Napoleon Solo sat hunched on a hard chair in medical, watching the steady, rhythmical breathing of the newest addition to the New York UNCLE office, new Section 2 agent, Illya Kuryakin.

From the first day, Kuryakin had dazzled everyone with his brilliance, whether in the gym, with his linguistic skills, or down in the labs. Already he was working on a new design to make the communicator devices smaller and more streamlined. He was hoping that the new device would be able to do service as a pen, a flashlight and a compass as well as a communicator.

He was good in the field too, although Solo was finding the man a challenge. Socially they had become friends; and it was just as well that they had hit it off so well as people, because there were some aspects of Kuryakin's work ethic or strategy that did not sit well with Solo at all.

He recalled that during one of their early conversations, Kuryakin had voiced the opinion that a partner might become an Achilles' heel, a weakness and therefore not a very good idea. Solo had not yet gotten around to bringing that subject up again; but presuming the young Russian survived this crisis, now would be the time.

The Kohliad Affair had been a success, but had almost cost Kuryakin his life. Trying to get reasonable communication going between them had been a major struggle. Kuryakin was active and intelligent, often restive under Solo's supervision, also frequently sullen and incommunicative, with a very bad habit of acting on his own intuition without notice and without informing his partner either of his destination or his intentions. Solo felt like he had spent half of his time trying in vain to contact his partner, then having to use his own brainpower to try and work out where Kuryakin might have gone in time to back him up. He was convinced that if the blond Russian could learn the proper way to work with a partner…he would be a great asset. Right now, though…

Napoleon refused to finish that thought as he regarded the man in the bed.

Kuryakin had been knifed in the back, and had spent twenty-four hours on the critical list with Solo raging impotently from the viewing gallery. He and Illya would have some straight talking to do. Things would have to change. If not, then Solo could see no future for their partnership. The thing was, he liked and admired his partner, and badly wanted their partnership to work. Right now, he was feeling, rarely for Solo, angry.

He had been brutally honest with Mister Waverly, telling the old man that Kuryakin was brilliant, but hard to work with because of that damnably dangerous independent streak. Waverly had smiled contentedly and merely made some cryptic remark about Kuryakin being every bit the product of his past, and that no man could fly who had not yet been given his wings. Solo was left wondering what he meant by that, but Waverly had merely indicated that the interview was over.

"I think the old man knew very well what would happen." Solo thought to himself. Perhaps this was a test for himself? No, more likely, if Mister Waverly could see the potential in Illya to be a great agent, then putting him in the charge of the CEA would be the way to go, wouldn't it? The man best placed to train the Russian. From the little Solo had gleaned about the Russian's past, he had always been assigned to work alone. Definitely, they would have some talking to do.

Illya Kuryakin was a quick healer, but not nearly as quick as he wanted to be. He had been stuck in bed in medical for ten days before they eventually got tired of his ranting and raging and allowed him to go home on condition that he followed their strict instructions to the letter, and made sure to keep every follow-up appointment. Gentle walking was the limit he was allowed for at least a month, he had been told, and no fighting, shooting, or any exercise until he was given leave.

He was frustrated, but at least he was at home.

He had been immensely surprised to find Napoleon Solo sitting beside his bed when he woke up; he had clearly been there for some time too. He had been white faced and bleary-eyed with, he had said, a numb backside from sitting for so long on the hard chairs in medical.

"What are you doing here?" Illya had asked. Napoleon had shrugged.

"I sit here to make sure that you are safe. I cover your back."

"But why would you do that?" Illya had demanded, his brow furrowing. Napoleon had leaned forward, making sure that he had eye contact.

"Because I am your partner, I am also your friend, and I care about you. I make sure always that I have your back. I have to go my friend, see you later."

Napoleon had then left the room, and Illya had seen little of him since. Sure, he had been down every day with plenty of interesting anecdotes to talk about, but all the time Illya was aware of a wall between them that had not been there before. Napoleon had always been so open and friendly, and so delighted when Illya had finally been approved for field work. What had changed?

Now he was back at his apartment, feeling bored out of his mind, Illya had plenty of time on his hands to think about what might have gone wrong between himself and his new, and to be honest, only friend.

Working with Napoleon had not been quite as he had expected, but Illya was not yet quite certain why. He had never had a partner before. With the KGB and the GRU, he had always worked largely alone. Joining UNCLE had changed little, because after being dragged out of the labs and into section three, he had been working largely alone in response to direct orders from a superior. `Guard this door; escort this prisoner', plenty of room to show his skills, but with no elbow room to display his intelligence. He had yearned for a more independent role, where he could spread his wings as it were and really make a difference.

Now look at him. His first mission after leaving survival school and arriving in New York, and already he was going to be sidelined for four to six weeks because of his carelessness in letting himself get stabbed. He had not believed that he was really this incompetent, but the evidence seemed clear enough.

He nodded to himself. That must be why Napoleon had changed towards him. This must be why he had built up this invisible wall between them that had not been there before. The New Russian agent's skills and abilities looked impressive in writing, but he had failed to live up to them. Napoleon was disappointed in him but was too polite to say so. Strange that Waverly had not shown any evidence of disappointment in his performance, though. Waverly had shaken both of their hands at a job well done and commiserated him on his injury.

Waverly was not, by all accounts, a man to keep silent in the face of incompetence. Illya did not really believe he had acted in any way incompetently through this affair, despite getting himself injured, so why was Napoleon keeping him at arm's length?

A loud rapping on the door roused him from his musings.

"Who?" he called out sharply. Napoleon's voice responded in kind.

"It's me. Napoleon!"

With his gun to hand in case of subterfuge, Illya turned off the alarm and opened the door. Napoleon was standing there alone. He was holding a small briefcase in his hand.

"Napoleon. Hello. What are you doing here? I thought you were on duty?"

"I am. I am here to visit one of my agents."

"In an official capacity?"

"At this juncture, no. Can I come in or do you want to discuss this on the doorstep?"

Illya acquiesced and stood aside for his partner to enter, then locked and reset the alarm after him.

"Sit. Are you here to pack me off back to the Soviet Union?"

Napoleon stared at him nonplussed for a moment.

"What on earth makes you think that?"

Illya indicated the briefcase.

"That. Makes you look far too official for me to be comfortable."

"It's a briefcase, Illya. It is a way of carrying official documents from place to place, even through rainstorms without ruining them. This is the casefile for our first mission together."

"Why would you bring it here? If you needed to discuss the case, you could have asked me to return to the office."

Napoleon nodded.

"Yes, I could, but what I need to discuss with you, I decided would be better discussed here, where you no doubt feel more at ease."

"Telling me that what you have to say is something I might not like? Like my incompetence throughout The Kohliad Affair?"

Napoleon put the case on the floor and leaned back in his chair.

"Yes, let's talk about your incompetence, Illya. Your personal files, which I don't believe for a second cover everything, lead us to believe that you were little short of being a superman. So, what went wrong?"

Illya's chin hit his chest.

"I was careless."

"Explain how? And why you were careless, Illya? Why are you here on sick leave after just one mission, leaving me without my partner?"

"I failed to cover all the bases. I failed to consider that someone might have anticipated me and be lying in wait. I let myself get stabbed. I am a liability."

"So, you think because of that, I would be within my rights to send you packing back home?"

Illya nodded miserably.

"If that is what you deserved, Illya, then why are you still here? Why did Mister Waverly not send you back? To my recollection, he congratulated you and commiserated with you on your injury."

"In KGB, any failure is punishable."

"This is not the KGB Illya, nor the GRU and we are not in the Soviet Union!" Napoleon shouted, suddenly. "You are guilty of making a mistake, that is correct, but how many times as a baby did you fall over before you learned how to walk?"

Illya looked up then.

"I have been going over and over in my mind everything that happened, all we did on this affair, and I fail to see anything I could have done differently. That means that if we had a similar job to do again, I would do everything the same way and quite probably the same thing might happen. I must be a failure. You say I made a mistake. I am certain you are right, but…"

Napoleon nodded and when he spoke his voice was soft and kind.

"…but you can't see what it could be. That my friend, is why I am here. I think that your failure on this affair might be partly my fault. I am your senior agent as well as your partner, and despite all your experiences and skills, you have never worked as a field agent with a partner before. I should have realized that there are some things your past cannot have completely prepared you for. Mister Waverly gave me the clue."

Illya looked slightly puzzled.

"He did?"

Napoleon nodded.

"I admit I was very angry with you Illya, and I will come to the reason for that in a moment. But when I spoke with Waverly, he said that "no man could fly who had not been given his wings." It took me a day or two to realize what he was getting at."

Napoleon watched Illya absorbing all he had said so far, trying to work it out. He remained silent, watching the Russian pacing his floor, as far as the limited space would allow, pinching his lip between thumb and forefinger. Finally, he stopped and turned back to face Napoleon.

"…Something you said to me in medical a couple of days ago. You said you were my friend and my partner, you care and you make sure at all times that you have my back. That means to try and protect me from harm, correct?"

Napoleon nodded encouragingly.

"Go on."

"But this time you didn't have my back."

"And can you tell me why that was, Illya? Or do I need to spell it out?"

Illya thought back. He had always been trained to follow through on every lead and inspiration thoroughly, investigate quickly for the best resolution. It had suddenly occurred to him where the satrapy must have been based, and he had dashed out of the restaurant where he was supposed to have been waiting for Napoleon, and hurried off to check out his inspiration. Napoleon must have been returned to their table and wondered what on earth had happened to him. He thought back further. He had failed to tell his partner where he was going…" he glanced up shamefaced.

"I was passing by a school on my way home yesterday afternoon." He told Napoleon softly. "There were children in the playground having games with their teacher. Some of them were having a race where two together had their inner legs tied together…"

Napoleon nodded.

"A three-legged race. Yes."

"Most of them kept falling over because they were trying to run independently and pulling their partners over. I have just realized the correlation. The runners who won, did so because they co-operated together. They made allowances for each other and ran at the same pace."

Napoleon nodded, a small smile on his lips.

"A good analogy. So Illya, if we had to go back and do everything all over again, is there anything you might do differently?"

"Yes. I have been trying to run a three-legged race on my own, haven't I? I guess we were lucky to make it to the finish at all. I need to stop trying to dash off on my own without telling you where and why, correct?"

Napoleon nodded, his smile now a grin.

"Close enough. Look Illya, I should have realized that working in partnership with someone else might not necessarily come natural to you. Believe me, there was a time that I believed I was best working solo. Take the last incident, where you got yourself stabbed. Rather than rush away without saying anything, if you had waited, and told me your ideas, we could have planned a two-pronged attack on that place that might have resulted in capturing some of their people, and even their paperwork; rather than finishing up in a huge explosion and a stabbing. Believe me, running at top speed in the front door every time might solve some problems but it is not always the most efficient way. Counter-measures."

Illya nodded.

"How do you Americans say it? I…I messed up this time, right?"

Napoleon shook his head.

"No, Illya, you did good work, but I spent the whole time trailing after you, trying to guess where you would go next. You never told me where you were going or why, you would take off without warning, you never answered my hails. Because of that I was unable to cover your back, and if I had gotten into trouble, you would not have been there to cover mine. We must work together, Illya. Always together. You must learn to talk to me. If you cannot, then there is no way our partnership will work. I will not let you put me in a position where I feel responsible for your death, or you for mine."

Napoleon stood up.

"I like you and I respect you. You have so much to give, and you could be one of the greatest agents in UNCLE, but if you keep trying to do everything on your own, you will be like a firework…brilliant and dazzling and die very quickly and be forgotten."

He handed the briefcase to Illya.

"Here, this is a copy of my report to Mister Waverly. It is honest my friend, both about what occurred, and of my opinion, of both you and of our partnership. It might be difficult to read, but I think you might learn something about me if you read it. You don't have to. I won't ask whether you read it or not. I have just one question."

"What is that?" Illya asked, taking the case as if afraid it would blow up in his hand. Napoleon smiled.

"I have to go back to work now, but would you care to come to my place for dinner this evening?"

Napoleon glanced at Illya's three musical instruments in their cases and grinned.

"I would also love to hear you play…?"

Illya nodded, a half-smile cracking his face.

"All right…thank you…"

When Napoleon was gone, Illya looked at the case he had left behind. Did he really want to know what Napoleon had told Waverly about him? Part of him did and part of him did not. If he read the report, would he still want to go to his for dinner? Was he willing to take the risk? Clearly Napoleon was. Napoleon was obviously of the opinion that reading the contents of the file would not affect their friendship. Illya sighed and opened the briefcase and pulled out the thick file within.

Napoleon Solo was the Chief Enforcement Agent for the North West. It was his job to train his agents, to give them the best chance at survival. He had on their first encounter, called Illya a Newbie. Illya was more experienced at many things than raw recruits to Section 2 usually were, but he was clearly still a newbie in some areas. Napoleon was still his friend. He was only trying to show him where he needed to improve. He had even done it in such a way that Illya had been led to working it out, largely, for himself. What was a friend, a partner and a senior agent if not all of that? The least he could do was trust him in turn.

He opened the file and began to read.