9

Lily, hand between her teeth to stifle both screams and sobs, watched the riflemen lift Illya and dump him in the back of the van. The army lieutenant was urged at gunpoint to get in after. Meanwhile the other two army men were marched past Napoleon's body and into the house. Lily wiped at her streaming eyes.

After a few minutes the THRUSH men came back out of the house. Everyone piled into the van and it pulled away.

Lily crept up onto the porch, still crying, and knelt gingerly beside Napoleon's body. He lay sprawled on his back. She touched his face and his eyes popped open.

She shrieked.

"Are they gone?" he asked, sitting up.

"Oh my God." She hugged him. "You're alive."

He smiled. "Perceptive child." He got up. "We'd better see if Lt. White's men are alive. Did you tell the others to get out?"

"Oh ... yes. They all ran into the woods."

They went inside. Lily caught at his arm.

"Illya ... didn't kill you."

"Apparently not." Napoleon went to the cellar door and unlocked it. "Stand back. There may be dangerous fumes."

"Did ... did he miss?"

"Hm? Illya? No. Illya doesn't miss." He inched the door open. Nothing. He opened it wider. Darkness. Silence.

"The light's there," Lily said, pointing. Napoleon switched it on. Two men lay on the floor at the foot of the steps. Napoleon trotted down, checked both men, came back up.

"Are they dead?" Lily whispered.

Napoleon nodded. She started to cry again. He put an arm around her and led her out of the house.

"Don't. You saved my partner and all those kids."

She shook her head. "But ... my uncle killed those men. And that lieutenant and Mr. Kuryakin ... he has them. It's just all so horrible."

Napoleon collected the abandoned army handguns and went to Lt. White's car, beckoning Lily.

"Listen to me. Take Minerva's truck into Clearlake and go to the police. Tell them to contact UNCLE in New York. Tell them everything. Tell them anything to get them out here. All right?"

She gulped, nodded. "You're going after them? By yourself?"

Napoleon opened the door of the sedan, tossed the handguns on the seat. "I'm all I've got."

"No you aren't," came a voice from behind him. Doug, Teddy, Alice, Mum and the other kids were trailing out of the trees.

Napoleon shook his head. "Thanks, but I'd rather fight a thousand pacifists than have one on my side."

They stared at him, puzzled. He sighed.

"Just get yourselves to safety and get the authorities out to Xavier's house."

"Be careful," Mum said. Lily grabbed him impulsively and kissed him.

Napoleon got into the car, said again to Doug, "Get these kids somewhere safe."

Doug nodded. "Good luck."

Illya came to on the floor of the van. He blinked at the ceiling, then dragged his limp aching body into a sitting position. About 10 THRUSH men sat on the benches lining the truck's sides. He lay on the floor beside a scowling man whose uniform proclaimed him to be a lieutenant in the U.S. Army.

His greatest concern at the moment was whether he had in fact missed Napoleon as he had intended. His partner's fall told him nothing; Napoleon was smart enough to know when to play dead. But Illya had been concerned about making the shot look good -- he wasn't sure his current eyesight and hand steadiness were equal to the task. It had taken a surprising effort of will to combat Dr. Xavier's order, but Illya had done it. He had no fear, at the moment, that he was under Dr. Xavier's thrall.

But if he puts me in the machine again, all bets are off.

"Who are you, lieutenant?" he asked.

"I'm a man who just saw one of his own shot in cold blood because of you, Kuryakin," Lt. White snarled.

Illya scowled. "Because of me? You'll have to excuse me. I've been incommunicado for a few days. Would you mind--" the van thumped through a pothole, tossing everyone a few inches into the air to a chorus of shouts and curses.

Dr. Xavier, in front with Minerva driving, glanced back.

"Sorry, men, it's a rough road."

THRUSHes muttered as they readjusted themselves.

Illya, spotting what looked like a grenade rolling around under one of the benches, shifted around to get his foot atop it.

"You -- keep still," a THRUSH said.

"It's my leg," Illya said. "I can't feel anything." He straightened the injured limb laboriously, then used his hands to pull it toward him, dragging the grenade -- I hope it's a grenade -- up close.

"As I was saying," he went on, hoping those THRUSHes who were paying attention might attend to his words rather than his hands, now relaxed at his sides. "Would you mind explaining, lieutenant?"

"You're a traitor. We hunted you down." The lieutenant turned his anger, for a moment, upon himself. "And failed. It's simple."

"Traitor?" Illya echoed. "To ..?"

"Don't deny it," Lt. White snapped. "I recognize Dr. Xavier. Went over to his side to win the secret of his machine for your Communist friends, didn't you?"

Illya stared at him for a moment -- was that what UNCLE thought? That he'd betrayed them for the Soviets? Was that why Napoleon had come alone, without backup?

"Bastard," Lt.White went on. "I watched you kill your own partner."

Illya looked away. What was the military doing involved in this? Was it because of Dr. Xavier's machine, or because the government somehow believed he was some sort of Soviet double agent?

"Solo believed in you," Lt. White said, low and acid. "He trusted you. We knew you were a traitor, but he didn't buy it. See what his loyalty got him." He looked Illya up and down contemptuously. "Murdered by his own goddamned partner."

"Shut up," Illya snapped without thought. He turned away, sliding the grenade up his sleeve.

"I'm glad you two are getting acquainted," Dr. Xavier said, twisting to look at them. "After all, you're going to be colleagues, of a sort."

"I don't want anything to do with this commie son of a bitch," Lt.White growled. "Just kill me if you're going to."

"Oh no, lieutenant. I have much better uses for you. In fact, once you've been ... conditioned, like Mr. Kuryakin here, I'll release the both of you." He smiled. "UNCLE and the military. Delightful."

Lt. White looked at Illya as the THRUSH men laughed.

"You've betrayed everyone," he accused. "I'd like to kill you myself."

"You and what army?" Illya muttered without interest.

"Get in line, army punk," said a THRUSH, to the accompaniment of approval from his peers. He pointed his rifle at Illya's head. "This UNCLE son of a bitch has caused us more trouble than your whole damn' branch of the military. We'd all like to get a whack at him."

"Most of you have," Illya said, shifting uncomfortably -- and, not coincidentally, moving his head a little out of the direct line of fire. The THRUSH man's finger was on the trigger, and if they hit another bump, all Dr. Xavier's grandiose plans and his own more modest hopes would be for naught.

The van pulled off the road and onto the drive to the house.

"You've been very useful, my dear," Dr. Xavier said to Minerva. "I'm sure THRUSH will wish to reward you.  I must report in immediately."

"How will you explain Kuryakin's killing his partner?" Lt. White snapped.

Illya was preoccupied with trying to gently adjust the little grenade to where he could drop it instantly into his fingers. He'd only have a moment, and his hands were unsteady.

"You can't," the lieutenant went on. "Killing his own partner proves he's a traitor. He's no use to you now."

"Nonsense, my boy," Dr. Xavier said. "There were no witnesses."

"No witnesses?" Lt. White exclaimed, then stopped.

"Exactly," Dr. Xavier said. "Your men, and those sweet little flower children, are dead, victims of a little gas grenade I helped design, and with no way to determine the cause of death. The grenade itself is made of a special polymer that dissolves once the gas is released. A tragic mystery."

Illya, jolted to think of all those harmless kids killed, stopped his manipulations for a moment as anger tightened his body.

"I'm a witness," Lt. White said. "And you can be damn sure I'll tell UNCLE what this ... Russian did. And those butchers." He nodded at the THRUSH men.

Shut up, shut up, Illya thought as the THRUSH men grumbled. Don't antagonize them. He'd need a moment of inattention from the guards if this little scheme was to work.

"You won't be telling anyone anything I don't instruct you to tell," Dr. Xavier said. "If you doubt my words, remember Mr. Kuryakin here. A loyal UNCLE agent of many years' standing who, just now, on my order, killed his partner."

Illya flinched inwardly. He wished people would stop saying that so confidently.

"He was always a traitor," Lt. White sneered.

Illya said, "Have we met, lieutenant? I get the impression you believe you know all about me."

But the lieutenant met his icy gaze steadily. "I know what I saw."

Cheerfully, Dr. Xavier said, "Not for long. Ah. Here we are."

The van slowed and stopped in front of the house.

"Unload our guests," Dr. Xavier said.

One of the men opened the back doors and waved his rifle. "Come on, you two. Out."

Trying to look as beaten and hangdog and harmless as possible, Illya got out, nudging Lt. White to do the same. The stubborn army man almost refused to cooperate, but the 10 rifles pointed at him persuaded him to follow.

Illya counted on natural caution to keep the THRUSH men from getting out in front of them, and so it proved. He kept close to Lt. White, even jostling against him, as they jumped awkwardly to the ground. As he landed, Illya let the grenade drop into his fingers. He pulled the pin, tossed the grenade into the van with a backward flip of the wrist, and shoved Lt. White to the side. Yellow smoke burst from the grenade.

"Hey!" Shouts came from both Lt. White and the THRUSH men as Illya spun and slammed the doors, holding them shut with all his strength.  He felt the impact of a body or two against the doors. Then silence.

Lt. White picked himself up off the gravel driveway and peered cautiously at the van.

"What did you do?"

Illya risked releasing the doors, jumping back to a safer distance. One door swung slowly open, releasing a thin stream of vapor.

"Stay back," he snapped as the lieutenant inched toward the van. "That stuff is powerful." He circled the van at a distance of about 10 feet, watching the gas seep out every crack.

Dr. Xavier and Minerva were slumped over in the front. No movement or sound came from the vehicle.

"Are they dead?" Lt. White asked.

"I don't know. It's not my grenade. But from what he said--" Illya indicated Dr. Xavier -- "They're no better off than those kids and your associates."

"And your partner," Lt. White said, but this time there was a shade less certainty in his contempt.

"I hope not," Illya said tiredly. "I'm relying on him to get us out of here."

"What the hell is going on?" Lt. White demanded. "You just--"

Both men turned at the sound of a car racing up the driveway.

"That's my car!" White exclaimed as the grey sedan neared, slowing.

"That's my partner, " Illya said with relief.

Napoleon eased the sedan to a stop and got out. "Someone here call for a taxi?"

His partner, or what was left of him, smiled tiredly.

"My men?" Lt. White asked.

Napoleon shook his head. "I'm sorry, lieutenant. They were killed with some sort of gas grenade." He looked at the van.

"Don't get too close," Illya warned. "Fumes are still escaping."

Napoleon raised questioning brows at his partner.

"Some sort of gas grenade," Illya said. "Someone left it lying around in the back of the van."

"Careless." Napoleon indicated the house. "Is everyone accounted for?"

"I think so." Illya rubbed his face. "If we had some explosives we could end this right now."

"What?" Lt. White said.

Napoleon fished in his pocket, pulled out a familiar small grey cube. Then he said, "You know, both Mr. Waverly and the army hoped to get Dr. Xavier's machine back whole."

Illya shook his head. Napoleon regarded him a moment.

"That's what I thought you'd say." He tossed one of the little bombs to his partner, who barely caught it. Not revealing the concern that tweaked in him, Napoleon said, "Lead the way."

"Wait a minute," Lt. White started forward. "If the machine is in there ... we have to take it back."

"You and what army?" Illya said. "It's the size of a car."

"Well, then ... we need to get some people up here who can transport it ... dismantle it and--"

"We're going to dismantle it," Illya said.

"That device is a powerful weapon," Lt. White said. "It needs to be in the hands of the government."

Napoleon chuckled. Illya said, "I know what it can do. I wouldn't trust it in the hands of my mother."

"You don't have--"

Napoleon and Illya went into the house. Lt.White followed, still arguing.

Ten minutes later the three of them left the house, spilled down the front steps and got in the car. Lt. White got behind the wheel. Napoleon loaded his partner into the back, got in beside him, and said, "Home, James."

The tires spun in the gravel, spitting rocks as Lt. White turned the car around and headed for the highway. Napoleon hauled Illya into a more upright position. Illya turned in his seat to watch the house recede as they drove away. They heard the explosion; Napoleon felt the tension drain from his partner's battered frame as Illya exhaled a long, silent sigh.

"Your boss is going to have your ass for this, Solo," White said. "Mine's going to do the same to me."

"Tell the general you were outnumbered. He and Uncle Sam can at least take comfort that the thing is destroyed." He glanced at his partner, slumped against him, out cold.

At 7:42 p.m. the intercom in Mr. Waverly's desk buzzed. He sighed, pushed aside the report on the failed Madagascar mission, and flipped the switch.

"Yes."

"Scanners report Mr. Solo and Mr. Kuryakin have entered Del Floria's, sir."

Mr. Waverly felt a surge of energy that, at least temporarily, took 10 years from him. "I see. Thank you. Have them report to me immediately. Oh, and have the men I sent to Vermont report to me directly when they call in."

"Yes sir." The intercom went dead. Mr. Waverly got up and paced anxiously for a few moments. He was seated again, as if he'd never moved, when the door opened and his top two agents entered, Kuryakin leaning heavily on Solo.

"Gentlemen," Mr. Waverly said, hoping only he recognized the relief and satisfaction in his voice.

The agents exchanged a look -- did nothing ever surprise their chief? -- and deposited two exhausted bodies into comfortable leather chairs.

"I'm most gratified to see you both -- especially you, Mr. Kuryakin."

"Thank you sir. It's good to be home."

"And Mr. Solo. Apparently I was premature in dismissing your claim to paranormal abilities."

Napoleon cleared his throat, embarrassed, and Illya gave him a quick incredulous look.

"Well, sir ..." Napoleon began awkwardly.

"Never mind that now. I'd like a quick verbal report before you gentlemen go to medical, where at least one of you obviously belongs. Later I'll expect a full written report, of course."

"Yes sir," the agents said.

Napoleon looked at his partner. Illya stared at his hands, resting on the table. Napoleon looked at the bruises on his knuckles, along his fingers and arms. He noticed the Russian's breathing accelerating, and realized, he still can't talk about it.

Swallowing his own anxiety, Napoleon entered the breach.

"Briefly, sir, Illya was taken by THRUSH men under the command of Dr. Xavier. He survived the blast in Bogota and had reestablished himself with THRUSH backing in Vermont. He wanted to use Illya as a guinea pig for his machine."

"Did he?" Mr. Waverly asked sharply.

"Yes sir," Illya blurted with an effort that puzzled their boss but drew a relieved grin from Napoleon. That's my stubborn partner; fight it.

"I located Dr. Xavier and ... well, sir, the upshot is we destroyed the machine and got away, and that Dr. Xavier is dead. And that Lt. White is on his way to Gen. Cooke, a trifle annoyed with us for blowing up a very diabolical toy the army evidently wanted to play with."

"Hm," Mr. Waverly hmmed. "Of course the army isn't accustomed, as I am, to your penchant for blowing up everything you come across. As always, gentlemen, good work. I'll expect a full report as soon as possible. If Mr. Kuryakin is not up to it, Mr. Solo, you might bestir yourself to do the honors on his behalf."

"Yes sir." Napoleon's acquiescence drew a surprised look from his superior, who knew how much he hated paperwork.

The two men stood. Napoleon was ready to head for the door but Illya said formally, "Mr. Waverly, I wish to request that I be removed from active duty." He glanced sidelong at his partner, feeling his stare. "Immediately."

After a moment, Mr. Waverly said:

"I presume you have a reason for this request apart from the obvious hole in your leg, Mr. Kuryakin, since injuries have never stopped you in the past."

"The machine, sir. I was ... it was used on me." Napoleon saw Illya's fingers curl into fists. "Twice. I have no clear recollection of the second time."

"Yes, Mr. Kuryakin?"

"I ... there is no certainty my ... mind was not affected. Sir."

Mr. Waverly regarded the tense agent, scowl unchanging.

"Yes. I see. I commend your honesty and dedication. You are on inactive status as of this moment. Turn in your gun and communicator -- and for heaven's sake go to medical and have yourself taken care of. We'll begin checking you for ... programming ... when you're a little more up to it."

"Yes sir. I ... I don't have my gun or my communicator, sir. They're at my apartment."

Mr. Waverly waved them both away with a nonchalance that could only be affected.

"Go on. We'll worry about the technicalities later. Mr. Solo, keep an eye on your partner, will you? Make sure he doesn't do anything treacherous."

"Thank you, sir," Illya said, slumping. Napoleon took his partner's arm.

"I can walk, Napoleon," Illya protested. His leg gave out after two steps. Napoleon pulled his partner's arm over his shoulders, drawing him upright.

"Come on. When you go on inactive status you go all the way, don't you?"

The door slid shut behind them.

"What was all that about?" Napoleon asked.

"All what?"

"Asking to be relieved of duty. Do you really think you're a danger to UNCLE?" Napoleon noticed that everyone they passed in the corridors glanced at them, then continued about their business, most of them shaking their heads. Do we do this that often?

"I don't know. That's the point. I think I'm all right. And that's the insidious nature of --" He stopped, sucking in a breath, whether in pain or from the effort of speaking, Napoleon couldn't tell. "--of Dr. Xavier's methods."

"You're already better," Napoleon said. "You couldn't even say this much before."

"I'm fighting it. But the fact that I have to tells me the process has affected me."

"I can't remember the last time you willingly talked to a shrink." They stopped at the elevators and Napoleon hit the button for the med/psych floor.

Illya stood straight until they were in the elevator and the doors closed. Then he slumped against his partner, his voice weaker.

"I've never done it willingly. I'm not willing this time. But I need to know."

Napoleon didn't bother asking what Illya would do if the psych team found some evidence of programming. We'll cross that flaming, buckling bridge when we come to it.

Napoleon paced outside while his partner endured a thorough going-over by the medical staff. When he saw Dr. Baker and the nurse leave, he started to go in, then stopped when Mr. Waverly and Dr. Pirelli, head of the Psych section, walked in.

Strangely, Mr. Waverly looked at him as if surprised to see him there.

"Mr. Solo. You might as well come along."

Illya sat on the bed, cleaned up and scowling, his injured leg stretched out. The scowl lifted when Napoleon walked in, fell again when Mr. Waverly and Pirelli followed him.

Mr. Waverly said, "Per your information, Mr. Kuryakin, I've arranged for Dr. Pirelli and his staff to give you a thorough post-mission psychological examination with an eye toward determining what ... danger, if any, you may now pose this organization due to Dr. Xavier's process."

Napoleon shot his partner a sidelong glance; Illya simply met Mr. Waverly's gaze in silence.

"It'll take a few days," Dr. Pirelli said apologetically. "It's pretty thorough and pretty unpleasant, but I have confidence that if your experience left you with any post-hypnotic suggestions, we'll find out about them."

Illya nodded. "And will you be able to remove them?"

Dr. Pirelli shrugged. "That can be trickier. We'll do our damnedest, but as you know, the mind is in many ways still a mystery to medical science."

Illya nodded again; Napoleon saw the faint hope in his eyes flicker.

"And what then?" Napoleon asked.

"Depending on the extent of the ... damage," Mr. Waverly said, "Mr. Kuryakin faces three possible alternatives: reassignment, retirement or ..."

Illya didn't shift; Napoleon, however, stiffened. "Or?"

Expressionless, Mr. Waverly continued. "Depending on the level of threat to the security of this organization, simply removing Mr. Kuryakin from our service may not be sufficient. He may have to be terminated."

Napoleon's head snapped up. "What?"

"We won't know 'til we've done a thorough examination," Dr. Pirelli put in.

"I can't believe what I just heard," Napoleon said.

"Napoleon," Illya chided mildly.

"It was my impression you were familiar with our procedures, Mr. Solo," Mr. Waverly said coldly. "Mr. Kuryakin knows a great deal about this organization. He would be a powerful weapon against us."

"So you're prepared to terminate him," Napoleon said, savaging the verb, "just like that? Payment for services rendered to UNCLE?"

"Mr. Solo," Mr. Waverly said, a warning.

Illya glanced at his partner and shook his head, but Napoleon ignored him.

"For something that was done to him?" Napoleon pressed. "Did I miss something? Was UNCLE bought out by THRUSH when I wasn't looking?"

"Napoleon ..."

Illya's pained half-whisper stopped Napoleon; he subsided, biting down on the outrage. Shouts unshouted burned in his throat.

"None of this is decided, Mr. Solo," Mr. Waverly said, his tone stiff, emotionless. "And when it is, you will be expected to follow orders. Why don't we wait until we have the psych team's report before we debate Mr. Kuryakin's future?"

Napoleon shook his head, fighting back argument and denials. His boss was right; they were pointless at this time.

Dr. Pirelli, evidently eager to get away from the tension in the room, said:

"We'll begin in the morning, Mr. Kuryakin."

He and Mr. Waverly departed. Napoleon paced the room. Stark and white, naked and unsympathetic, it felt painfully symbolic.

"Napoleon," Illya said, as if they'd been arguing this for hours. "It might be necessary."

"No."

"Napoleon ..."

"An execution?" Napoleon confronted his partner, face taut with anger though his tone remained neutral, even cool. "For something you haven't even done yet? But then, that would make it an assassination, not an execution."

"You don't--"

"Cyanide?" Napoleon continued, his voice low, acid. "Or maybe just a bullet. And who are they going to get to pull the trigger? The chief enforcement agent?"

"Stop!"

The almost unheard-of shout startled Napoleon into silence.

Illya glared at him. "Did it ever occur to you that that might be preferable to my endangering this organization, or any of its people?" Angry, he blurted out his chief fear: "You?"

Napoleon shook his head. Reading the complete denial -- the complete trust -- in his stubborn expression troubled the Russian as fully as it warmed him. If he was a danger to UNCLE, or to any of its operatives, that danger would be greatest for Napoleon if he could not even acknowledge its possibility.

Quietly, the Russian said, "I would prefer it."

"That isn't going to happen," Napoleon insisted.

"What if it does?" Illya said. "You must be prepared for the possibility."

Napoleon shook his head."The possibility of having to have you killed? I don't think so. I don't care what Dr. Xavier did."

Illya stretched his aching leg out on the hospital bed. "You aren't making this any easier."

"What the hell do you want me to do?" Napoleon snapped. "Put the gun to your head and pull the trigger myself?"

Illya regarded his partner steadily. "What if that's the order Mr. Waverly gives? What if it's necessary?"

Napoleon said, "If Mr. Waverly orders that, I quit as of that second. And you can be damned sure I won't let anyone else do it either."

"You might have to."

"No." Napoleon's voice was calmer now, cold with certainty. "I will not allow that to happen. I don't care who orders what."

Illya said, pained, "You can't do that. Your career, everything you believe in--"

"No." Napoleon took a step closer, eyes burning. "First and foremost, I believe in you. You and me. That's the most significant reality in my life. Everything I believe in, everything I fight for when I fight, everything I value and trust and love -- everything -- is betrayed if I turn my back on yoou."

Illya, mouth opened to argue, stopped, sighed, rubbing his hand over his eyes. "I'm tired, Napoleon. I want this over. I can't stand ... not being able to ... trust myself."

The anger drained from Napoleon. He seized his partner's shoulders, shook him lightly. "I know. Trust me on this. It'll be over, soon, and it'll work out."

Illya glanced up.

"Trust me," Napoleon repeated. "I'm with you all the way."

Illya shook his head. "I know. That's what worries me most."

"That sounds suspiciously like you don't trust me," Napoleon said, knowing it wasn't true.

"I just don't like the idea that UNCLE may lose both its best operatives in one stroke." Illya met his partner's gaze. "That's what will happen, isn't it?"

Napoleon nodded. "If it comes to that, yes. I didn't pull you out of Dr. Xavier's fun house just to give up on you now."

"Pull me out? I was halfway out the door by the time you got there."

"You were halfway to unconsciousness, tovarish, and don't you forget it."

"Oh. Yes. Well, I wasn't at my best."

"I don't know. Sometimes I prefer you unconscious; you're slightly less argumentative."

Illya opened his mouth, but Napoleon held up a hand. "Don't say it."

"If our positions were reversed, you'd say it," Illya argued.

"Yes, but you'd tell me not to. And you'd tell me to not worry about it until it's a certainty. So I'm telling you that."

"Sometimes I wonder why we even bother having conversations," Illya muttered. Napoleon, taking this as an admission of defeat, smiled.

Illya carefully crossed his legs on the bed. "Hospitals," he snarled, then added something in Russian that Napoleon guessed was not a benediction. "Hospital food."

"Want me to go get you something?"

Illya considered briefly. "Something from Luigi's?"

"Pasta, marinara sauce, crusty bread, a fresh salad..." Napoleon ticked off the items on his fingers, pausing as Illya gave him a sly under-the-brows glance.

"Who's buying?"

Relieved his partner could find in himself even so small a joke, Napoleon pretended exasperation.

"I suppose I might as well, just this once, since I get to go home after and sleep in my own bed."  He got up. "Don't go anywhere."

"Very funny. Don't forget, plenty of garlic."

"Expecting vampires?"

"In a way."

Illya watched his partner go. In the space of a slowly indrawn breath, cold silence echoed in the tiny bare room, and fear like poison began to seep into his skin.

Napoleon walked into Medical and paused; he knew a moment's silence would direct him as accurately as a homing beacon.

Sure enough -- Napoleon turned right and headed along the short corridor, following the sounds of heated discussion and ready to duck any bedpans, syringes or medical personnel that might come flying out of the room. The only thing that flew past was an orderly, carring a brush and a dustpan littered with glittering glass fragments.

"--need the rest," came a voice, patience overlying annoyance and puzzlement.

"I'm capable of sleeping on my own, when I'm ready." Illya's voice, in all-too-familiar low, grit-teethed obstinacy. Napoleon saw the doctor's whitecoated back as he entered the room.

"Look," the doctor persisted -- Napoleon had never seen him before, and pitied him if he was new -- "you obviously don't realize---"

"I've agreed to stay here so you people can poke and prod me to your ghoulish hearts' delight," Illya said coldly -- Napoleon saw the doctor's shoulders tense -- "although I can assure you I've had enough of that of late --"

Napoleon set the bags of Italian food on a table by the door and stepped into view, startling the doctor, a fresh-faced young M.D. whose current expression showed his inexperience in dealing with patients of Illya's caliber of stubbornness.

"Who are you?" the doctor asked; Napoleon forgave his brusque tone, knowing how on-edge Illya could make people when he chose to be difficult.

"His keeper," he said, nodding toward Illya, who sat sullenly in the crisply tidy hospital bed, arms crossed. "As you can see, he needs one." Then he saw that the doctor was cradling one red-wristed hand in the other. "What happened?"

The doctor flushed.

"I've already apologized for that," Illya said. Napoleon put the pieces together.

"Ah -- you tried to inject him while he was sleeping?"

"How was I supposed to know?" the doctor demanded. "I was following orders. I've only been with UNCLE a week."

"You're lucky he didn't break it," Napoleon said sympathetically.

"He needs to be sedated," the doctor said.

"I agree," Napoleon said, feeling Illya's glare. The doctor ignored the interruption.

"His vitals are irregular, including his electroencephalograms. If -- "

"He, ah, doesn't like needles," Napoleon said calmly, hoping his tone would help the doctor get hold of himself.

"Look, I don't like them either. That's beside the point." The doctor's tone was acid, but calmer. He looked down at his wrist, massaging it. "I'm going to have a nurse prepare another sedative."

"Don't waste your time," Illya said. Napoleon laid a hand on the doctor's arm, turning him toward the door.

"I apologize for my friend. He was raised by wombats. He's suspicious of everything. Doesn't even open his refrigerator door without a gun in his hand."

The doctor eyed him dubiously.

"Napoleon -- what are you telling him?" Illya demanded as Napoleon walked the doctor out.

"See? He's paranoid and delusional," Napoleon said, loudly. "He thinks he's Czar Nicholas and I'm Napoleon Bonaparte."

Illya said something in Russian. Napoleon paused, turned. "Watch your language, Nicky."

Illya snarled as Napoleon urged the doctor out into the corridor and down the hall.

Still puzzled, but calm, the doctor repeated, "He needs to be sedated. He's highly agitated and won't rest."

"Why don't you let me talk to him for a while?" Napoleon said. "Maybe I can calm him down."

"Exactly who are you?" the doctor asked again.

"Oh -- I'm his partner. I'm also, although I hesitate to exercise the privilege, his immediate superior."

"Oh, you're Napoleon Solo." The puzzlement on the doctor's face cleared.

"Rumors fly," Napoleon muttered.

"You and Mr. Kuryakin are rather legendary among the medical staff," the doctor said.

"Ouch." Napoleon winced. "I could've gone my whole life without hearing those words."

The doctor glanced over Napoleon's shoulder toward Illya's room. "Well, we won't force him, although we could--"

"I doubt it," Napoleon said, grinning.

"I meant we have the authority," the doctor said. "If not the will. The psych team will be all over him tomorrow. He'll wish he'd had a good night's sleep then."

Napoleon patted the doctor on the arm, a dismissal. "I'll see what I can do."

The doctor's expression showed his doubts, but he shrugged and went on about his rounds. Napoleon returned to Illya's room, which had filled with the luscious scent of garlic and tomatoes.

Illya had lain back against the stack of pillows on the upright bed; his arms remained crossed, his expression surly as he stared at the wall.

"You know, they're not going to let you go out and play if you don't take your medicine like a good boy."

Illya transferred the scowl from wall to partner; Napoleon held up his hands.

"I'm just the messenger." He plunked down unceremoniously on the foot of the bed; Illya drew up his knees, resting his still-crossed arms atop them.

"You really shouldn't take your frustrations out on the medical staff."

"If they would simply leave me alone--"

"Then they'd hardly be doing their jobs, would they?" Napoleon said.

"Will you stop being so damned reasonable?" Illya groused.

"How else will you be able to justify venting your anger on me?"

"Mr. Waverly assigned you to be my punching bag?" Illya muttered.

"Actually, I volunteered." That drew a glance and a grudging half-smile that faded immediately.

"Will you stop?" Napoleon said. "You were given a direct order to kill me and you didn't even wing me. Doesn't that tell you the process didn't work?"

Illya shook his head. "It may be more subtle than that. Besides, you don't know how hard..." He paused, shaking his head as if to shake free his doubts. "I just want to know for certain. I can't be sure, and you're--"

"I'm sure."

"--not objective," Illya concluded. "I need a noninterested opinion."

"What you need is --" Napoleon checked himself, getting up. "What you need is food." He collected the bags of food, dragged the wheeled table to the bedside, and began distributing a dinner that deserved a far better setting than the tiny hospital room.

As they ate, Napoleon thought that a dinner from Luigi's also was usually shared with a considerably more female companion; however, he had no complaints. It restored his world to have his partner back.

"Now," Napoleon said as he cleared away the rubble; starved, they hadn't stood on ceremony in wolfing down the dinner. "You need to sleep. Don't make them shoot you up with something."

Illya glanced around the room. "Will you--"

Napoleon hesitated, turned from the wastebasket. "What?"

Face set, Illya shook his head, slid down onto the bed. "Nothing. Go home. Get some rest." His tone, now hard, controlled, failed to erase the memory of the faint, lonesome supplication Napoleon had heard a moment before.

Lightly, he said, "I'll stick around 'til you drop off." He sat down again. "Go to sleep, you testy Russian."

Illya looked at Napoleon, who could see the words forming behind his partner's expressive eyes.

"Don't thank me," he growled. "You'll be getting my bill in the morning."

But Illya was done with joking, at least for the moment. "No amount would be enough," he said soberly.

Napoleon swallowed. "That's right. Because what we've got is priceless. You know it and I know it. It's far too late for thanks between us. So go to sleep. Don't make me sing you a lullaby."

Illya put his hands up. "Pax." He slid all the way down under the thin blankets and rather dramatically composed himself for sleep, taking in and releasing a deep breath and crossing his hands over his chest.

"Oh, knock it off," Napoleon said. "If I don't hear snoring in five minutes I'm letting them sedate you."

Illya opened one eye. "I don't snore." The eye closed.

"Yes you do. Sleep." Napoleon settled himself in the chair.

Knowing his partner would feel his gaze if he looked at him, Napoleon instead focused on the wall clock over the door, trying to decide whether he could hear it ticking in the blank silence or whether that was just his imagination.

He disliked hospitals himself -- all agents did; hypochondriacs made lousy spies -- but had sometimes wondered at Illya's nearly violent objections to them. He'd never asked for the reasons -- had never really devoted any thought to them. He'd simply accepted the phobia as he accepted everything else about his partner. Who didn't have a few quirks? And, especially, what agent didn't have things in his past to make him touchy about certain situations that might seem innocuous to others?

And what agent didn't simply accept his partner's oddities? Maybe Illya had more than most, but not a day went by in which Napoleon wasn't grateful he'd got saddled with this surly damn' Russian who'd come to mean more to him than ... anything.