Lily of the Valley part Six

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 youu."

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.

 * * * * *

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

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