as he approached. He hurried
inside, and laid Illya on the bed. 

He looked around. There were two double beds, and a cot. There was even a
tiny kitchen space, with a hot plate, a coffee maker, and a toaster. Nice.
And when Chuck showed him the little washing machine drier combination, he
nearly wept. A washer drier. With no witnesses. "Get the blankets in the
drier, " he ordered. "First thing. From the other bed, Zak. We'll switch
later. And start washing your clothes. We need to put together some decent
outfits for when we have to go out in public. We're a mess." 

"He mentioned that," Chuck said. "He said `boy, you guys been in a wreck
or what?' 

"What did you say?" 

"I told him no, just one of those days. That okay?" 

"Yes. Good," Napoleon said. "Hopefully he's as self centered as most
teenagers, and has already stopped giving us a second thought. Get some
pants and a shirt and socks in the drier with those blankets for him. Warm
is more important right now than clean. We can change those out later,
too. I want two of you to go out for food. There are a few places on the
road. Get whatever you want, but try and find some soup for him. Chuck and
Lydel." He gave them more money. "Go." 

So they went, and Zak Edwards, who was just as glad to rest his feet, sat
and watched TV. Solo had turned it on before moving their laundry along,
then settling at the little table with a map and a pen. He was just
folding the map back up when Chuck and Lydel returned, carrying several
fragrant, steaming paper sacks. They produced hamburgers and hot dogs,
French fries and onion rings. There was a carton of chicken soup for
Kuryakin, and coffee for everyone. They all ate ravenously, and Solo
propped Kuryakin up against the pillows and scolded him into taking a few
spoonfuls. As before - as always, Zak reflected - no words could be
distinguished, but the tones came through - Solo mock stern, Kuryakin
complaining, but laughing, too. It made all three trainees feel better,
hearing it, but then Kuryakin turned away; away from the food, from Solo,
from the light and the noise of the TV, and slept. Or passed out. How
could you tell, at this point? Solo sighed, but when Zak looked at him he
looked as usual - tired, grim, but right now relatively relaxed, too -
still on alert but feeling able to put ketchup on his French fries, to sit
down, stretch out his legs, and watch a game show, coffee cup in hand. It
made Zak feel better still. He pictured the anonymity of their little
cabin, surrounded by similar cabins, tucked behind the bland motel itself,
in a small town on a little used road, surrounded by similar small towns,
and how could anybody find them? He yawned. Solo hadn't even set anybody
on guard tonight. Wasn't that a good sign? He stole another look at Solo,
who was watching the window. Or was Solo himself on guard, in which case
that was probably a bad sign. 

After a while Zak dozed, and in his wakeful periods he saw that Lydel and
Chuck were dozing, too. Even Solo's head was back on the seat, and his
eyes were closed, although his hand never left his weapon. 

It was three in the morning when Zak woke and needed to use the john.
Everybody else seemed to be asleep, but when he rose Solo turned his head
towards the sound. Zak pointed towards the bathroom, Solo nodded, and put
his head back again. Zak hurried, because alone in the john felt unsafe,
felt frightening. What if he opened the door and they were all gone? Or
dead? He knew he was just freaking himself out, that, as his mother still
told him, he watched too much television, but nevertheless he left the
bathroom hurriedly. 

The light from the TV spilled onto the bed, and illuminated Kuryakin's
face. Zak halted, frightened again but for real this time. Kuryakin's
color was so bad - maybe that was the light? Kuryakin gasped, then, a
strangled sound, then silence. Agonal breathing, Zak realized suddenly.
The last... the end... "Solo!" he rasped, nearly choked on it, and
coughed. Solo was on his feet. 

"What!" he snapped, hand on weapon, moving towards the window that fronted
the parking lot. 

"Kuryakin! I think ... I think he's going," he finished in a subdued
voice, because at his partner's name Solo had turned and been at his
bedside in two strides. He sat on the edge of the bed, felt Kuryakin's
pulse. Leaned over, ear to chest, and listened to his breathing. 

"No," he said, and then he shouted it so loudly that all three trainees
jumped. But Solo wasn't paying any attention to them. "No!" he said again
and it was hard, and barked out, like ... like an order. "You cannot, you
absolutely cannot, die on me now. Illya. Wake up. Come on. Now, Illya." He
shook him. Then he slapped his face - not brutally, but hard enough to
sting, and the trainees winced in sympathy. Kuryakin put a hand up,
batting at Solo's. 

"What ... why are you hitting me, Napoleon? I'm sick." 

"Because you are not going to die. You are going to stay awake and talk to
me. Do you hear ... Illya!" He shook him again, very hard, snapping his
head back so it rapped against the headboard. Again, all three young men
winced. 

"Can't," Kuryakin whispered. "Sorry - I'm sorry, Napoleon. I can't." 

"You must," Solo said stonily. "You must ... ah, Illya. No." Even from
across the room Lydel saw the awful graying of Kuryakin's skin, and saw,
too, his eyes roll back in his head and close. And Napoleon Solo broke
wide open. 

He cried out, wordlessly, then again, this time the one word."Please." And
it was a sob, a great, wrenching sob, terrible to hear. "No. You
can't...Illya. Listen to me. This is it, all right? They were worrying
about our recognizability before this latest fiasco. I'll tell them we're
coming in. I'll go into Section I, and you into Science. No more of this.
All right? No more beatings and starvation and imprisonment. No more
sadists carrying grudges. All right? Illya? Can you hear me?" 

Incredibly, given his appearance, Kuryakin nodded. Solo turned, so he was
lying on the bed too, and gathered Kuryakin close. There was nothing
sexual in it. Rather it was as though he were holding something terribly,
frighteningly fragile, something infinitely precious, something mortally
endangered. "And we'll be together," he said into Kuryakin's hair. "I'll
tell them that, too. We've waited, we've been oh so appropriate, oh so
correct. This is it. You'll move in with me, and I'll throw my little
black book in the trash, and we'll ... we'll just be. So you can't die.
You can't do that to me. I can't possibly go on without you. Please don't
... ah, Illya. Please don't leave me." His voice broke again and he wept,
briefly and harshly. It sounded painful. 

"Napoleon Solo." Kuryakin's voice was so faint the others weren't sure
they had really heard it. But Solo lifted his head. "You romantic devil. A
proposal, in the middle of flight and disease and death? " 

"Right in the middle," Solo agreed, trying for lightness, failing as once
again his voice broke. Kuryakin put a hand to his face, turned it a little
and now all could see that it was wet. 

"Yes, Napoleon," Kuryakin said, and if his voice was faint, it was steady.
"I love you too. And I'll try. But stop hitting me." 

"Come off that bed and make me," Solo returned, and smiled. They smiled at
one another, then Kuryakin's eyes closed. 

Solo looked at them, and they all looked away. He sighed, and waved a
hand, indicating that somebody should turn off the bathroom light. Zak
hurried to do so, darkness descended, and nobody said a word. 

Illya held on. He had been drifting out to sea, peaceful at last, pain
finally gone, not cold, not hot, not afraid or ashamed or anything at all.
Nothing at all, not ever again. 

Then had come a disruption, a shaking and a pulling and a desperate,
agonized, primal appeal that had dragged him back, made him want to come
back. Made him fight to stay back, to hold on to this that was in his
hands right now. To stay in this haven he had found that was better than
the nothingness sea, even with the pain and the heat and the cold. To be
here, in Napoleon's arms, was the best thing of all, and he wasn't letting
go of it. 

Lydel, restless, got up and poured himself some coffee. Browsing the
cabinets, he saw a little tin of aspirin. Couldn't hurt, right? He moved
the laundry, and flipped on the little radio, hoping for a warmer weather
forecast. He left it low, putting his ear right up to the speaker, and
stood still, listening. 

When he turned back to the room, Solo was sitting up. Lydel hesitated, and
saw his eyes narrow. "What?" 

"Well, I found these." He held out the tin of aspirin and Solo took it,
face brightening. 

"Good," he said softly. "Very good. Thank you. He should have something in
his stomach, though. Any soup or bread left?" 

"I'll go look," Lydel promised. "But sir ... you need to know that the
weather forecast for tomorrow is a cold driving rain. All day long." 

"Cold driving rain," Solo repeated, and his tone was wondering. "Are you
serious? But it can't rain. He'll never ..." he stopped, and they both
looked at Illya Kuryakin, barely breathing, flushed with fever. He would
never survive a day out in a cold driving rain, Solo meant, and Lydel
agreed. "Son of a bitch," Solo said then, and said nothing further, just
sat beside Kuryakin and stared at the wall. 

Twenty minutes later he rose. "I'm going to make a phone call," he said,
and left. Lydel blinked. "Hey ... what if ..." but Solo was gone, and he
was the only one awake, and it was all on him. Plus Kuryakin ... was he
still alive? Lydel leaned over and checked. Yes. But barely. Barely alive,
and Solo gone, and maybe not coming back, maybe getting captured, or shot.
Finally he had to wake Zak and Chuck. He filled them in and they stared at
one another in dismay. It made Lydel feel better, that both of them were
as upset as he was. 

"What does he mean, make a phone call?" Zak hissed. "Who is he calling?
When is he coming back?" 

"Rain?" Chuck said. "It's going to rain all day?" 

"A cold, driving rain," Lydel emphasized. Why those words struck such a
chord he didn't know but they were so evocative - the water pouring down
hard, painfully hard, and cold. Very cold. The five of them, struggling on
through the rain and the mud, and Kuryakin ... Kuryakin dying. "Damn.
Kuryakin will never -" 

"Never what?" came the voice from the bed - faint, weak, but distinctive
and all three of them snapped into upright positions, feeling guilty. But
Kuryakin didn't wait for an answer. "Where's Napoleon?" 

"He ... um, he said he was going to make a phone call," Lydel said
awkwardly. He felt foolish, but Kuryakin reached over and turned on the
bedside lamp. He was struggling to sit up, and all three leaped to help
him. He struck their hands aside a shade too hard to be a joke, and leaned
against the headboard. 

"Pack up," he said shortly. It was the only way he could say it, evidently
- the words coming in short bursts punctuated by gasps for air. He held
his side as if it pained him. "He's changing the plan. Must be. What new
information came in?" 

"Um, only the weather report," Lydel said lamely. 

"Well?" 

"A cold, driving rain." There was a gloomy satisfaction in repeating it.
The situation had been desperate. Now it was even more desperate. He saw
Kuryakin's eyes narrow, and knew that he understood. 

"Pack up," was all he said, though, and then he lay back on the bed while
the three trainees hurried around, scooping up their clothing, stuffing
other items into pockets and backpacks. "Don't get so comfortable. You
never know when you'll have to leave in a hurry. Napoleon shouldn't have
to tell you everything." When finished, they sat and waited. Lydel offered
the aspirin, and Kuryakin shook his head. Chuck asked if he should watch
out the window for Solo, and Kuryakin shook his head again. Zak asked him
if he wanted a drink of water and he started to shake his head for a third
time, then stopped. 

"Yes please," he said, sounding surprised, and Zak hurried to get it. He
felt encouraged. But when he handed Kuryakin the cup, and felt how hot his
fingers were, he was frightened all over again. Damn, how was he sitting
upright and conversing? His lips were cracked with fever, and, sitting so
close, Zak could hear the noises each breath gave out. 

Kuryakin drank a little, then handed the cup to Zak, releasing it too
early so that it fell to the floor and shattered. He didn't seem to
notice, just leaned against the headboard again, hand to his side, panting
with effort and fever. 

Zak peered out the window, despite Kuryakin's order to the contrary. He
couldn't help it. What would happen next? What could possibly happen next?
He felt someone close to him, looked over, and saw Chuck. Their eyes met. 

"What the fuck?" Chuck hissed. "How could he just leave? Where did he go?
Why can't we stay here again? We could tell the front desk that we didn't
like the local weather forecast! I'm in no hurry to move on and maybe a
day's rest would ..." here he faltered, stopped. A day's rest would do
nothing good for Kuryakin. It would bring him closer to death as surely as
the driving rain would, if more slowly. Then Lydel, who had moved to the
other window, drew back hastily. Zak and Chuck swiveled to look in the
same direction and retreated so fast they bumped into one another. Zak
hurried over to the bed. "Kuryakin," he whispered. "Hey. Kuryakin!" 

"What?" Kuryakin's eyes snapped open. "What is it?" 

"It's Solo! He's standing outside the office talking to a bunch of guys!"
He ran back over, tweaked the curtain aside and gasped. "They're coming!
They're coming over here!" As one, they lined up between Kuryakin, still
flat on his back in bed, and the door. They drew their guns. 

"Much appreciated," Kuryakin drawled. "But he'll be in charge, you'll see.
He'll have a plan. Wait for his cues, then follow them." 

"Yes sir," Zak said hastily. He was relieved. Solo had a plan? All they
had to do was ... and then there came a bang at the door. 

"It's early in the morning," Kuryakin rapped out. "You're still asleep!" 

All three holstered their guns. Lydel and Zak flopped across the free bed,
bumped against each other, then Lydel rolled off hastily, and fell onto
the floor. Chuck mussed his hair, and opened the door. 

"The fuck," he demanded truculently. 

"Get out of my way," Solo said, and pushed him aside before he could
react. Solo strode over to the bed, and stood over Kuryakin. "Well this is
just lovely," he said, voice sharp, biting each word off short. "Look at
you. A sold out concert six hours from now, and you're having your very
own lost weekend. In the middle of the week. Get up. Get dressed." He
threw a suit of clothes onto the bed. Then he rounded upon the three
trainees. 

"You lot were supposed to be keeping an eye on him! And you're as hung
over as he is! Well, you're fired. I've already replaced you with real
bodyguards." He indicated the two large men in black suits standing beside
the front desk clerk. It was the same teenage boy who had checked them in,
and he was agog with excitement. 

"A concert?" he whispered to Lydel. "Who ... I mean, well, who is he?
Bowie is playing the Garden tonight! Is that him?!" He was standing on
tiptoe, trying to see over Solo's shoulders, and one of the bodyguards
gripped his arm, pulled him away. 

Then Kuryakin spoke, but he sounded different. There was always a British
undertone to his quiet, continental voice, but it was suddenly much
stronger. "Fuck off me, mate! And get your hoodlums away from my fan! Or
I'll set the spiders on you." Then he giggled. "Get it? Spiders? Ah, fuck
off," and he was silent. But the boy was ecstatic. 

"I'm like one of your biggest fans!" he gasped. "I can't believe it!" 

Solo was counting bills out of his wallet. "It's a good night's work for
you," tucking a bundle of currency into the boy's shirt pocket, "but if
anything leaks to the press, then these gentlemen," he gestured towards
the two bodyguards, "will be paying you another visit. Capiche?" 

"Oh yes, sir. I do. Capiche, I mean. I mean ... holy cow!" this on a
surreptitious rifle through the cash. "Thanks! I mean it! And you don't
have to threaten me. I wouldn't sell Bowie out to the man." 

"Glad to hear it," Solo returned, and then he bent over Kuryakin again. 

"Go ahead of us and get in the car." Solo didn't even turn his head from
where he was examining Kuryakin, lifting his eyelids and peering into his
eyes, feeling his pulse. "I swear by all that's holy, this business is
going to be the early death of me," he said grimly, hoisted Kuryakin over
his shoulder, and headed for the door. The bodyguards followed close
behind, keeping the Bowie fan at a distance. All three trainees hurried
ahead, towards the parking lot and the car ... what car? Where had Solo
gotten a car? And how would they know which car was his? Lydel was sorry
he had ended up out in front because he would look stupid, but when he
rounded the corner of the building, he saw it. In minute they all did. 

 It was a stretch limousine, idling in front of the entrance. It was
black, and enormous, with chrome accents flashing off of every surface in
the rising sun. Dark tinted windows hid the insides, and as they
approached, a uniformed chauffeur appeared, and opened the door for them. 

It was empty. The three trainees took the seats farthest from the open
door, and sat together. Solo followed them, and laid Kuryakin out on the
bench seat opposite. He jerked his thumb, and the two bodyguards got in
beside the driver. Then Solo rapped on the window separating the passenger
compartment from the driver's seat, and accepted a small package. He
opened it as the car took off. It contained two hypodermic syringes, and a
bottle of clear fluid. The pharmaceutical label on it said `Amoxicillin'. 

An antibiotic! Lydel stared at the bottle, into which Solo had already put
the syringe and was drawing out some of the fluid. The only thing that
really might, really could, save Kuryakin's life, and Solo had just
produced it like a rabbit out of a hat. How had he gotten ... even as he
wondered, Solo spoke. "Thanks," he said gruffly, towards the driver. "No
matter what he's been into ... or who ... it's nothing a dose of this
won't fix." 

And just like that, the need for antibiotics was explained. And here they
were, heading for home in comfort and luxury. Right under Thrush's noses,
if they were still monitoring the roads. But what if they were? They might
not fall for this ruse, would surely recognize both Solo and Kuryakin,
would drag them from the car, would ... Lydel shivered, and saw that Solo
was not relaxing, was on alert. When Kuryakin stirred, moaning, then
saying something incomprehensible Solo clamped a hand over his mouth, as
he had done before. Kuryakin shook his head in an attempt to dislodge the
hand and Solo leaned down, whispered in his ear. Kuryakin stilled at once,
and in a moment his eyes opened. He blinked up at Solo, who put a finger
to his lips. Kuryakin nodded, and Solo removed the hand. Kuryakin looked
around at the interior of the limousine, then raised an eyebrow at Solo.
Solo looked back at him blandly, and after a moment Kuryakin's eyes closed
again. His breathing was more labored, and even as Lydel thought that Solo
was lifting him, stuffing pillows under his back until he was semi prone.
That seemed to help, and Kuryakin quieted again. 

Lydel fell asleep. He had looked at Zak and Chuck, snoring against the
backs of their seats, and wondered how they could possibly sleep when they
were still in danger, when at any moment the car could be stopped. He felt
superior to them, and scornful, and then without warning, he felt nothing
at all. 

Zak stirred. It took a few minutes to sort out his situation, but when he
did he realized that it was voices that had woken him - a voice. Solo's
voice. He was talking very quietly, and somehow Zak knew that Kuryakin was
slipping near the edge again, and that Solo was trying to call him back
with ... Zak could catch only about one word in five but they were
promises, they were plans for the future. "Your name on the penthouse
deed, " Solo said, then a string of words Zak couldn't catch, then,
"health insurance." Zak had to grin. Solo was so practical, even in his
wooing. Then Solo's voice got louder. "And if you don't like the penthouse
we can do something else, Illya. You want to stay in the Village? I know
you like your neighborhood, but your apartment ... well I think we could
do better. One of those townhouses overlooking Washington Square Park?
I'll ... Illya." A deep, shuddering breath, an almost palpable self
enforced self control. "I'd like your opinion. Answer me, please." 

"Ow," Kuryakin's voice was slurred. "Why did you ... ow. What was that?" 

"I pinched you. Good and hard. And I'll do more than that if you don't
stay with me. What do you say?" 

"What do you think I say? Stop pinching me, I say. Oh. A townhouse
overlooking Washington Square Park? Hmm." He was silent, and Solo said
warningly, 

"Illya..." 

"I'm thinking! No, I like the penthouse. I like everything about it, and
I'll love living there. I want to do this, Napoleon. Don't worry that I'm
going to just let go. I want this as much as you do. Just keep reminding
me. It's easy to forget when ... " he gasped, coughed feebly, and choked.
He struggled for what seemed an eternity, waking both Chuck and Lydel,
making the chauffeur open the divider. 

"I'll pay the damn cleaning bill and increase your tip," Solo snapped at
him. "Lydel, help me get him ... that's it." He had swung Kuryakin around
so he was hanging half off the seat, head down. He then proceeded to whack
him soundly on the back, repeatedly, while Kuryakin coughed and strangled,
finally drawing a wheezing, gasping breath, and passing out. Solo turned
him over, flat on his back again, and checked his vitals, one finger
behind his ear; one eye on his watch, the other eye on Kuryakin's chest
which was, Zak saw with relief, going up and down, if shallowly. 

As they approached Manhattan, all three trainees crowded the windows,
staring ahead at the lights of the city. "Oh, thank God," Chuck muttered,
and Lydel and Zak nodded. 

"Not what it's cracked up to be?" the chauffeur inquired cheerfully and
for a moment all three men looked at him blankly. Then Zak caught himself
- the cover! The all important cover! And shrugged. 

"Not always, mate," he answered, not sure why he'd added the mate.
"Sometimes it's a fucking drag." 

"Yeah, a fucking drag," Chuck chimed in. Lydel smiled nervously, and the
chauffeur turned back around. 

"Nothing ever is," he pontificated from behind the wheel. "What it's
cracked up to be, I mean" 

"Yeah," Lydel agreed fervently. "It sure as hell isn't." Like this
mission. Like being a field agent. Not what it had cracked up to be, not
by a long shot. Not for him, anyway. He caught Solo's eyes, and at the
controlled anxiety there his confidence plunged. Of course, they weren't
home free yet. Not by a long shot, he thought, and almost giggled. Thrush
could be waiting on the other side of the bridge. At the toll booth. On
any of the myriad of crowded streets that made up midtown. In fact, maybe
that was more likely! Thrush might not have known where their party was at
any given moment, but they knew where they were going, didn't they? To
UNCLE New York! An ambush could be set up anywhere! His hand crept to his
weapon, then he jerked it away. And when he looked at Solo again, Solo was
talking directly into Kuryakin's ear, much too low for Lydel to hear
anything at all. 

But there was no ambush, no more danger. The limo pulled up in front of a
nondescript brownstone which Lydel thought was the back of UNCLE New York.
They had taken rather a circuitous route, as Solo leaned over the front
seat to give directions, but Lydel was pretty sure. If he was right, this
was UNCLE's ER entrance. He saw Solo turn his back, take out his
communicator, and speak. Then he turned again, and began putting bills
into the chauffeur's hands. "Private detox," he explained shortly, and
gave more bills to the bodyguards. "He has to be onstage tonight shaking
his stuff for the girls in the front row. Appreciate you." They nodded.
and then the night was shattered by bright lights, and voices, and the
slamming of the limousine's doors as Kuryakin was pulled out, strapped to
the gurney, and wheeled away. Solo grabbed one of the doctors and pulled
him aside. Lydel watched him closely and could see the words "weaponized
Legionnaire's" and then Solo handed over the amoxicillin packets, the
doctor took them, and left. Solo came back just as the limousine pulled
away, leaving the four of them standing on the sidewalk, which was again
deserted. 

"Follow me," Solo said tersely and of course they did, in obedient single
file. They followed him through a door, into a shabby lobby, through what
looked like a stockroom, into a closet, where he pulled a lever and, just
like that, they were in UNCLE HQ. Lydel exhaled with relief, but then they
were surrounded by people, separated from one another and led away in
different directions. 

The sun was well up in the sky when Lydel stumbled into the cafeteria in
search of coffee and something to eat. He felt like hell. The debriefing
had been extensive and thorough and it had left him feeling not very good
about himself, and in despair over his future. He felt he hadn't had half
the answers they had expected, that he hadn't noticed, observed, measured,
remembered most of what they had seemed to think he should have. The whole
thing had been a fiasco, start to finish, and now it was over. He supposed
he would just make his way home by subway, as if it had been any workday.
It was depressing. 

Zak and Chuck were in the cafeteria. Both had trays, both clutched coffee
mugs. Neither had eaten. Lydel joined them with his own tray. They didn't
talk, just sat slumped over their unappealing meals. 

"Fuck me," Chuck said finally. "I was so glad to get back, but those
fuckers in there sucked it right out of me. I felt like they were waiting
for me to confess to espionage and giving Kuryakin Legionnaire's to boot."


"I know they think I should have been able to draw them a perfect map of
that walk," Zak grumbled. "Are they kidding?" 

 "You mean one like this?" Napoleon Solo said from behind them, and they
looked up, startled. He sat down and placed a hand drawn map on the table.
All three leaned over and studied it. 

 "It looks right," Lydel said doubtfully. 

"Yeah, there's the lodge," Zak added, putting his finger on the spot. 

Solo nodded. "I just wanted to see how you were doing, and if anybody
wanted to take an office car home. I'll arrange it, if so." 

"That would be great," Chuck said. "I'm beat. They said I could take
tomorrow off." 

"Yes," Solo said. "Unless something imperative intervenes. Less likely at
your level. I think you're safe. One car all right? You three don't live
that far apart. 

Lydel was beyond being surprised that Solo knew where they lived. But the
thought of a nice easy car ride instead of the subway was very appealing,
and he said so. 

"Sure," Solo said. Then he pushed back his chair, clearly preparatory to
walking away. 

"Sir?" It was Chuck. "How is Agent Kuryakin doing?" 

"I don't know yet. But I'm through being," he snorted, "debriefed, so I'm
heading over there now." 

"You had to get debriefed too?" Lydel asked, startled. "I thought you'd
just file a report and that would be it." 

"Isn't that a lovely thought," Solo said. Then he looked at them. "After
your first experience with our debriefing teams, you're probably feeling
not good about your roles, and worried about your performance appraisals.
It's normal to feel that way, and your appraisals are uniformly superior."


"Superior?" It was Chuck. "Really? But I - and they ... we ..." Solo waved
a hand 

"You never gave up, you followed orders and worked hard, and you took
responsibility for your mistakes. Plus we are all alive to tell the tale.
Good work." Without waiting for an answer he left, and they gaped at one
another. Then, suddenly discovering their appetites, they ate quickly, so
that when the pleasant young man who was their driver appeared, they were
finished and ready to go home in triumph. 

Napoleon stood over Illya's bed, and let himself feel the relief. Illya
was better. Over twenty-four hours now on intravenous antibiotic and
fluids, with supplemental oxygen, and morphine for the pain, and he was
clearly, visibly, better. He still looked very sick, but he no longer
seemed to be at death's door. Even as Napoleon watched him and thought
these things, Illya's eyes opened. 

"Oh, Napoleon." He tried to reach for him, but both arms were strapped to
IV boards. "Where were you?" 

"They wouldn't let me in until your condition was upgraded to stable,"
Napoleon answered. It took an enormous effort to keep the anger out of his
voice, but he tried. And failed, because Illya raised an eyebrow at him. 

"Well, if what you were saying back there at the lodge and in the
limousine is true, it's for the last time. Domestic partners aren't kept
out." 

"Someone is going to be very sorry," Napoleon grumbled, but he was
smiling. "So you remember all that?" 

"Yes, I certainly do. Joint bank accounts, mutual insurance benefits, my
name on the deed to the condo. I remember every word. So if you're
thinking about trying to back out ..." and then he coughed. He coughed and
coughed, and when he struggled to sit up Napoleon hurried around to help
him. A nurse came in, listened to his chest, looked at his chart, and went
away again. Illya drew a whooping, ragged breath and leaned against
Napoleon, coughing and shaking. The nurse returned with a bottle and a
spoon. She gave Illya a hefty dose of the syrup, and stood over him until
he had swallowed it. 

"That will help, sweetie," she told him and patted his hand. He yanked it
away. "And your next morphine dose is in ten minutes anyway, so I'll just
give it to you now, and you can relax. Are you staying?" she asked
Napoleon. 

"Yes.," he said, ready to do battle if need be, but she only nodded. 

"I'll tell them to send you a dinner tray with his," she told him, and
Napoleon smiled at her. 

"Thank you." He watched her return with the hypodermic, and inject it into
Illya's IV line. He had already stopped coughing, under the influence of
whatever had been in the medicine bottle, and within minutes the lines of
pain and weariness had smoothed out of his face, and he sighed. Napoleon
sat beside him and held his hand, while he drifted in and out of sleep. He
wouldn't eat when the tray came, pushing it away and nearly spilling it.
The nurse didn't seem worried. 

"He had a good lunch," she informed Napoleon. "The fever goes up at night,
and it's normal for him to feel less well. Sleep is the best thing for
him." So Napoleon didn't press about the food, and ate his own portion
dutifully. You ate when you could, to keep up your strength, because you
never knew when you'd get to eat again. Hard won wisdom, he reflected, and
managed to rouse Illya enough to take a few mouthfuls of his stew. He
coaxed and cajoled, teased and promised, and was ultimately rewarded by
Illya eating about half of the bowl. He relented, then, and put the head
of Illya's bed down. The nurse returned with his nighttime meds, and when
Napoleon indicated the stew and gestured to Illya, she smiled at him and
gave him a thumbs up. Illya propped himself on his elbow, accepted the
paper cup with the two pills, and swallowed them down with water. Napoleon
helped him settle back down, feeling weak with relief and thankfulness
that Illya was not dying, that they were in this safe warm dry place, that
he could lay the burden of responsibility down for the time being. 

Illya's temperature did indeed rise as night drew on, and he was more
restless despite the drugs. He tossed and plucked at his IV lines until
Napoleon took both hands in his and held them still. They were cold, and
Napoleon frowned. He looked at the door to the hall, where the nurses and
interns and doctors and orderlies were, and at Illya, who was shivering,
his teeth chattering. Napoleon looked at the door again, and decided to
hell with everybody and what they might think or say. He kicked off his
shoes, and removed his tie and belt. Then he very carefully climbed into
bed beside Illya, avoiding IV lines and tubes. Illya turned, seeking him,
shuddering. Napoleon drew the covers up, put both arms around him, and
held him close. He rubbed Illya's back and shoulders, and when Illya
pushed his face into the crook of his neck, slid one arm under him,
gathered him even closer. 

"Thank you," Illya whispered. "Thank you, oh thank you, thank you thank
you." 

"It's my pleasure," Napoleon said, as he could not have said before.
Because it was his pleasure, to lie here on clean sheets, to feel Illya's
shivering stop, even to have to avoid the assorted medical paraphernalia
because they were pumping health and life back into Illya along with the
fluids. Illya was asleep now, and Napoleon wanted to sleep as well, but he
felt awkward there in the hospital bed, in flagrant violation of all the
rules. But after two different nurses and an orderly had come and gone,
and nothing had been said, he relaxed and slept too; waking when they woke
Illya for this and that, sleeping again when Illya did. 

When he came by to visit Illya the next afternoon, (having been summarily
expelled by the morning shift of hospital workers, while being given
emphatic nods and smiles from the departing night shift), he found him out
of bed, sitting in a chair by the window, talking to Zak. Only one IV line
remained, and he seemed much better. Napoleon smiled at both of them. He
felt benevolently disposed towards all the trainees, because they had been
back in New York for three days now, and Napoleon had heard no indication
that any of the more scandalous tidbits from the past mission had been
shared. Tidbits like Napoleon's proposal. Tidbits like Napoleon's tears.
But evidently nothing had been said, so he touched Zak's shoulder lightly
in greeting, and watched the young man flush with pleasure. 

Zak looked at his watch, and rose. "I better go," he said. "I've got
munitions and demolitions coming up. We all want to qualify for your
advanced class," he added to Illya. "So we're in this one." 

"I'll look forward to it," Illya told him. He began trying to stand up,
and both men hurried over. Napoleon took one arm, Zak the other. Illya
didn't object. He seemed suddenly worn out, and once he was in bed he laid
down. A nurse put her head in the door. 

"Time to go," she said pleasantly enough. "Visiting hours start up again
at two, and go till seven. Seven," she repeated sternly to Napoleon, who
nodded, knowing that the accommodating night shift would be coming on duty
then. The nurse knew it, too - all the staff being in a pleasant little
conspiracy to allow Napoleon's overnight visits without any outsiders
knowing. He followed Zak out the door, consoling himself with the thought
that surely Illya would be leaving the hospital soon. Surely he would. 

The conspiracy was needless after all. The paperwork both Napoleon and
Illya had painstakingly filled out and turned in over the past few days
came to fruition with the notice that Napoleon Solo, as Illya Kuryakin's
domestic partner on record, could visit whenever he liked, and stay as
long as he pleased - yes, overnight if desired. He was included in that
day's medical briefing and, as he listened to the summary of injuries
healed and bacteria vanquished, he realized that a significant piece was
missing. 

`An unhealthy interest', he had called Vitter's, and Illya had said "Yes
he did, and yes he still did, and yes he did, and that's all I'm saying
about it.' In truth, he had said nothing further. And in all the rest of
it - the fever, and the seizure, and the near death - the ... rapes,
Napoleon thought, had not been reported. Had not been treated, although he
supposed that was moot at this point. All injuries were healing, and any
and all infections would have been knocked out by the powerful antibiotics
Illya had been taking for almost a full week. But if UNCLE knew, they
would want to examine him again anyway, both physically and mentally. They
certainly wouldn't be talking about sending him home tomorrow, or the day
after. They'd be setting him up for intensive psychiatric evaluation and
counseling. If they knew. Which they didn't, because Illya hadn't reported
it, and neither had he. So ... fine. It could remain unreported. At this
point, it would take more explanations than he wanted to give to justify
not reporting it immediately. They'd never believe that both of them just
forgot. They would be suspicious. They'd ... so no, he wouldn't report it.
It was just he and Illya who knew, and that was where it would stay. 

The meeting ended and he rose, shook hands, accepted their
congratulations. There would be a discharge conference the following
afternoon, and then Illya would go home. Napoleon couldn't wait. Illya
would come home. He would bring Illya home, would bring him up in the
elevator and into his - their - apartment. For good. For life. And then he
could finally - they could finally - act on those long suppressed
feelings, those long denied desires. He would make it good for Illya, he
knew. And that would make it good for him - no, more than good. Wonderful.
It would be wonderful for Illya, and wonderful for him. He would see to
it. 

Illya's homecoming was a jubilant celebration; starting from his hospital
room, where it took two orderlies to pack up the flowers, gifts, candy and
cards that had accumulated, and bring them down to Napoleon's car. Nurses
rushed in and out, hugging Illya and kissing him, exclaiming about his
recovery. Napoleon found himself with several casseroles balanced in his
arms, as one woman or another explained how her particular dish was
guaranteed to put health back into an invalid. He grabbed a custodian
pushing a mop along the floor, and paid him twenty dollars to take the
casseroles down to be packed in his trunk, along with the gifts and the
cards and the candy. 

For once, Illya didn't argue about the wheelchair. He moved from the bed,
and actually thanked the nurse, who beamed at him. Napoleon leaned over to
put the footrests down, grabbed Illya's book, and followed them out. 

Zak and Chuck were standing by the elevator, and they held the doors open
while Napoleon took the handles from the nurse, and guided Illya into the
car. Then they stepped back. The doors closed, the elevator went down, and
they were alone. 

They didn't say a word, there or in the car. Illya sat very close to him,
and Napoleon drove with one hand, the other resting on Illya's knee. The
city seemed very loud and very crowded to them both, after the days on the
trail, the quiet little motel rooms, and the hospital. Napoleon kept his
windows rolled up, and the heat on to shut out the commotion because he
could tell that Illya was tired. In fact, after a few blocks he put his
head on Napoleon's shoulder, and just rested there. His eyes were open,
but he was very still. Napoleon patted his knee, and felt Illya smiling
against him. 

They parked in the garage, greeted the doorman - who gave Illya his own
key to the lobby, and another key for the mailbox - and got on the
elevator. 

They said nothing there, either, and Illya leaned on him openly. When they
stepped out into the little hallway, and Napoleon took out his keys, he
rubbed his cheek on Napoleon's upper arm. Napoleon opened the door, then
turned, caught Illya into his arms, lifted him off his feet, and carried
him inside. 

Once there, he set his partner down, turned, locked the door, and set the
alarm. Illya was sputtering. "I knew it," he accused. "You think of me as
the wife, don't you. Carrying me over the threshold. Well let me tell you,
Napoleon Solo," and then he coughed. He coughed so hard, and for so long,
that Napoleon hurriedly dumped out the little paper bag containing his
medicines, found the cough syrup and put the bottle to his lips, tipping
it enough to get a good dose in. Illya choked, coughed some more, and
crumpled. Napoleon caught him up, carried him over to the sofa, and very
gently deposited him on it, covering him with the throw he kept there.
Illya made no protest, which told Napoleon all he needed to know about his
condition. 

"Stay there," he told his partner. "Let me unpack for you, and then I'll
cook dinner, because ... Illya." He sat down beside him, took both of his
hands - cold hands, so he chafed them between his own. "We're home. And
you can be the husband if you want to. We'll both be the husband. I
just... I'm a romantic, Illya. So sue me." 

"Home," Illya whispered, and the smile was back. "I'm home, you're home,
we're home together." 

"Home together," Napoleon echoed, and got up to attend to the tasks he had
mentioned. 

Napoleon put Illya's things away, smiling at the transformation wrought in
his rather austere bedroom by the flowers on every surface. Then he made
supper - scrambled eggs with bacon, toast, and blueberry yogurt. They were
all favorites of Illya's, he knew, so he set up tray tables, sat beside
Illya on the sofa, and picked up his fork. 

It was so heavy! He ate a little, mechanically, because you ate when you
could, because you never knew ...there was nothing more for him to do. His
mind, accustomed to throwing itself forward to the next day, the next
walk, the next meal, the next motel, the next hospital visit, cast about
now; bewildered by the blank wall in front of his momentum. There was
nothing for him to plan, nothing for him to do except eat this meal with
Illya - Illya, alive and well, and right beside him. He turned his head to
be sure. Illya was eating and watching television with what seemed like
equal absorption. Napoleon wondered what he was watching, then he wondered
why he couldn't see the screen for himself. He felt himself sliding a
little, and caught, welcomed, embraced. After that there was nothing. 

He woke some unknown time later. The TV was off, the table lamp beside the
sofa was off. A light still came from the kitchen, and by it, when he
turned his head, he could see Illya, leaning back against the sofa, sound
asleep. He himself had his head on Illya's lap, and the throw was draped
over him now. He smiled at Illya, sprawled out on his sofa, one hand
resting on Napoleon's arm, the other still holding the remote control with
which he had turned off the TV. Napoleon rolled over, landing on his knees
and waking Illya, who grumbled about it. 

"Go on in to bed," Napoleon told him. "We'll both be more comfortable.
I'll use the bathroom, and be right in." 

When he came into the bedroom Illya, already in bed, rolled over and held
out the covers for him. Napoleon slid under them and, after a little
maneuvering, found himself on top of Illya, who widened his eyes at him.
In an equally wordless answer, Napoleon bent his head, and kissed him. 

He kissed Illya as he had always wanted to, as he had longed to do. He put
all of that longing, all those years of longing, into the kiss. Illya
sighed, and a smile curled the corners of his mouth. Napoleon kissed them,
one at a time, and this time when he took his mouth those lips parted for
him. It was so strong, that pleasure, and so sweet ... he groaned aloud
into Illya's open mouth, wrapped both arms around Illya's back, holding
him hard. 

There were no words - he and Illya had never needed words between them,
and all the things which should be said had been said, one way or another,
over the years. They had just been waiting for this time. This time, when
all the caution, all the protocol and procedure and regulations could be
left behind, and this new season of their lives would begin - was
beginning already; ushered in by this act, this final act that would make
them one. 

Both were so tired that it was a little fuzzy, and later neither had more
than blurry images ... kisses and caresses and catches of breath; arms and
hands and finally legs twined around legs in a frantic attempt to get
closer, and closer still ... and then there was glory. Neither could move,
at that piercing pinnacle, but both held on, clutching more tightly, mouth
finding mouth and sealing together while their hearts beat, beat, beat, in
unison. 

Napoleon forced himself to push away, to roll off the bed, landing on his
knees. Illya turned onto his side, and smiled into his eyes. Napoleon
smiled back. In the bathroom he cleaned himself quickly, then brought a
warm, wet - but not dripping, just right - washcloth back to the bed. He
sat on the edge, pulled back the covers and cleaned Illya too, but not
quickly. Illya stretched under his attentions, then yawned. Napoleon
smiled. 

"Any other night," Illya murmured, stretching some more, "that would have
me going again. But I'm so tired," he yawned again. 

"Me too. Both statements. I'll be right back." He hurried, depositing the
washcloth in the hamper, using the bathroom because he didn't want to
leave their bed again tonight, washing his hands, and finally coming back
into the bedroom. He thought Illya would be asleep but he wasn't, he
reached out as Napoleon climbed in, embracing and being embraced. A wave
of emotion swept him, so powerful that he had no defense against it, so
overwhelming that he didn't have a name for it. Whatever it was, it had
him clinging to Illya desperately. But Illya didn't seem to mind, he had
both arms wrapped around Napoleon too, holding him, whispering - words
evidently needed now because what Illya was saying was exactly what he
needed to hear, as if he needed permission to finally, finally lay it all
down. 

"I'm here, Napoleon, I'm right here. I'm alive and well and right here.
You did it. You brought me out, and you wouldn't let me die, and moreover
you brought those trainees out too, and each one of them is a better man
for the experience. Now we're home. You did it. And I'm right here, for
tonight and for always. You're stuck with me, Napoleon. There was a good
company of witnesses to our vows. I'm here for good." 

"Thank you," Napoleon whispered, and heard the echo of all those feverish
nights. Illya seemed to hear it too, because he shivered suddenly, and
pressed even closer. Napoleon pulled the covers over his shoulders and
kissed his temple. "Thank you. Thank you, thank you, thank you." He kissed
him again, and finally fell asleep. 

 

Napoleon buttoned Illya's tuxedo jacket for him, slowly, because he was
enjoying the process. He started at the bottom and worked his way up,
while Illya stood still, smiling very faintly. After the top button
Napoleon's fingers were in perfect position to cup Illya's chin, and lift
it. The kiss was the natural next step and it too was slow, sweet;
nuzzling and parting and coming together again. It couldn't lead anywhere
- for one thing their guests, a hodge podge of work and family, would be
arriving very soon. For another thing the catering staff was already in
the apartment, right beyond the closed bedroom door, setting out plates of
hors d'oevres, trays of drinks, a coffee station and a water table,
complete with ice and bowls of lemons. Both men could hear the clink of
cutlery and low voices outside their refuge, so both men drew back, smiled
into the other's eyes, looked the other over to be sure he was sartorially
correct, and walked out of the room together. 

Everything looked perfect. Napoleon smiled, and went over to get drinks
for the two of them before people started arriving. Illya followed. "Your
sister isn't going to make a toast or anything, is she?" he asked
plaintively. "I mean, I've already told her I didn't want any kind of
announcement, or even any mention of it. It's nobody's business. We're
wearing our rings, and we invited everybody, and I'm obviously living here
now. That should be enough." Then, when Napoleon only smiled, he grew more
anxious. "Napoleon? She won't say anything, right?" 

"I'm not making any promises. I talked to her too, but Jillian is a law
unto herself. If she thinks we secretly want the big announcement, she's
going to make it." 

"Not in front of Mr. Waverly and Mr. Davenport! And even George and Mae -
and Charles - and everyone?" 

"Illya - I really wish I could guarantee it for you. But she is genuinely,
truly, happy for us. Apparently she's been worried about me growing old
alone, a pathetic aging Don Juan. Your arrival on the scene fills her with
relief and joy." 

"You would never have been a pathetic aging Don Juan. What a thing to
say." 

"Well ..." Napoleon laughed. "I don't know. It's hard to remember now
where I thought that particular path was leading me. Because one day I
fell in love with my partner, and that was all she wrote." 

Illya gave him a sideways look. "I think she wrote a lot more than that.
You may have been in love," 

"May have been?" 

"Were in love," Illya granted. "But it didn't slow your roll any." 

"My roll?" 

"You know. You kept right on dating them, and sleeping with them." 

"I had to. Otherwise I'd have grabbed you and had my wicked way with you
on the desk in our office. Or the conference table in Waverly's office." 

"The revolving one?" 

"The very same." 

"Hmm." 

"Hmm? What do you mean by that? Don't even think it. There's no way... and
there's the doorbell. Just discretely flaunt your wedding ring, and maybe
she'll be satisfied with that." 

"Discretely flaunt is an oxymoron." 

"No, it isn't. Watch me. Frank and Joan! Illya, you remember Frank,
Jillian's husband Lloyd's brother. And this is his wife, Joan. The staff
will take your coats." He indicated the waiting attendant, and the ceiling
fixture caught the simple gold ring on his left hand, reflecting it back. 

"I'm sorry we're the first," Joan was apologizing as she handed her coat
over. "I told Frank New York parties never start on time, but you know how
he is about punctuality!" 

Frank was staring at Napoleon's hand, although it was back by his side.
"I'll be damned," he grumbled, and Napoleon raised an eyebrow at him. 

"Excuse me?" 

"I suppose he's got one, too. Yeah. Fuck me. I'm getting a drink." He
caught Joan's arm, and they walked towards the bar. 

"And you were worried about Jillian?" Napoleon said to Illya, but he was
smiling. Frank and Joan were old news, and unavoidable. `Like the plague"
he said aloud, and Illya laughed. 

"There's the door again. We're really in this now, aren't we, Napoleon." 

"Yes, the mission has truly begun. Mr. Davenport." Napoleon moved forward
to greet his superior, the current Section Chief following Alexander
Waverly's retirement. "And Lee." He smiled at the woman standing beside
him. "Always a pleasure." 

Lydel, Chuck, and Zak clustered nervously by the front door. They were
relieved to see that their tuxedos were right in line with everyone
else's, and awed into near immobility by the guests. 

"Davenport," Lydel hissed to Zak. "Jake Davenport and - and," he
emphasized, "his wife. And that guy talking to Kuryakin won the Nobel
Prize for Physics last year. And ..." here he choked. 

Alexander Waverly came towards them, smiling and extending his hand. "Mr.
Lydel, Mr. Edwards, Mr. James. It's a pleasure to meet you three. After I
read Mr. Solo's report, I wanted to personally commend you. Well done." He
paused, and they murmured their thanks. "So your first field assignment
was other than expected. How did you feel about that?" 

"Mad," Zak answered promptly. "I kept wanting to yell `no fair!'. Like a
little kid." 

"Scared," Lydel admitted. "Scared the field work bug right out of me." He
always put that right out in front in work related conversations. He
figured everybody was thinking about it, about his late switch from
Section II to Section VIII, so he brought it up first, like it was no big
deal, like he'd changed his major in college or something. Kuryakin and
Solo hadn't thought it was a big deal. He'd tried it, he'd hated it, he'd
gone into something else. So what? But he felt judged most of the time
anyway. 

"Quite understandable," Waverly told him. "And Mr. Kuryakin has plans for
you, I believe. He has already found you a personal mentor in science, has
he not?" 

"George Piper." Lydel didn't exactly grimace, but spending four hours a
day shadowing the big gruff Science Operations Administrator was almost as
harrowing as shadowing Napoleon Solo had been. Waverly's eyes twinkled. 

"And you, Mr. James?" he asked. "How did you feel about your recent
assignment?" 

"I was scared and mad both," Chuck said, laughing. "But it was exciting,
too. I liked watching Solo figure things out as we went along, and now
that I know how it turned out it looks even better." 

"It usually does," Waverly agreed. "Well, gentlemen, your baptism of fire
may have been unexpected and unscheduled, but you came through
splendidly." 

"Thank you, sir," Chuck said, and the other two nodded. Then Illya
Kuryakin came over, drink in hand. 

"I see you've met our back-up team," he said to Waverly. "But I still want
to talk to you about Cutter." 

"To me, Mr. Kuryakin?" Waverly regarded him askance. "Don't you mean Mr.
Davenport? I am retired now." 

Kuryakin snorted, much to the shock of the trainees. They were barely
restraining themselves from genuflecting before the august Alexander
Waverly, and here Illya Kuryakin was, snorting in derision. "Right," he
said. "Nothing to see here. Just a senior citizen with no fingers in any
pies whatsoever." He winked at the trainees, and Waverly laughed a little.


"Nothing to see here," he agreed, and moved away to speak with an elderly
man who had just come in. 

Kuryakin looked them over. "Come with me," he invited. "You need food, and
drinks, and someplace to sit." He led them to the buffet, then found them
seats in the sunken living room, where small folding chairs had been
arranged by the sofa and wing chairs to make pleasant little groupings.
Then he brought his own plate over and sat with them. They chatted amiably
about work, and about Survival School - Lydel coaxing anecdotes from him
about his days there as both recruit and instructor - and then came the
distinctive sound of somebody tapping a utensil on a champagne glass.
Kuryakin blanched. 

"Oh, no," he whispered, so softly that the three with him were the only
ones to hear him. "Oh no, no, she isn't..." 

"Attention everyone!" Everybody else was standing up, so the young men did
too, although Kuryakin didn't. Kuryakin slouched lower in his chair, and
drank. Zak could see an attractive woman in her mid forties, with blazing
red hair, a blazing yellow and red dress, and a yellow hat with a big red
feather on top. "I would like to make a toast!" 

"Jillian." Solo came up beside the woman and put his hand over her glass,
forcing it down. He talked earnestly into her ear for a moment, but she
pushed him away. 

"Shoo, fly," she said, and raised her glass again. Solo shook his head and
walked over to the living room. He looked over Lydel's head and saw
Kuryakin, sliding even further down in his seat. 

"Might as well face the music, partner," he said soothingly, and handed
him a fresh drink. 

"No, I don't want to, Napoleon. She's saying something, and then Frank
will say something. I'll have to hit him, and it will be a brawl right
here in front of everybody. Stop her." 

"I tried. Really? You promise you'll hit Frank if he says something snide?
You'll defend my honor?" 

"I've known Illya since he started working with my brother," Jillian was
declaiming. "And he was always the cutest, sweetest thing! Not to mention
all those times he saved my little brother's life for me! And Napoleon was
always such a flirt. I thought he'd never settle down! But now here they
are, newlyweds, so to speak. Congratulations, Napoleon and Illya! And
here's to my new little brother, Illya Kuryakin!" She drank, and everyone
else drank, and Kuryakin drained his glass and held it out to Solo, who
wordlessly swapped it for a full one. 

"Speech!" somebody yelled out, and Kuryakin stared in horror. 

"Speech?" he repeated feebly. "What speech?" 

"Speech! Speech! Speech!" 

"No," Kuryakin whispered. He looked stricken to the heart, and Solo patted
his shoulder. Then he turned, facing the crowd and lifted his glass. 

"That was more than kind," he said. "Thank you all." He bowed slightly,
drank, and turned back to converse with Lydel, who obligingly tried to
look engaged and fascinated by Solo`s comments on the food. Then Frank's
voice reached them. 

"Well la dee da," he was saying bitingly to Joan. Kuryakin came out of his
chair so fast that by the time Lydel realized he was up Solo was already
pressing him back down. 

"Now now," he said, in the same soothing voice. "Let's not. Look, he isn't
getting the reaction he wants anyway." 

"I think it was sweet," Joan was saying. "What's so terrible about two
people being happy? We're happy, aren't we? Do you care what anybody else
thinks about it?" 

"There's nothing to think about, with us," Frank began, but she had tucked
her hand in his arm and was leading him towards the bar. 

"See?" Solo sat on the arm of the chair, touching his glass to Kuryakin's.
Kuryakin tapped back, and they both drank. 

Jillian came over then, waving her glass at them. "Now admit it," she
scolded Kuryakin, who stared at her rather wildly. "That was the best way
to do it, and it's good luck to drink to newlyweds." 

"Jillian - please don't think I don't appreciate everything you've done. I
do. But could you please, please stop calling us newlyweds? It's so
embarrassing." 

"Nonsense." Jillian pinched his cheek, and Zak's eyes nearly fell out of
his head. He had never envisioned anybody taking such a liberty. "But if
you don't want me to I won't anymore. What will you call yourselves? " 

"Partners," Kuryakin said, and he smiled at Jillian suddenly, a very sweet
smile. "Like always." 

"Well." She kissed his other cheek. "Partners it is." She smiled at the
young men, and left. Kuryakin was shaking his head. 

"Napoleon's right. She's a force of nature. But very kind. And it could
have been worse, I suppose. Dessert's out, if you want some." 

They ate dessert in the same little group, with Solo coming and going. He
seemed to be enjoying himself, and Kuryakin, despite his refusal to
circulate, did too. George Piper and his wife, Mae, arrived later
-"Sorry," George apologized as he filled his plate. "Mae was babysitting
her niece, and mom and dad got stuck in traffic. Did I miss anything?" 

"No," Kuryakin said. He was smiling at Piper. "Just Jillian's toast." 

"Toast? So she did it after all. Told you." 

"I know. It wasn't terrible." 

"Told you that, too." Then Piper saw Lydel. 

"Lydel. You finish that culture?" 

"Yes, sir." 

"Report on my desk like I said?" 

"Yes, sir." 

""Leave him alone, George," Kuryakin scolded. "He's off duty." 

"An UNCLE agent is never off duty," Piper lectured both of them. "Never
ever. You know that, Illya." 

"All right, George. You're right. But this is as close as any of us are
going to get, so let him enjoy it. You come with me. I know you want to
see Mr. Waverly." 

The rest of the evening passed pleasantly, and then people said their
goodbyes. Lydel, Zak, and James thanked them for the invitation. Jillian
kissed both Napoleon and Illya soundly. Waverly gravely shook their hands
and wished them joy. Davenport scheduled a meeting with Napoleon for the
following Monday, and Piper gave Lydel another research assignment before
they all left together. 

After the last guest was gone, Napoleon brought Illya out onto the
balcony, where they sat and enjoyed a final glass of brandy while the
catering staff cleaned up. When they finished their drinks and came back
inside, everyone had departed, and all was spotless and orderly. Napoleon
set the alarms while Illya inspected the leftovers nearly wrapped and
tucked away in the refrigerator, and then they walked, hand in hand, to
the bedroom. 

Illya showered first, and alone. He closed the bathroom door behind him,
and when Napoleon heard the water come on he went into the guest bathroom,
performed his own ablutions, and set the stage in their bedroom. 

Tonight was the night. Tonight was the night he would ... they would, he
corrected himself... take their lovemaking to that next level. To the
level of penetration. Illya was ready, he had said so; as if casually, as
if adding an item to their shopping list. "You know how we decided it was
too soon?" he had said, while filling the coffee pot. "It isn't anymore."
He had set the pot on the stove, and walked over to the cupboard to take
down their mugs. Napoleon had nodded sagely, as if he had very wise things
to say to that, but since he didn't he said nothing. Illya had shot him
one look, slanted under his eyelashes, and continued making breakfast as
if nothing had been said. 

So Napoleon had chosen this night; after the party, after what he knew
would be some sort of reveal from Jillian. He had bought lubricant, and
set it on Illya's bedside table; making it very clear, he hoped, that all
the balls were squarely in Illya's court. Illya was the one who had ...
well, who had been the unwilling object of an unhealthy interest. Illya
could call the shots. Napoleon was ready to be the recipient, if that was
how Illya wanted it to go. He had showered very thoroughly before the
party, was squeaky clean top to bottom, and ready for anything. So he got
into his pajamas, because one thing he knew about Illya was that he didn't
like anything being taken for granted. He might be tired. He might be
angry about Jillian's toast, or Frank's comment. He might be... but when
Illya came out of the bathroom he just stood in the doorway, naked. He
looked at the bed, at the lubricant, at Napoleon himself; propped up on
his pillows, no work in his hands, clearly just waiting for him. He
smiled, and Napoleon smiled too. They stood there smiling at one another,
then Illya walked over to the bed and climbed on top. He sat cross legged,
and picked up the lube. 

"Take those off," he whispered, indicating Napoleon's pajama bottoms and,
wordless, Napoleon did so. Illya opened the lube, put some on his hands,
then put his hands on Napoleon. 

It was exquisite. Illya kept it slow, and sweet, and easy - telegraphing,
Napoleon knew, how he wanted the whole thing to go. So when Napoleon could
no longer lie there, when he had to move, he sat up slowly, eased Illya
back onto the pillows, and tucked more pillows under his bottom. When he
took the lube from Illya's hands and, in his turn, applied it, that too
was slow, and sweet ... not too slow, because he didn't want to tease, not
tonight; just slow enough to allow Illya to relax into it, to let it
happen, and when the final moment came it too was slow, and sweet, and
easy all the way to the finish. 

Afterwards Illya was the one to get up, get a washcloth, and clean them,
and Napoleon was the one to receive his partner back into bed, back into
his arms, back into the haven that was their love for one another. "Thank
you," he whispered, as one or the other of them did every night. 

"My pleasure," Illya whispered back, as the other one of them did every
night. Then they closed together. The descent into sleep was gentle, and
the night was kind. 

The End  


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