10

Illya awoke with a start, heart pounding. His gaze raked the room. Napoleon was gone. Panic and anger flood through him; he struggled to rise but his body, impossibly heavy and sluggish, wouldn't respond. He shouted his partner's name but heard nothing. He wrenched himself upright and Napoleon walked into the room, smiling, jaunty. Illya's hand slid out from under blankets that weighed a thousand pounds. He raised the rifle and fired...

...his heart slammed him awake and he jerked upright, gasping. The room lamp had been turned off; light from the hallway outlined the shape of his partner leaning over him.

"It's all right," Napoleon said. "You're safe."

Illya twisted sideways, flicking the light switch up and staring at Napoleon.

Napoleon shook his partner lightly, let him go. "I'm safe too."

"How did you ..?"

Napoleon reclaimed his chair, looking stiff. "You called out in your sleep."

Exhausted, Illya lay back down, draping one arm over his eyes. All his bones and muscles seemed to have been removed while he'd slept. "What time is it?" he asked.

"Three thirty."

"Napoleon, go home."

Silence. He dragged his arm off his face. His partner had settled back in the chair and put his feet up on the hospital bed.

"Napoleon..." Illya tried to sound threatening but it was a hopeless cause.

"No," Napoleon said. Then he smiled. "Make me."

Illya reached up with a shaky arm and turned off the light. His eyelids slid down over dry eyes. Four more hours until they started on him; the annoying physical examination he'd undergone last night would be nothing compared to the psych workup. And this time he didn't even have the minimal comfort of confidence that he was mentally sound--as mentally sound as an agent ever was, anyway. If there was the slightest doubt, they'd remove him, one way or the other. And he wouldn't blame them. And ... then what?

In the quiet darkness he was acutely aware of Napoleon's presence; his partner was his anchor in this current wide sea of doubt. Illya focused on that, forcibly pushing back the fear.

Napoleon let out a breath he hardly knew he'd been holding when Illya's breathing finally became deeper and more regular. Relax, he told himself, but he knew what was at stake as well as Illya did.

"Napoleon?"

The semi-awake whisper from someone he'd thought asleep startled him.

"I'm here."

"Don't."

He sat up, leaned closer. "Don't what?"

"Don't. Leave."

Napoleon smiled slightly, pressed his partner's shoulder. "I'm not going anywhere. Sleep."

***

"Tell me about your partner."

Though he'd thought himself prepared for these sudden changes of topic, Illya blinked in surprise. "What?"

"Tell me about your partner."

"Talk to him."

Dr. Pirelli smiled. "I want your impressions."

"Those are my business."

"You seem perturbed."

"I am perturbed," Illya said. "This whole business perturbs me, and your irrelevant and time-wasting detours perturb me as well."

Pirelli glanced at his clipboard and scribbled something, stage-whispering: "Easily perturbed." He glanced under his brows at Illya, and Illya permitted himself a soft snort of laughter. By the end of day one they'd reached a kind of balance of amicable friction.

 Straightening up, Dr. Pirelli added, "I think you'll have to allow us to decide what lines of questioning are relevant here, Mr. Kuryakin." 

Illya smiled sourly. "I agree."

Dr. Pirelli scowled. "To?"

"That I have to allow you to decide."

"You don't like letting others make decisions that involve you," Dr. Pirelli said.

"Do you?" Illya challenged, expecting some smooth psychiatric distraction. Dr. Pirelli seemed genuinely to consider the question.

"No," he said. "No, I don't. Most people prefer to be, or to feel that they are, in charge of their own fates."

"As much as is possible," Illya said.

"Do you feel that you are not in control of your own fate?"

"A runaway taxicab might change any plans I have made, at any moment its path and mine intersect," Illya said. "No, I don't feel in complete control of my fate."

Dr. Pirelli nodded. "That seems reasonable. All the same, some people like to have others make decisions for them."

"Yes."

Dr. Pirelli looked up. "Yes? You like that?"

"Yes, some people do," Illya said heavily. "I don't."

"Master of your fate, captain of your ship?" Dr. Pirelli said.

Illya shrugged.

"You have, indeed, chosen to be here, to submit to questioning by us rather than be dismissed."

"I wasn't aware that that was the inevitable result of refusal," Illya said. "Mr. Waverly mentioned the other kind of termination."

"Do you fear that?"

Illya considered. "No."

"You don't fear death?"

Illya, anticipating some sort of trap, considered further. He was willing to be honest, as long as the questions weren't too intrusive. "No."  He expected the shrink to ask what he did fear.

"Our records indicate you do not socialize much with other UNCLE employees."

Illya said nothing.

"In fact, other than very rare social activities with the occasional unattached female employee, you socialize only with your partner."

Concern tickled Illya's gut, but he waited.

Dr. Pirelli looked up at him again. "Well?"

"I wasn't aware statements required response," Illya said. "If there was an implicit question, you'll have to make it explicit."

"Have you any ... extracurricular friendships?"

"Friendships? No."

"Acquaintanceships, then?"

"Yes, many."

"By your tone I surmise these are not of great significance to you," Dr. Pirelli said.

Illya considered, refrained from answering.

"Would you say Mr. Solo is your only friend?" Dr. Pirelli said then, and Illya smiled faintly; in view of his evasiveness, he'd been fairly sure the original topic would resurface.

"Yes," he said without reservation.

"Wouldn't you say that's unusual?"

"Not for me," he said.

Dr. Pirelli smiled. "Will you accept the hypothesis that you are an unusual case?"

Illya fought an answering smile. "Yes."

***

Napoleon stopped in the corridor, heaing his partner's voice, instantly recognized though raised in unheard-of anger.

"How many times do I have to tell you I'm not concerned about myself?"

The door slammed open and Illya stepped into the corridor, head jerking up to see Napoleon.

Napoleon took in, like a bullet, his partner's pale face, the angry flush over his cheekbones, and the anguish in his eyes. Illya met his gaze, one penetrating moment, then turned and stalked away down the hall.

Dr. Pirelli came out. "Mr. Kuryakin--"

Illya waved a hand, shouted a short phrase in Russian and kept walking.

Dr. Pirelli noticed Napoleon. He sighed, said, "Do I want to know where he just told me to stick it?"

Napoleon smiled bleakly. "No."

Dr. Pirelli echoed the smile. "Well, since you're here, Mr. Solo, shall we give you the opportunity to tell me where to stick it?" He gestured for Napoleon to precede him into the office.

***

"You do understand that we also interviewed Mr. Solo, about you?" Dr. Pirelli said on the third day.

Illya, surprised, said, "No."

"Oh yes." Dr. Pirelli waited. "Are you not interested in what he said?"

"I presume you would not be permitted to tell me," Illya said. "Nor do I feel a particular need for details. I can imagine the general outline of the conversation." Indeed he could clearly visualize Napoleon, aflame with righteous anger, defending him more strenuously than he could ever defend himself.

"You are not concerned about what he might have said?"

Illya said nothing; he was taken up at the moment with the realization that he had no fears whatsoever about anything Napoleon might have said about him or their partnership. It was an immeasurable treasure, that faith. He knew he would willingly die rather than lose it, die a hundred times before doing anything to damage it.

"What he said to you is his business," he said finally, massaging his temples.

"Even if it was about you?" Dr. Pirelli asked. "He knows more about you than anyone else, doesn't he? You have no concerns as to what he might have told us?"

"I trust Napoleon," Illya said simply; those three words held more of his world than he would have liked to admit to anyone, even himself.

"Yes, with your life. That's part of your job. But ... with your secrets? With your fears? Your demons?"

Illya closed his eyes. His head was throbbing. "You are barking up the wrong tree, doctor. Wouldn't you rather ask me about my childhood or something? My dreams? Nightmares, sexual fantasies?"

He would have sworn he heard Dr. Pirelli smile.

"Tell me about your childhood, Mr. Kuryakin."

Illya opened his eyes, not answering Dr. Pirelli's grin. "No."

***

Napoleon knocked, prepared for anything, including being told, in any one of a dozen languages, to fuck off.

Illya opened the door and looked him up and down, the pinched scowl on his face never lifting.

"What do you want?"

Napoleon simply walked in, took the door out of his partner's grip, shut it, locked it, and pulled Illya into a hug.

"I'm here," he said, feeling the granite tension in his partner's body. "I'm right here. Whatever happens."

The tension crumbled, and Illya leaned against him, unable to speak. Napoleon hugged him tightly for a moment, then drew away to meet his partner's eyes.

"I mean it," he said. "Whatever happens."

Illya shook his head and led the way into the living room.

"Psychiatrists," he began, "psychiatrists and all their pointless..." He snarled a curse. Napoleon had nothing to say, no comfort to offer save his presence and a sympathetic ear. Quitting wasn't an option, so the only way out was through.

"What does my childhood have to do with the effects of Dr. Xavier's machine?" Illya groused. "What do you have to do with it?"

Napoleon considered. Between logical argument and silence, just now the latter seemed the wisest option. Illya rarely ranted, and when he did it never lasted long. The whole point of any psychiatric exam was to pinpoint weaknesses -- and an agent was the last sort of man or woman in the world to permit that to happen without a fight.

Of course Illya knew all that. Agents learned a lot about psychology, in self-defense.

"If I have to answer one more question about going hungry in Kiev or about Nazis or about whether or not I trust you--" His hands clenched in front of him.

Napoleon waited. When they unclenched, he said, "Do you mean 'answer,' or 'evade'?"

Illya snarled, "You know psychiatrists. An evasion is an answer." Then he realized Napoleon was kidding. He met his partner's gaze, equal parts empathy and amusement, and sighed.

"Sorry. I don't mean to take it out on you. But you--"

"What?"

Illya shook his head. "You're all I've got."

"You could do worse," Napoleon said airily.

Illya dropped onto his couch. "Maybe Dr. Pirelli is right."

"About?" Napoleon thought of his own session with the good doctor.

"That it's abnormal. Abnormal to only trust one person. To trust one person so completely."

Though moved, Napoleon instinctively knew better than to make a big deal out of what Illya was -- at least at this moment -- viewing as a flaw. Or a problem, anyway.

He sat on the back of the couch. "If that's abnormal, we've both got it."

"Dr. Pirelli said you told him a great deal."

Napoleon smiled a grit-toothed smile. "Let's just say I had a great deal to say."

Illya said soberly, "Then I imagine you did tell him a great deal."

Napoleon considered. "You're probably right. But I'm not sorry about anything I said. Although I might eventually regret the decibel level at which I said it."

"Exactly what did you say?" Illya asked as if afraid Napoleon had gotten him into worse trouble.

Napoleon's tone took on an edge of anger. "Exactly what you would expect me to say to any witless meddling whitecoat who suggested our partnership was a bad thing. Or that our friendship was a liability to either us or the organization."

"I shudder to imagine your language."

"I was fairly graphic," Napoleon admitted.

Illya shook his head. "How do they know? How do they know exactly which buttons to push?"

"They're trained for it. Look, a certain amount -- a large amount -- of resistance is normal. They expect it. But don't kid yourself that your fears are a secret. We all have them -- all agents have them. Partners have them." He took hold of Illya's shoulder, gave him a gentle shake. "Even I have them." Illya shot him a sardonic sidelong glance. "Don't worry about it. Let it out."

"It sounds as if you're telling me to cooperate with the thought-vampires."

Napoleon smiled wryly. "Anything that gets you back at my side where you belong."

Illya leaned back into the couch cushions, arms crossed as he scowled blankly across the room at his intricate homemade stereo system.

"I'm afraid of not being useful any longer. Of not being able to make a difference."

"Those aren't fears, you crazy Russian. They're virtues."

Illya shrugged. "I don't care if they know about those fears. I don't want them to know I'm afraid of--" the words choked off.

Gently Napoleon said, "Of losing me?"

Illya looked up at him, and for a moment that fear was plain on his face. He looked away, nodding, one short, angry jerk of his head.

Napoleon said, very quietly, "I have that fear too." He shook his head. "I don't even like to say it. I feel like I'm tempting fate, or..."

"Handing over a hostage," Illya finished, not in question. Napoleon pressed his shoulder for a long moment as both of them stared, not at each other, but at their own demons.

"The only cure for it would be to quit UNCLE and go into ... banking," Napoleon said finally.

"We would both have to quit."

Napoleon nodded, looked down as his partner looked up. "I will if you will."

Illya, hearing the shift in tone, smiled fractionally.

"I will if you will," he countered.

Napoleon grinned. "So I guess we're stuck. Stuck making a difference in the world. Or trying to."

Illya rubbed his eyes. Napoleon thought he'd been lucky to get off with just one grueling, soul-scraping session. Illya'd been in with the shrinks for days.

"Dr. Pirelli ..." Illya sought for the word, "... suggested that an agent shouldn't be too attached to his partner. That UNCLE and the mission should come first, always." He glanced toward, but not at, Napoleon. "I didn't know what to tell him. By that criterion I'm an abject failure as an agent."

Napoleon cursed, startling Illya. "Let's see Dr. Pirelli in the field risking his life, with no one except his partner between him and a painful, gruesome demise. He doesn't know what he's talking about. You and I are the best team UNCLE has. Probably the best they've ever had. Whatever Dr. Pirelli says, Mr. Waverly isn't fool enough to quibble about our methods."

"As long as we're successful."

"We've had our failures. We'll have them again, until we hit that final one."

Illya gave his partner a pained glare. Napoleon shrugged. "If we aren't going to quit and go into banking, we have to accept that what we do could get us killed."

Illya nodded.

"I don't mean to sound morbid," Napoleon went on, "But when I go ... if I go with you at my side, I'll have no regrets."

Illya shook his head, fighting a smile. "You are a hopeless romantic, Napoleon. And if you think for one second that I'm going with you, just because I happen to be at your side when you 'go,' as you so delicately put it, you are a severely delusional hopeless romantic ..."

Napoleon faked offense. "You could teach a rat a thing or two about deserting a sinking ship, couldn't you?" Illya proferred no more than an arch look. "Order some pizza, you faithless Russian, before I go find myself a new best friend."

***

Dr. Pirelli squared the stack of papers on the table before him.

"We detected no post-hypnotic suggestions; but he's weak and confused. He's also surly, impatient and uncooperative, but from his files I assumed that to be normal. At this point --"

"Is he dangerous to this organization?" Mr. Waverly barked.

Dr. Pirelli pursed his lips; Napoleon resisted the urge to kick him.

"I would say only indirectly. He's troubled about his own usefulness, concerned that he might be a danger to UNCLE. He needs reassurance that that isn't the case. He needs some healing time, perhaps counseling."

"He won't," Napoleon said sotto voce.

"You recommend not sending him into the field?" Mr. Waverly asked.

"He's a risk at this time."

"Every agent is a risk every time he or she goes out," Napoleon argued despite the tiny voice of good sense in his head telling him it was pointless. "Any one of us might break at any unpredictable moment."

Mr. Waverly and Dr. Pirelli gave him identical level stares.

"We are aware of that, Mr. Solo," his superior said. "Have you anything else to add that isn't in the report, doctor?"

Dr. Pirelli glanced at Napoleon. "Only that in my professional opinion..." He paused, closing his folders and stacking them.

Napoleon tensed. He knew he shouldn't have yelled at the shrinks; his defense of Illya was bound to make them think he was too emotionally involved. But, damn it, they'd infuriated him with their accusations and innuendo.

"...you have one hell of a good pair of agents here."

Mr. Waverly harrumphed; Napoleon gifted the doctor with a surprised smile.

"Thank you, doctor," Mr. Waverly said. "That will be all."

***

At about 7 p.m., Napoleon knocked on the door of Illya's apartment, composing his expression. He wanted to present a calm front to his partner, who'd been poked and prodded by UNCLE's psych team for three days. Napoleon hadn't even seen him in 24 hours. Knowing Illya -- and if he didn't, no one did -- he was as grouchy and short-tempered as a bear awakened from hibernation.

He heard the clank and rattle of various locks being released, and the door opened. Napoleon smiled at his partner, who met his gaze expressionlessly.

"Hi there." Napoleon heard the soft sounds of modern classical. Illya pushed the door back and limped, barefoot, back into his living room. Napoleon followed, knowing he'd been right. Illya's mood was as black as the jeans and t-shirt he wore.

The couch in the compact living room had been pushed to one side, away from the open window, near which a punching bag had been suspended from the ceiling. Napoleon stopped, looked it up and down, then glanced at Illya, who sat on the back of his couch, sour-faced.

"Did the shrinks advise you to vent your aggressions?" Napoleon asked.

"They're the ones causing them," Illya said. His body, his face, the mind behind it, were taut with anger and frustration.

"It was your idea," Napoleon said gently -- then ducked behind the punching bag at the glare Illya shot him.

"Three days," the Russian groused. "If I'd known I was going to be sitting in a dark stuffy room with thought vampires for three days ... I'd have just stayed a traitor." He crossed his arms, glaring into space.

"It might pay better," Napoleon teased, coming out from behind the bag.

"What are you doing here?"

Napoleon smiled. "I came to cheer you up."

"You and what army?"

 A knock sounded at the door.

"Ah," Napoleon said, "my army."

Illya got up and went to the door. Napoleon followed.

Illya opened the door to an immediate and enthusiastic double embrace, blond and raven-haired. Napoleon was delighted to see that, caught off-guard, Illya returned the hugs with an uncharacteristic lack of reserve.

"Hey," he protested, "you two ladies didn't greet me like that."

Illya drew back in astonishment. "Alice. Lily." The girls beamed at him. "I thought you were ..."

Napoleon came forward, clearing his throat. "Ahem. Thanks to me, they are, as you just learned, very much not ... Come in, ladies. Don't let this ill-mannered Russian keep you standing out in the hall." He ushered all three of them inside and closed the door. The girls followed Illya into the living room where he began pulling the sofa into a more guest-friendly position.

"I read your report today," Napoleon said, lending a hand with the sofa. Once it was in place he sat on the arm. "It was the first time I realized you thought they'd died at the commune. Once I knew, of course..."

"We would be dead if not for Napoleon," Lily said. "He sent me back to tell everyone to hide in the woods."

"So only those two poor army men died," Alice said. She reached out impulsively to take Illya's hand. "I'm so sorry about everything. Can you ever forgive me?"

Napoleon saw the sour expression on his partner's face and said, "Don't fall for that scowl. It's a fake. I've seen it a thousand times."

"Napoleon," Illya said as the girls laughed, "you've destroyed my bargaining power."

"You get more flies -- and beautiful girls -- with honey than with vinegar," Napoleon said sagely. "And speaking of food, what do you say to putting on some slightly less disreputable clothing so we can take these lovely ladies to dinner? We'll forego dancing in deference to your bum leg."

Illya looked down at himself, touched the t-shirt, and actually conjured up a slight smile from somewhere.

"If you ladies will excuse me," he conceded, sketching the faintest of bows and going into the bedroom. Alice and Lily commenced looking interestedly at Illya's collection of books and music.

"Pardon me," Napoleon said. "He can never pick the right tie." He headed for the bedroom.

Illya had in fact already pulled out a rather nice midnight blue silk suit and laid it on the bed.

"I have the perfect accessories for that," Napoleon said. He pulled out a silver communicator and Illya's UNCLE special, laying them unceremoniously in his partner's hands.

"It's back to the salt mines for you tomorrow, partner," he said, grinning as the scowl lifted from the Russian's face like a cloud from the sun.

"The psych team reports you are no crazier than usual, so Mr. Waverly called me and asked me to prevent you killing anyone with your black mood."

Illya set the gun and pen down and went to the closet to get his holster. "Speaking of killing moods, how are things with the army?" He'd learned nothing of the affair's wrapup -- inactive status meant, among other things, that he had no access to sensitive data.

"With much anger and muttering they accepted the explanations of our superior that you had been a victim rather than a cohort, and that you had in fact, in destroying Dr. Xavier and his infernal machine, once again saved the world for democracy and the American way despite being a godless communist."

Shaking his head, Illya pulled out a surprisingly crisp white dress shirt and a red tie.

Napoleon, clucking his tongue, plucked the tie from his partner's hands and returned it to the closet.

"Although how you can manage to save the world and still not be able to dress yourself..." Napoleon chose a tie that matched the suit and flung it at his partner.

"But I didn't. You did. That is, I couldn't even have done what I did if you hadn't ..." He trailed off, scowling.

Napoleon shrugged. "They weren't suspicious of me."

"You falsified the report?"

"Well, not the real one, of course. But Mr. Waverly and I did edit the file we gave to the army. Very slightly." He made a show of checking his watch, moved to the door. "Come on. Get dressed. We have reservations at Sirino's at 8."

"Napoleon..."

He looked over his shoulder. Illya stood, gazing at the tie in his hand. He seemed reluctant to meet his partner's gaze.

"What is it?"

Illya looked up, and Napoleon suddenly knew.

"Don't say it," he warned, grinning. "You start thanking me and I'm going to think you can't read my mind anymore."

"Mr. Waverly told me that you threatened to quit UNCLE."

Napoleon turned, surprised. "Not exactly."

"What do you mean not exactly?"

"He wanted to send me to Madagascar."

"So do I, on a regular basis," Illya muttered. "So you threatened to quit?"

"No. I quit." He had the pleasure of seeing surprise spark those sky-blue eyes. "And he ... reconsidered."

Illya shook his head in wonder. "Only you, Napoleon. But how did you find me?"

"Ah..." Napoleon grimaced. "I'll explain that another time.  Probably when I'm drunk. For now, let it suffice that...I found you because I had to."

The End

Lee the T