He stumbled to a stop beside a garbage can, almost knocking it over as he slammed into it. A cat exploded from inside and raced away with a screech. From a safe distance, it yowled a curse at him and hurried away into the lengthening shadows.

It was getting harder and harder to stay conscious. He couldn't catch his breath any longer. The fall from the fire escape had broken at least a couple of his ribs, keeping him from drawing in a good breath without the fear of passing out. His vision was red-tinged and he could feel blood trickling down his back, his belly, even down his legs. He wasn't going to get out of this one.

"I was born lucky," he'd bragged to his partner only this morning.

But you won't die that way, he thought as he used the trash can to pull himself up to his feet and take a staggering step towards a large green garbage bin. With a trembling hand, he took the micro dot and pressed it just inside the lip of the receptacle, using his own blood as glue to bond it to the metal. It was doubtful anyone would ever find it, but at least the info was safe.

He just wished he'd been able to tell his partner how he'd really felt, say all the things he'd meant to say, but just never got around to. He had hoped they'd grow old together, two old spies swapping increasingly unlikely stories as their days dwindled down.

He was still thinking of his partner when the first bullet ripped through his heart. He never felt the two that went into his head. He never saw the man lying just a few feet from him, face down in a puddle of water and urine.

Illya Kuryakin looked down at his watch and sighed. Where was Napoleon? He leaned back in the seat and resisted beating on the steering wheel in frustration. A simple, routine courier transfe;, how long could a pick up take?

Even though he wore dark glasses and looked for the world as if he was dozing, he watched everything around the car. There were few pedestrians and the traffic rumbled by at a steady rate. All in all, it couldn't be more normal. The day was muggy and the hour growing late. The grit from the city clung to his skin and the confines of the car brought out sweat that flecked his upper lip and forehead. It was late; it was time for them to be done with this… so, where was Napoleon?

Another five minutes and I'll go look for him. To hell with what Waverly might have to say… The thought was interrupted by the opening of the car door. His hand went for his weapon reflexively even as Napoleon slid easily into the vehicle.

"About time; what did you do? Go have a suit fitted in between drops?"

"Hector never showed up." Napoleon loosened his tie. "I was at the rendezvous point in plenty of time. He never made it."

"Captured?"

"It's safe to assume… or worse." Napoleon then smiled slightly. "Or else I missed him."

"He's six foot eight and tips the scales at three hundred pounds, Napoleon. You can't miss him. He's like the Rock of Gibraltar."

"He is rather Baroque to your Rococo, a mastiff to your whippet, a Doric column to your Corinthe…"

"I have achieved the necessary visual image, Napoleon, thank you." Illya glanced at his watch again. "Do you want to wait and try again? Perhaps he was delayed?"

"He didn't call it in."

"What about his partner?"

"Sig hasn't heard anything either. He's a little frantic."

"I can understand." Illya started up the car, then dragged his fingers through his hair, carrying it up and off his sweat-speckled forehead. "Napoleon, what was on the microdot he was carrying, do we know?"

"Section One Classified. Surprisingly enough, even I am not privy to everything at UNCLE."

"But you're on the fast track to Section One, I'd thought…"

"You thought wrong… and that's what bothers me, my friend." Napoleon tapped his lips with his forefinger. "Hector would have been blind, deaf, and dumb about this, just in case he was captured."

The silence hung between them for a long moment. "It's a helluva business we're in."

"You said a mouthful."

Illya flicked a glance up into his rearview mirror and watched as a garbage truck slowed for a turn into the alley. It gave him a chance to pull out into traffic. What kind of luck was that?

"Okay… slow now… Don't plow into this one…" There was nothing that Tom Cook hated more than training newbies. Yet, here he was, training yet another new hire. "Crank your wheel!"

"I can't!"

Tom was half tempted to pull the man from behind the wheel and show him how it was done – again! If this kept up, he was going to be late for dinner and that meant he'd be late for the game and he didn't think so!

"Hang on, I'll move it out so you have a straight shot!" he shouted over the truck's engine, and he jumped out.

Walking around to the far side, he grabbed the metal and stopped as something slicked his gloves. That's when he looked down, saw the dead man. He gagged and turned, then saw the second body and realized he was going to have a lot more on his plate than a missed ball game that night.

"So what are you feeling like for dinner this evening?"

Napoleon smiled and worked his lips for a moment. "Oh, something tasty and petite…"

"Don't you ever think of anything else?" Illya scolded as he split his attention between his partner and the traffic.

"I was thinking of a nice filet mignon, Illya. Perhaps it's not my mind that needs to be corralled." Napoleon chuckled at the grimace on his partner's face. "And for the record, yes I do."

"You eat too much red meat, Napoleon."

"Not possible."

"There are some studies…"

"And there are other studies to refute anything the first studies found. A nice piece of medium rare steak, a crisp green salad with just a splash of vinegar and oil dressing and a good full-bodied red wine - Nature's perfect meal."

"You will, of course, pardon me if I refrain from comment. As it is, it might well be impossible to hear me over the hardening of your arteries."

"Rage on, mad –-" Napoleon's communicator went off and he pulled it out of his jacket. "Solo here."

"Mr. Solo, you need to return to headquarters. This is Condition Orange, repeat, this is Condition Orange." The channel went dead and he was left staring at the instrument.

"Napoleon?" For a moment, it was as if his partner had fallen deaf. "Napoleon, what is Condition Orange? I've never heard of it before."

"It means all the heads of Section One have been sequestered in a secured facility. Section One has been breached."

Illya Kuryakin sat at his desk and rubbed his eyes. It had been a long night and the worst was still ahead of him. With Waverly and the other Number Ones in hiding, running the Northeast section of the organization had fallen squarely upon Napoleon's shoulders. It wasn't that he didn't have the ability or the willingness to step into Waverly's shoes, but it meant that Illya had to assume the CEA duties and there was one he just wasn't relishing.

He'd spent the last hour arguing with the Metro Police, trying to convince them to release Hector's body back to them. He didn't understand their proprietary attitude. A city worker had found the agent's body and that meant the city was investigating. Never mind that their reluctance could bring UNCLE down. That didn't seem to be of any concern to them. They would rather stand on ceremony than do what was right.

The door to his office opened, but he didn't look up to see who it was. He already knew. A moment later, he felt hands, strong, warm, and familiar on his shoulders. Illya knew Napoleon was as bothered by what had happened, as disturbed by Illya's next duty, as he was.

"How goes the rat race?" Napoleon dug his thumbs into the knotted muscles.

Illya grunted and leaned back against Naoleon's hands."The rats are winning."

"If it's any consolation, the police are releasing Hector to us as we speak."

"You convinced them?"

"The governor did. Waverly made a call. Is Sig on his way in?"

"Any minute now, but I'm sure he knows why. They've been together nearly as long as we. A partner knows such things." Illya grimaced as Napoleon's grip tightened for a second. In that moment, so much passed between them, the fears and terror they both fought back all the time, the worry, the concern, the friendship, the love, all those words flashed by.

"Do you want me to…?"

"No, I'm acting CEA, you have enough on your plate."

"Just wanted you to know I was willing."

"Thank you."

Napoleon slapped Illya's shoulders and walked from the room.

After a moment, Illya lifted a phone receiver and dialed a number.

"Morgue."

"This is Kuryakin, I wanted to give you a heads up that you have an agent coming in. The city has had him for awhile, so I'm not sure how compromised he'll be."

The ME's voice was soft. "Who, Mr. Kuryakin?"

"Hector Suarez."

"I'm so sorry; he was a good agent and a friend."

"Yes."

"Does his partner know yet?"

"No."

"Godspeed, Illya."

"Thank you." He cradled the receiver and reached for a file folder. He still didn't have a clue what Hector had been carrying, no idea if it had been found by THRUSH, no idea if their organization was in jeopardy or not. So far, THRUSH hadn't made any threatening moves, outside of the usual. They didn't even seem to realize the Section Ones had vanished from view. So far, all the chatter they'd intercepted was business as usual. It could be that Hector had managed to hide the microdot or destroy it. Or, more likely, the THRUSH hierarchy just hadn't figured out what to do with this choice bit of information.

There was a knock to his door and Illya felt his gut clench. He pulled in a deep breath.

"Come in."

Sig Bangstrom was Hector's polar opposite. A short, light-complexioned, flaming redhead, Illya's first impression of the man had been that he'd finally met someone in UNCLE who stood out as much as he did. Sig was a bull terrier to Hector's St. Bernard. He was fast, agile, and adept at getting in and out of places that would challenge most men. He was fast to defend, quick to anger, and just as quick to forgive. When he was your friend, he was steadfast. And he was always laughing, but not today.

Today he walked in, his narrow shoulders stooped, his manner sedate.

"Sig."

"Illya." The man looked around. "Where's Napoleon?"

"The Big Chair." Illya motioned to the ceiling with his head.

"Falls to you then, does it?"

"What?"

"Hector's gone, isn't he?" He sighed and tapped his chest. "I felt it in here; I just knew. One minute he was fine and the next, he was gone. I knew, just like you'd know."

"Then you know what I need to do next."

"Illya, please, I'm asking you as a friend, not as an agent, not as my superior; please don't pull me now."

"I have to."

"And I have to make the men who did this pay." Sig slammed his hand down and the movement sent papers flying. Neither man paid the least bit of attention to them.

"It's exactly that attitude that requires us to pull you. I can't let you go out into the field with that sort of blood lust, Sig. You could very well end up just as dead as your partner. We can't lose both of you."

"And no one knows my partner better than I do… did." His breath caught and Illya moved to grab him. For a long moment, he just held the man as his shoulders heaved with the almost soundless sobs. Illya just hung on, not speaking, not moving, just silently praying to any god who might be listening, he'd never be in the other man's position. Even godless Communists needed to hedge their bets once in awhile.

Gradually, Sig calmed and still Illya remained quiet. No amount of sentiment or professed shared feelings could help right now.

"Is he here?"

"Soon."

"Will I be able to see him? Take him home?"

"Once Dr. Mackey has had a chance to examine him." Illya got Sig down in a chair. He went to Napoleon's desk and dug around for a moment, pulling out a flask. He poured two finger's worth into a paper cup and urged it on Sig. The redhead downed it in one gulp and coughed. Illya settled in a chair beside him. "And just because you can't go into the field, it doesn't mean you can't help."

"What good can I be here?"

"You said it yourself - you knew Hector better than anyone else could have known him. Sig, what would he have done with the microdot? Ingest it?"

"No, he had a real problem with stuff like that. He would do anything you asked of him, except carry stuff internally. He said that were too many weird chemicals… he was afraid of cancer… guess he's beyond that now." Illya emptied the rest of the alcohol into the glass and Sig stared at it. "He would have hidden it, probably in plain sight if and when he realized he didn't have any other recourse. It's what he did best. People didn't think he was smart, but he was."

"I know." Illya patted his shoulder and stood, walking over to the phone, lifting the receiver. "This is Kuryakin; I want a team of men dispatched to the alley where we lost Agent Suarez. Bring everything back here that isn't nailed down, every piece of trash, everything." He hung up without waiting for an acknowledgement.

Sig stared at the cup. After a long moment, he murmured. "What can I do?"

"You can't leave the facilities right now, not for forty-eight hours. I need someone who can tell us what to look for. Without you, it'll just be garbage and we'll be groping in the dark."

"Okay…" Sig started to stand and Illya coughed. The redhead sighed and then reached in and pulled out his P-38, offering it butt first to Illya. "I'd never shoot myself," he said softly. "Too many ways it could go wrong. Besides, what would Hector say?"

"That you are a good friend and a good agent."

Sig nodded and walked from the room. After he left, Illya released the breath he'd been holding. The phone rang and for a moment he considered ignoring it. Then he snatched it up. "Kuryakin."

"Illya." Dr. Mackey's voice was soothing. "I just wanted to let you know that Hector is back with us."

"Thank you. Let me know if you find anything, Doctor."

"Are you all right?"

Sure, my partner's sitting in an office a couple of floors up, possibly frustrated and overwhelmed, but safe. I won't have to worry about cleaning out his locker, being reminded of him every time I walk into the gym or the canteen. I'm just fucking fine. No problem – I'm not the one who just lost my best friend. Things couldn't be better. Aloud, he said, "Yes. I'll be down in a few minutes."

He hung up the receiver, then snatched it back up and dialed.

"Solo." His partner's voice was slightly frazzled and hoarse, but…

"Napoleon…" Then the words failed him, a thick rubber ball lodged in his throat. His brain flailed helplessly, searching for something, anything.

"It's okay, Illya… I know." And without speaking, Illya cradled the phone, sniffed, and rubbed at his eyes. Then squaring his shoulders, he headed for the morgue.

Napoleon looked at the receiver for a long time, wishing his usual glib tongue hadn't gotten stuck at the back of his throat. Illya didn't usually have to see this part of Napoleon's job. He'd occasionally accompanied Napoleon to visit the family of a fallen agent, but he'd not had to deal with the job of telling a partner. In some ways it was harder than telling a mother or father that their child had died protecting the world, making it safe for countless others. To look into the eyes of a highly trained and experienced agent and watch him crumble was the most gut wrenching horror imaginable.

A light blinked and he leaned over to toggle the switch up. "Solo."

"Mr. Solo, you asked to be regularly updated." Janine's voice was all business, cool and efficient.

"Yes, Janine, please tell me you have something."

"Unless THRUSH has a new code we know nothing about, the chatter has been all routine. They did report the death of a person this morning. They didn't identify him except as a man in his early thirties, dark hair, dark complexion."

"Hector."

There was a long pause and Napoleon tapped the intercom. "Janine?"

"That's what's odd, Napoleon." The woman's voice dropped into a confidential whisper. "I'm not so sure."

"What do you mean?"

"They did have two people dispatched to intercept Hector and they did stop him, but he escaped. THRUSH did report recapture and the subsequent death, but not of an UNCLE agent…. sir."

"I am not sure I'm following you, Janine."

"Napoleon, I have no way of proving this, aside from four years of monitoring the chatter back and forth between us and them , but they never, ever fail to ID a fallen UNCLE agent and do their little victory dance. It's like they have this board with all our field agents' names on it. The higher up the victim, they more they gloat. People are promoted for taking down one of ours. Hector was pretty high up the ladder, right behind Mark and April. Taking him out would mean a corner office for someone."

"How unlikely would it be that they mis-ID'd their victim?"

"They carry mug shots of you guys in their wallets – it's not likely."

Illya steeled himself outside the double door. He hated the way this place smelled. Anyone who would want to do this for a living must be truly mad.

The doctor glanced over as he entered and smiled. "Good afternoon, Mr. Kuryakin."

"Doctor." He walked up to the table and grimaced. A body was stretched out on the table. It looked like Hector, but Illya knew everything that had made it his fellow agent was gone and this was but a shell of flesh and bones.

"Agent Suarez put up a mighty battle. He had several contusions and two broken ribs. He'd suffered a puncture wound to his back, which had nicked a major vein. He was dead even before he was shot and I suspect he knew it."

"As would his captors. Did his stomach contents reveal anything?" Illya didn't look at the metal bowl set off to one side.

"Are you asking if he'd internalized whatever it was he was carrying?"

"Yes."

"No. I found nothing that shouldn't have been there, with the exception of blood. You can check for yourself if you'd like." The ME took a step and Illya shook his head.

"No, I will take your word – thank you."

"A bit of a curiosity though. Whoever killed him put one bullet into his heart and another two into his head."

"What?" Illya held an x-ray up to the lights and frowned. "That makes no sense."

"I don't understand. Killing each other, I thought it's what you did."

Illya glared at him. "Not without cause. If he hadn't passed the information, THRUSH would have continued to ply their trade, as it were, and kept him alive until they had what they wanted or he died. A dead agent is of no use to them. If they'd already obtained the information, they wouldn't have bothered. They would have just walked away. THRUSH isn't in the business of wasting ammunition or time. They would have shot him once and left him, not three times."

"If that's the case, my young friend, then why did they shoot him three times?"

"I don't know…" Illya glanced over at the body on the metal table. "But I'm sure as hell going to find out."

Napoleon glanced up as Illya entered. "Please tell me you have good news."

"All right, I have good news."

"Great, what is it?"

"No idea, I'm just doing what you asked." Illya took his usual spot at the table. "The reason I'm here is that we have a quandary downstairs."

"As opposed to the one I'm chewing on." Napoleon stood and walked over to Waverly's wet bar. He poured two fingers worth of whiskey in two glasses and carried them back. "What's yours?"

"Why would THRUSH shoot a dead man three times?" Illya took one of the glasses and held it up, studying the liquor as if it would reveal an answer.

"They wouldn't. What's the point?"

"Exactly. Hector was bleeding to death. If THRUSH had what they wanted, they'd have left him, just as they have mistakenly left us a time or two."

"Or three."

"If they hadn't gotten the microdot, they'd have kept him alive. Sig said that Hector wouldn't have ingested it, so it stands to reason…"

"It's still out there."

"No."

Both men turned, reaching for their guns. Sig was standing there, his face gray and blank of any expression.

Napoleon was immediately on his feet and at Sig's side, propelling him to the table and into a chair. Illya pushed his untouched glass closer and nodded.

Sig took the glass in a steady grip and downed the contents in one gulp. He gasped and then coughed, blinking back tears.

"Mr. Waverly only gets the good stuff," Napoleon said, patting him on the back. Sig nodded and Napoleon jerked his head towards the bar. Illya was on his feet to retrieve the bottle and a third glass a second later. He sloshed a bit more whiskey into the glass and settled back down.

For a long moment, the three just sat and finally Napoleon raised his glass. "To our fallen comrades - may their sacrifices never be forgotten."

"To peace in our lifetime." Illya murmured, touching his glass first to Napoleon's and then Sig's.

"It's too late for Hector though," Sig snapped and gulped down the alcohol again. This time he didn't cough. He reached into his shirt pocket and pulled something out – it was small and smeared with something black… dried blood, Napoleon belatedly realized. "That's what the bastards were after. Hector left it on the side of the trash bin."

Napoleon sighed and smiled slightly. "Thanks, Sig, now the Section Ones can come home."

"And that's all that matters, isn't it?"

"What, of course not," Napoleon started, but Illya shook his head slightly.

"You're right." Illya said. "But it's what we are, it's what we do. We keep them safe so the fight can go on, so the world can go on. They sit up here nice and safe while we roll in the gutters, bleeding and dying, but you can't exactly put that into a job description."

Sig shook his head slowly and let it tip back. "I just want to sleep and wake up to find this is all a bad dream and Hector is pounding on my door and telling me to get my culo flojo out of bed."

Napoleon stood quietly and walked to a console. He spoke into an intercom there, too softly for Illya to hear, but he knew the drill. Section Three would be coming to get Sig, escort him to Psych for observation, maybe a little grief counseling. This was just the beginning of a long trip for Sig – one none of them wanted to make, one that all of them avoided as agents – the price they paid for the job they did.

Then, as it so often happened, their world exploded around them and they were off at a dead run, desperately trying to keep one step ahead of THRUSH.

Illya paid off the taxi as Napoleon eased his way out of the car. He balanced his weight on his good leg until he could get his crutches under him again. Illya glanced back once to make sure he was okay and headed towards Del Floria's. He held the door open as Napoleon grappled his way through it.

"You don't have to do this, you know. I can file the report on my own just fine."

"I want to make sure you spell my name right." Once inside the small tailor shop, Napoleon felt a weight begin to lift. They were back home again, at least for a little while.

"Bit of bad luck, Mr. Solo?"

"Ended better for me than the THRUSH." Napoleon smiled and made his way to the fitting room where Illya waited, the door to reception already open.

"Oh, Mr. Solo, you poor dear!" Massie was so sympathetic, out of her chair and to his side in a heartbeat. She offered Illya his badge and went off to render aid and comfort.

Illya hid his smile as he took the badge and clipped it on. She didn't have to know exactly how Napoleon had gotten hurt. "Napoleon, if you could sally forth? I'd like to get to Medical before the capsule in my stomach dissolves completely and I have to go under the knife for retrieval."

"What? Oh, yes, by all means…" Napoleon smiled at the receptionist and caressed her cheek with his fingers. "We'll talk later, my love." He followed Illya through the doors.

"Honestly, Illya, you're a slave driver," Napoleon grumbled. "And when did you swallow something?"

"I didn't; it was the first thing I could come up with to get you away from her clutches."

"But they were such lovely clutches. I'm sure you noticed."

"I noticed." He stopped before an elevator door, stepping aside as they slid open to allow some fellow agents to disembark.

"They get younger every year, don't they?" Napoleon watched the two men hurry past them, obviously on their way out on an assignment.

"No, we are getting older, but that's a good thing." Illya caught the door before it slid shut and waited for Napoleon to join him. "I'm just hoping we get a break before we have to leave again. I could do with a couple of nights in my own bed."

Napoleon started to grin and Illya shook his head. "What am I going to do with you, Napoleon?"

"Love me for what I am, I suppose."

The door opened and a pair of Section Two's stepped in. One seemed vaguely familiar.

"Enrique? Enrique Salazar?" Napoleon asked, shifting one of his crutches out of the agents' way.

"¿Sí?" He studied Napoleon for a moment, frowning.

"Barcelona, right?"

"Sí."

"We were in the same class at Survival School. Napoleon Solo."

" Napoleón, te ves bien!" He turned to his companion and spoke in rapid Spanish. Napoleon kept up with about half of what he was saying. "Las mujeres, que lo aman y los hombres también, creo."

"That's not true," Napoleon countered.

"¿No es?" Illya teased. "I saw how that guard was eyeing you."

Napoleon scowled at him and returned to Enrique. "Why are you here?"

He shrugged. "Your boss tells my boss you are… ¿cuál es la palabra, corta las manos?"

"Short-handed? We are?" Illya asked Napoleon, who shrugged.

"News to me, but we have been gone for awhile."

The elevator stopped. Illya stepped out and aside to keep the doors from slamming shut.

"Take care, Enrique, stay safe."

"And you."

Their office was very much the same as they had left it. Someone had taken pity on them and thrown out the remains of their interrupted meal, then removed the trash. Sadly, no one had extended that rash of tidiness to their desks. Both were stacked with reports, papers and print outs.

"My desk was clean when I left, I swear it was clear."

"You probably left two pieces and they procreated."

"Do you ever turn it off?"

"Not if I can help it." Napoleon carefully lowered himself into his chair and sighed happily. He massaged under his arm. "It keeps my mind off other things."

"Such as work?"

"Such as my aching underarms. I hate the first couple of days on crutches." He lifted his leg up and propped it on the side of the trash can.

Illya pulled off his coat, wincing as the movement pulled stitches and made aching muscles reawaken. "I figure we have about thirty minutes before Medical gets wind of the fact that we are here and either hauls us down there or sends us home." He opened a drawer and shuffled through some papers before finding a blank report form. "You talk, I'll write."

Napoleon picked up a pencil and began to play with it. "Okay, as instructed, I flew to Denmark and you headed for Holland… was that the twelfth or the thirteenth?"

"I thought it was the eighth… no, wait." Illya reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a small note book. "The eleventh… we must have been having fun."

"My knee is throbbing with such so-called fun. So, I got in and headed straight for the local UNCLE office… and you?"

They went back and forth with this for several more minutes before the phone rang. Napoleon glanced at his watch and held it up for display. "Twenty three minutes – Medical's running fast today."

Illya smirked and picked up the line. "Kuryakin. Yes, sir, I understand…" He cradled it and pushed the report aside, and massaged a temple. "Mr. Waverly wants us."

"Is that all he said?"

"Ah… now?" Illya stood and reluctantly put his jacket back on. "He had that tone in his voice, my friend."

Napoleon got to his feet and reached for his crutches. "I wonder where we are headed next."

"You, probably a nice comfortable bed with plenty of lovely nurses to hover over you and I'm probably on a plane to Istanbul in two hours. I should just set up a cot at the airport next to the phones to save time."

"Oh, now there's a fun little pity party."

Waverly was sitting in his chair, pipe in his hands, looking very old indeed. When they entered, he rose and gestured to the couch. It was odd, while the couch was more comfortable than the table, it was for guests, not the hired help.

"Gentlemen, I know that you have only just arrived back and you must both be ready for a little down time, but…"

"Here it comes," Illya muttered and Napoleon tossed a chastising look at him.

"There's some rather unfortunate news that I would rather have you hear from me than elsewhere." He dumped ice cubes and poured alcohol into the same glasses they'd used just a few weeks earlier to toast. The irony didn't escape either agent. "Please be seated."

They did as they were bid and Waverly handed them each a glass in turn. "Salute, gentlemen."

"Nostrovia." Illya downed his in one gulp and smiled as the alcohol hit his stomach.

"Cheers." Napoleon sipped his, mostly to make it last and also to keep the pain killers he was on from having a fit.

"You two have been out of the country for three weeks?"

"Closer to five, sir."

"I see…" Waverly stared out the window and Napoleon exchanged a worried look with Illya.

"Sir?"

"I'm very sorry to tell you that we have lost Agent Bangstrom."

"Sig?" Napoleon leaned forward questioningly. "What happened?"

"After you and Mr. Kuryakin left on your recent assignment, it was determined that Agent Suarez had been the victim of misidentification. There was another body in the alley that night, a member of the Mafia. He had drawn the disfavor of the local bosses. Wounded, he'd stumbled into the same alley as our unfortunate Agent Suarez. When their gunman entered the alley, he spotted Agent Suarez and thought he was the target."

"That explains the shooting style," Illya spoke quietly, as if only to himself.

"Yes." Waverly paused and took a sip of his drink. "When Agent Bangstrom discovered this, he took it very hard. He… ah... I believe the term is, went on the warpath, in essence, declaring war on the Mafia." Waverly's voice faltered for a moment, then resumed. "It… ended rather badly for him."

"Poor Sig… the Mafioso got him, did they? Napoleon grimaced. Those guys had no sense of humor.

"No, Mr. Solo, we did."

"What?" Illya was on his feet. "Are you saying that we took down one of our own... for…"

"Only officially, Mr. Kuryakin. Agent Bangstrom is still alive, but he has no memory of us, this organization or even his own name…"

"That would include Hector too."

"Unfortunately, yes. For his own safety and ours, it was deemed necessary." There was a knock at the door and a nurse and doctor were standing there. "Now if you two will be good enough to accompany the doctor down to Medical…?"

Napoleon kept an eye on his partner as much as he could. They were immediately ushered into a room, asked to strip to their shorts and wait. Their bodies were resplendent with a kaleidoscope of bruising in various stages of healing. There were the usual rope burns and scrapes. Illya had a couple of long gashes, the worse of which Napoleon had stitched closed. Napoleon's knee was swollen and hot to the touch.

He pulled a robe on and watched his partner as the doctor entered, examining first him and then Illya. He watched as Illya silently submitted to the exam, answering the doctor in monosyllables when he bothered to answer at all. He did nothing more than blink when the local was administered and the little bells going off in Napoleon's head became an all out alarm.

"You take three days off, Napoleon. Bed rest… alone! I'm not joking," the doctor was saying as Napoleon dressed. Illya had already bolted. His injuries had garnered a week of desk duty. He had hurriedly thrown on his clothes and left Napoleon in his wake.

He hobbled back to his desk, half expecting Illya to be pacing the small room, but it was as empty as they'd left it. He lifted the receiver and dialed.

"Reception."

"Has Agent Kuryakin left the building?"

"No, I haven't." Illya's voice made him turn and he hung up the phone without another word.

"I was hoping you could give me a ride home. I have my car downstairs, but I think the clutch is going to be out of bounds for awhile."

"Of course."

They drove to Napoleon's apartment in silence. Napoleon recognized the symptoms in his partner, but knew that the only way Illya would open up was when he was ready. There were times when Napoleon would have tried to badger or wheedle the truth from his partner, but not now.

Illya quietly carried the suitcase up to Napoleon's apartment and waited for him to unlock the door.

"Drink?" Napoleon asked as Illya moved past him. He didn't wait for an answer, but headed towards the bar. When he turned, Illya was already there with ice and the frosted vodka bottle.

They drank efficiently, patiently waiting for the alcohol to blur the edges. Napoleon knew better than to try to match Illya. As with food, the man seemed to have an enormous capacity. He'd only once made the mistake of trying to drink the Russian under the table. It had taken Napoleon three days to sober up and Illya was fine the next morning without even the decency to have a headache. So he nursed his drink while Illya grimly worked at emptying the vodka bottle, watching, waiting, knowing that the moment would present itself.

"И в конце концов, это - все, что мы, пустое судно, которое будет отброшено как мусор." (And in the end, this is all we are, an empty vessel to be tossed aside like garbage.)

Napoleon sighed and worked through the translation in his head. "Было бы легче, если бы Вы говорили на английском языке, Вы знаете. "(It would be easier if you spoke English, you know.)

Illya smiled tightly at that. "Sorry, I didn't realize I hadn't."

"You want to tell me what's going on in that head of yours, partner?"

"What makes you think there's anything going on?"

"Illya, please, give me a little credit. You've been stewing ever since the meeting in Waverly's office. What's wrong? Is it Sig?"

"What's wrong? What's right?" Illya was on his feet, pacing. "He just wanted what any man would have, to avenge his partner's death!"

"Then what, Illya? Does he go after the guy's boss and his boss and the boss's boss's boss?" Napoleon stopped and thought. "Maybe one too many bosses in that last one."

"How can you be glib about this? Don't you even care? What if I'd been the one gunned down? It's only a matter of time, you know."

Napoleon took a deep breath. "Illya, sit down…"

"No!"

"Yes!" Napoleon stood and pointed to a chair, using one of his crutches to balance with. "Sit, NOW."

Illya blinked and stared at him, even as he was sinking into the chair.

"Okay, first off, how dare you think that your death wouldn't affect me? We are closer than most married couples. We have cried, bled, vomited over each other. We've been to hell and back and the only reason the trip was worth it was because of you! The only reason I ever try is because of you."

"I…"

"Shut up, I'm talking, you're listening." Napoleon stopped and eased himself back down, his eyes never leaving Illya's. "Where was I? Oh, you accuse me of being glib; far from it, partner. I just know that if I lost you and I had a choice, I wouldn't want to live one day remembering you. I would rather end up drooling in a corner than to face a day wondering what life would have been like with you still here. Maybe you're brave enough to face it, Illya, but I'm not. What you see as a great cruelty, I see as a great kindness." He paused for a breath and made sure Illya was still with him. "Hector isn't coming back and Sig will never remember that. He's going to live his life out, but at least it'll be free from the 'what if's. Maybe UNCLE's solution isn't the best, but it works and it's possibly the best solution of a bad situation. Would the KGB have been any kinder?"

"No." Illya stopped and then continued. "Am I permitted to speak once again?"

"Sure, why not?" Napoleon reclaimed his glass of scotch, draining it. "The floor is yours."

"You're right, of course, I did misjudge you and for that I am sorry. And I am stronger than you for I would rather be dead than to live without the memory of you and our time together, especially if that memory is all that is left me. I don't want to lose that."

"You wouldn't, unless you convinced UNCLE otherwise. You do have a choice… here."

"You make grand gestures, Napoleon, but in the end, there is very little difference between our countries. When all is said and done, we are merely a means to their end."

"They ask us to pay a terrible price and we do, just as any soldier would. I'm not saying what they did to Sig was right, but it was definitely for the best. If they hadn't, he'd be dead."

"And how is that better, please?"

"He'll have a chance now to live, maybe find someone, get married, and have a mess of kids. He'll get an opportunity at a life we'll never have. Maybe he'll name one of his kids Hector or maybe his dog; he'll like the name, but he won't know why. Tell me the great injustice in that."

"I won't, for it is what you need to make this right with you." Illya took one last drink from the bottle and stood. Napoleon got to his feet as well.

"Where are you going?"

"Home. I feel a great need to sleep."

"You are too drunk to drive, Illya."

"Then I shall walk."

"You're too drunk to walk."

"I am far from drunk, my friend."

"How many fingers am I holding up?" Napoleon raised a fist, his threat silent, but still loud enough.

"In your dreams."

"And yours." Napoleon pointed to the bedroom. "Go."

He thought Illya was going to take him up on his challenge, but after a moment, he lurched in the direction of the bedroom.

Napoleon let go of the breath he was holding. He hadn't meant to get quite that personal, but the reality was Illya wouldn't have listened to anything else. He gathered up the glasses and with one crutch, hobbled to the kitchen. He made a second trip back to tuck the Scotch bottle into its spot and carried the nearly empty vodka bottle back to the freezer.

After checking the locks and the security system, Napoleon shut off the lights and made his way into the bedroom. Illya had already stripped down to his shorts and tee shirt and was sprawled out on one side of the bed. Napoleon headed instead to the bathroom and splashed water on his face. He felt a little sick, a little giddy, relieved that he'd revealed himself, worried about what Illya might say tomorrow.

He sat and slowly unwound the elastic bandage from his knee. It didn't look much better than it had earlier, but he knew better than to sleep with it wrapped. He took a couple of aspirin in lieu of the painkillers the doctors loved to press on them and made his way to the bed.

Napoleon didn't bother to try to hide his movements as he climbed into bed. Illya was either dead to the world or had been aware of his every move since he'd entered the room. It felt great to be in a bed that was familiar. More than that, it felt good to know that for one more day, they were okay, they were safe and they were whole.

Illya woke with a start and the knowledge that if he didn't urinate in the next thirty seconds it would be game over. He ignored the muscles that screamed at him; they'd still be there when he finished. And they were.

Napoleon's bottle of aspirin stood on the shelf and Illya dumped a few into his hand and popped them in his mouth, chewing them. The sharp bitterness made him wince, but it was all fair in love and war. He trudged back to bed and settled down. Napoleon was too far asleep to stop him from leaving, but it hardly seemed worth the effort. It was a cold world outside this room. Illya settled back down on his left side and stared up at the wall, replaying their conversation from earlier.

Was what UNCLE had done a kindness? It didn't feel that way to him and yet Napoleon saw it as such. It enabled him to get through the next day and the one following that and not go insane.

Napoleon mumbled something, rolled and draped an arm over Illya's waist, a comfortable and comforting presence. Perhaps Napoleon was right and they were an old married couple. They certainly had that level of familiarity with each other. About the only thing we don't share is the sex, and Illya smirked. He'd not be having that conversation with Napoleon any time soon.

Napoleon murmured again and Illya smiled. He laid his arm over Napoleon's, his hand covering his partner's with room to spare. Illya still felt that a great injustice had been done Sig, but until he was in the same position, who was he to judge? He just hoped he'd never ever have to find out.