Illya's head bobbed up at the sound. He couldn't see anything, except a small slit of light that peeked beneath the blindfold. He had worked at his bonds until common sense, and a warm oozing sensation, urged him to stop. He didn't know how long he'd been unconscious before waking up here or how long he'd been lying here, bound hand and foot. Long enough to feel a burn in his stomach, but not long enough to lose control of his bladder, which put it between six and eight hours.

Then came a whisper of sound and he knew he was no longer alone.

"Who's there?" He turned his head from side to side to try to pinpoint a location.

"Don't be afraid; it's only me."

Illya nearly laughed with relief at hearing his partner's voice. "Thank God, Napoleon, untie me."

"Not quite yet."

A twinge of panic hit Illya's stomach and radiated outwards. "Why, what's wrong?"

"You're wired up like a Christmas tree. I untie you and we both go 'boom.'"

That was odd; Illya had felt no wires on his skin, no sense of anything unusual at all, but his legs and arms had gone beyond burning to just numb. Even if he did manage to get free, it would take him at least a half an hour to be able to move again. "The blindfold?"

"Needs to stay on for now. I'm sorry." The panic twisted and dug at his gut now. Perhaps not Napoleon, but a clever imitation instead? He could feel Napoleon's… no, someone else's fingers on him, moving slowly, as if tracing something up his leg and stopping at his… This was odd. If his arms and legs were numb, how could he feel this?

"What are you doing?" Illya hissed, tipping his head back, trying vainly to catch a glimpse of anything. He'd thought everything was numb, but apparently not.

"Stop thrashing or we're both in trouble." The fingers were working his fly now. "I'm going to take your pants off so I can see the detonator."

Illya was fairly certain there was nothing that wasn't 100% Russian in his pants, but the fingers were nimble and careful. "Untie my feet then?"

"Sorry." Illya felt something cold on his skin. A knife, he belatedly realized, as it sliced through the fabric. He could feel each of his legs exposed to the cool air of his prison as his pants were neatly filleted around him. "Red and green on your left; blue and yellow on your right. Any ideas?"

"No, sorry, can you see the circuit?"

"Not yet." Two more knife strokes and Illya realized his shorts had suffered the same fate as his pants. This could get ugly when they went to escape. The fingers that touched him were gentle, moving his penis aside as if aware of his concern. "It's just me, Illya. Relax."

"Rather difficult at the moment."

"The wires disappear beneath you."

"I'm not lying on anything that I can tell…" he protested as his shirt was unbuttoned, as the knife ripped open his sleeves.

"Same with the wires going up your arms. Red and green on the left, blue and yellow on the right."

"What are the ends attached to?"

"I told you; they disappear beneath you."

"The other ends, Napoleon." Illya snapped and then clamped his mouth shut, aware of his predicament. He was hardly in any position to demand. "Sorry."

"Disappear beneath the ropes binding you. That's probably where the trigger mechanism is." The fingers were on his neck now; birdlike, fluttering against his neck and hair, making him shudder. "And four more lead from beneath the blindfold and down your back and disappear."

"The bomb's beneath me?" At the silence, Illya twisted. "Napoleon?"

"I think it's in you…"

"What?"

"You know… in your…" The fingers were dangerously intimate now, touching places Illya would prefer to have left alone.

"I'm going to try and dig it out."

"Are you out of your mind?"

"I hope not. Hold still, this might hurt."

"Wait, I'm not ready…" A searing pain, unlike one he'd ever experienced before…

"NO!" Illya sat up in bed, his eyes closing at the pounding behind them. The room was dark and unfamiliar, no surprise there.

"Illya?" Napoleon's voice was slurred with sleep. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing, bad dream, I'm fine." Illya settled back down against the sheets, only to be startled a second later to feel the edge of the bed dip. "What…?" Napoleon's fingers were on his lips.

"Don't be afraid, it's only me." Napoleon's voice was crooning, as if Illya was a frightened child.

"I'm not afraid," Illya protested as he felt Napoleon recline beside him, felt him pulling him down and close.

"Then why are you shaking?" Napoleon's hand stroked his arm in a near caress.

"I'm not..." But he was and it shamed him. It was only Napoleon, his friend, his partner, and the man he trusted more than anyone else. To feel the man's body against his was nothing new, but to be excited by it… Illya gulped down a breath of air. It was wrong. He needed to pull away, break free from the embrace, but he was powerless as he felt Napoleon's palm trace a lazy circle on his stomach, dipping lower and lower, drifting closer to his straining penis until he felt himself taken in a firm no nonsense grip, pumping him, gently at first, then Napoleon's hand tightened until pleasure abruptly gave way to pain.

"Napoleon, stop, you're hurting me," he tried to wiggle free, gasping now in agony.

"You ain't seen nothing yet, you little faggot." Napoleon's voice was bitter, and he yanked. Illya screamed, but he wasn't sure if it was from the pain or the sight of Napoleon offering him his own bloody dick.

Reality slammed back to Illya and he panted. Sunlight was peeking around the battered and limp curtain as it struggled to keep the room dark. The door opened slowly and Illya felt for his gun, even as he became aware of a burning in his groin. He pushed the pain aside as he sat up and aimed.

"Freeze!"

"Calm down! Don't be afraid, Illya, it's only me." Napoleon held his hands up in mock surrender. His tie was hanging around his neck and he gave the impression of a man who'd been well loved.

"Sorry. You're just getting in?" He lowered the gun to the mattress and hissed as he eased himself back down.

"Well, unlike you, I had a good night."

"How did you know…?"

"Well, I don't know about you, but cigarette burns to my genitals wouldn't be one of my more banner moments."

He remembered now; rather wished he didn't. His THRUSH captors had a seriously sadistic twist. When they tired of the usual methods, they'd moved on to more advanced methods. They eventually discovered that no amount of pain would make the Russian talk. At that point, they had continued for their own sick amusement.

Napoleon pushed aside one of the curtains, letting watery sunlight spill into the room, and walked over to the bed, pulling back the sheet.

"What are you doing?" Illya's hands moved unconsciously to protect himself; hide the damage from even his friend's eyes.

"Well, unless you're adding contortionist to your repertoire, I'm making sure everything is okay. Just lie back and try to think of pleasant things… like girls."

"Not so interested at the moment." Illya's voice wavered and then caught as Napoleon touched him.

"They did a number on you, partner. Where is the cream the doctor left?"

"Night stand… in the drawer."

Napoleon fished around and came up with a tube. He looked at it and then began to chuckle. "Something you want to share with me, Illya?" Belatedly Illya realized he'd stashed… before he was captured and tortured… he'd thought to…

"No, nothing, Napoleon."

Napoleon set the tube of K-Y jelly down and picked up a second tube of antibiotic cream. He squeezed a generous glob onto his fingers and smiled.

"Okay, take a breath; this is going to be cold." But all Illya could feel was pain and Napoleon's hand as it wrapped around his dick.

"Stop," he gasped, arching into his partner's grasp, pleasure overriding pain now. "I can't…"

"I can."

Illya's eyes opened at the ringing of the bell and he groaned. What the hell had he been drinking last night? he wondered as he grabbed the phone receiver. His pajama bottoms were sticky with his ejaculate and his head was pounding out a samba.

"What?" he barked into the phone.

"Mr. Kuryakin?" Waverly's voice was both surprised and affronted.

"Sorry, sir." Illya ran a hand over his face and grimaced.

"I need both you and Mr. Solo in my office immediately. And the next time you decide to take some time off, please be reminded that your communicator is not optional!"

Illya winced as the line went dead, and then nearly jumped out of his skin as a hand touched him.

"Don't be afraid, Illya, it's only me."

Illya glanced over his shoulder, saw the handcuffs and dildo Napoleon was holding, and his head started screaming at him again and again.

They walked into the hotel room and Napoleon dropped his suitcase by the door. Even though this stop had been unplanned and unanticipated, he wouldn't trust a hotel room that he hadn't gone over thoroughly.

After a moment Illya joined him, their movements measured and practiced. Out of the corner of his eye, Napoleon watched Illya. Ever since they'd shut Partridge and his Caribbean resort down, his partner had been acting odd, wary; almost afraid to be alone with him. It was as if Illya was afraid he'd bite or something. Of course, Napoleon had no way of knowing what horrors Partridge had subjected Illya to; what it had taken to brainwash him into attacking Napoleon. That would be for the boys back home to deal with, providing Illya cooperated with them.

They shut the place down and climbed aboard the UNCLE jet, with the innocent and not-so innocent still wrapped up in each other's embrace. Both UNCLE agents turned a blind eye to them and they retired to a quiet spot in the plane. Napoleon started to chat up the stewardess while he waited for Illya to sack out. It was what they always did… but not this time.

Instead, Illya selected a seat as far away from his partner as possible and stared at the wall, deliberately not meeting Napoleon's gaze. Okay, Napoleon got that. Illya had tried to kill him. Came damn close to doing it. Napoleon could understand the man needing some head space and giving Napoleon some as well.

What he couldn't understand was Illya's sudden passion for coffee. Sure he drank it, they both did, gallons of it, but Illya was acting as if he was going for a personal best. When he wasn't at the coffee pot, he was in the head, the second a consequence of the first.

When the captain reported trouble and needed to set down in Miami, Napoleon thought Illya was going to come out of his skin before they landed. He was jittery, quick tempered and distracted, obviously a byproduct of all that caffeine.

Once things were secure at the airport, they'd headed for a nearby hotel and gone through the routine of checking in. As usual, they got a double room, although Napoleon wondered if it would have been more prudent to have gotten two rooms instead. Illya was acting as if he could use some alone time, but he didn't protest the arrangement. In the end, Napoleon let it drop.

"You're going out?" It wasn't as much a question as a statement, and Napoleon considered it for a moment. He was honestly torn between finding a date for the night and keeping watch on the man who had seemingly replaced his partner. He didn't know where Illya had gotten to, but he was miles from the body he usually inhabited.

After a moment, he picked the former. "Yes, I thought I'd grab a bite at the Tropicana and see what the night life had to offer. You want to come?" He watched Illya flush at the word and frowned slightly.

"Thought I'd shower and get some sack time."

"After all the coffee you drank on the plane? You won't sleep until Christmas, my friend." But Illya had already disappeared into the bathroom. Again Napoleon felt his gut tighten. This was out of character for Illya. His partner usually gave him priority when he said he was going out.

Oh well, it wouldn't be the first time he'd shaved while Illya showered. Napoleon dug his overnight kit out of his suitcase and carried it to the bathroom. The door was locked and Napoleon frowned. He couldn't remember the last locked door between them, but he was getting the sense that this was going to be the first of many before they resolved whatever was bothering his partner.

In the end, he just ran his electric razor over his face and changed clothes. There was precious little noise coming from the bathroom, certainly no sound of a shower running or anything else. It was as if Illya was simply waiting for him to leave.

He tapped on the door. "I'm off, Illya. Don't wait up."

"Okay." The answer was muffled, as if Illya was talking through a towel.

It was all too strange for his tastes, but it wasn't as if his life offered him big heaping servings of normal at the best of times and these certainly weren't the best of times.

It was around midnight when he let himself back into the room. The bar had offered a couple of possibilities, but Napoleon had found himself too distracted to concentrate on his flirting. His mind kept wandering back to his partner and to his behavior.

Napoleon knew his partner was resilient, and what he couldn't work through himself, he could hash out with the shrinks back in New York.

Quietly, as to not disturb the sleeping Russian, Napoleon walked to the bathroom. Turning on the light there, he glanced over towards the beds.

Sure enough, there was a lump in the one on the right; always Illya's preference, for one reason or another. Napoleon took his time, now that the facilities were finally his. As he walked to his suitcase to retrieve his pajamas, he stopped and looked again. Illya was sleeping fully clothed? The most Napoleon had ever seen Illya sleep in was pajama bottoms and he usually grumbled about that. Still, it didn't make sense to sleep au natural if THRUSH might pop in for a visit at any moment.

Making a mental note to ask Illya about it in the morning, Napoleon stripped and began to pull on his pajama bottoms.

Napoleon grinned tightly at the groaning protest from the other bed. Nightmares were nothing new for either of them.

He clicked on the light between the beds, thinking it would be enough to wake Illya, but he merely thrashed, fighting demons invisible to Napoleon.

"Illya, wake up." Napoleon wasn't going to get too close, mindful of his partner's right cross. "Don't be afraid, it's only me."

With a shout, Illya was sitting upright in bed, pistol in hand, aiming with deadly precision at Napoleon's chest.

"Illya… wake up." Napoleon used his best CEA tone now, hoping that it would get through to his muddled brain before the impulse to pull the trigger did. For a breathless moment, the world hung, and then Illya crumbled back to the bed, moaning.

Napoleon moved in to slip the gun away and then sit on the edge of the bed.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry…" Illya mumbled into the rumpled sheets.

"Hey, it's okay."

"Don't hurt me…"

"Illya, I'd never…"

"NO!"

Without conscious thought, Napoleon moved, away from the bed, and halfway to the door, at Illya's scream. The man was clawing at himself, cupping his genitals and sobbing, "Don't hurt me, I'm sorry," again and again.

It was probably one of the hardest decisions of his career, but Napoleon walked back to his bed and pulled his Walther from beneath the pillow. Checking the setting, he fired point blank into Illya's hip. Napoleon didn't know which hurt more, the look of betrayal, or the look of gratitude that immediately followed.

White, everything is so white here, Illya thought as he opened an eye. Not in Partridge's torture chamber anymore…

"Mr. Kuryakin?" His superior's voice roused him and he glanced over, then down. His hands were strapped down, as were his feet and his chest.

"Sir?" His voice was thick and he cleared his throat. "What's wrong?"

A doctor appeared at Waverly's side. "You've given us quite the ride for our money, Mr. Kuryakin. You sent half of the psych staff back to school for more training."

"Wotcher, mate," another voice drew Illya's attention and he smiled weakly.

"Mark? What are you doing here?"

"Waiting to see if your partner will ever let me have my own partner back. Man has a one-track mind." Mark tapped his forehead and grinned. "How's yer head?"

"Confused… we are in Miami?"

"New York." Mr. Waverly interrupted.

"But we were…" Illya let his head fall back onto the pillow. "Not to sound utterly textbook, but what happened?"

"Apparently Partridge brainwashed you into killing Napoleon," Mark said, his voice even, as if judging Illya's reaction to the name.

"That part, I painfully recall."

"He did it by instilling such fear of him in you, that the mere sight of Mr. Solo would cause you to react in a certain way. Then he added a trigger phrase, much like that for a sleeper agent, that would cause you to react to anyone who spoke it. Combine the two and it was a lethal cocktail. We were unaware of it until you had a nightmare and Mr. Solo unwittingly used the trigger phrase. I'm afraid you went just a little bit crazy on him."

The doctor was studying his clipboard. "It's taken us the good part of two weeks to isolate the phrase and deprogram you, and nearly that long to pry your over-protective partner from your side. Mr. Waverly will be delighted to have him back to work. For what it's worth, this probably wouldn't have worked nearly as well had you not already gone through that hell with Mandor." Just the mention of that name made Illya grimace. The doctor saw Illya's reaction, and then turned to the door. "Mr. Solo?"

Napoleon wandered in, his arm linked with April's. He looked as bad as Illya felt, haggard, tired, and generally very un-Napoleon-like, in his wrinkled suit. "Yes, Doctor?"

"I think Mr. Kuryakin is finally with us."

He glanced over and grinned, relief flooding his features. "Welcome back, Partner."

"I'd say it's good to be back, but since I wasn't aware of being gone anywhere, I will feign ennui instead."

"Well, it sounds like him, Doc." Napoleon released April and slowly approached the bed. "Don't be afraid, Illya, it's only me."

"All right." Illya waited for Napoleon to finish whatever he was going to say. Instead he was slightly startled by applause.

"Bravo, mate." Mark was clapping and hugging his partner. Napoleon was laughing and even Waverly looked extraordinarily happy and relieved.

"Oh, Illya, you really are back this time," April murmured. She kissed his cheek. "Thank God."

"What has happened to cause this… reaction?" Illya looked down at his bound wrists with a sick twisting in his stomach. He half expected Napoleon to rip off the sheet and start carving on him, although where that thought came from was beyond him. Then he found his concentration turning inward, trying to feel if anything was wrong or… missing. Again, the involuntary decision to do so puzzled him. He might have been deprogrammed, but he felt he still had a long way to go.

"Very long story, my friend." Napoleon was sitting close to him, releasing a wrist strap. "Reader's Digest version; they made you think I was hurting you and doing terrible things to you while promising not to hurt you."

"What sorts of things?"

"Let's just leave it at terrible and not push that envelope any farther at the moment, shall we?" The doctor made another notation.

"I'd never willingly hurt you, Illya." Napoleon seemed hesitant to meet his eyes.

"Of course not, you're my partner."

"When you're ready, we can talk." Napoleon patted his arm and withdrew. "But for the record, you'll never hear me use that phrase again, just in case."

"For that, I thank you." Illya tried to make the comment light.

"Mr. Solo, a moment of your time, if you can pry yourself away from your partner?" Waverly made the question less of a suggestion; more of an order.

Illya watched as everyone departed except the doctor, who oversaw the removal of the rest of his restraint, the catheter and the IV before he took his leave as well and Illya was blissfully alone. He laid there for a long time, staring at the ceiling, trying to make sense of the past days. Part of him was screaming to wake up, that this was just another dream. A quick self examination revealed that he was safe and whole, and he was in familiar surroundings. If his mind was truly gone, then this was as good as any place to be. If it wasn't, he and Napoleon would somehow work through it.

It was hard to think about what had been done to him, what he'd nearly done, and that his secret, one that had been buried so deep for so long, had finally been dredged to the surface by the enemy, an enemy now, thankfully, dead and his secret again hidden safely away. It was harder still to think that he'd been used as a weapon against his own partner. Now he could only pray that some merciful god would take pity on him and give him the wherewithal to recover enough for Napoleon to trust him again.

Illya's head bobbed up, his smile ghostlike as Napoleon re-entered the room.

"I have some stuff to do. Are you good with that?"

"I will be. You?"

"Now that you're back… yeah, better now." Napoleon turned to leave again, then hesitated. "And, Illya, it wasn't your fault. THRUSH…. I mean, it's okay."

"What's okay?"

"All of it."

And then he was gone. Illya, for the sake of their partnership; no, for the sake of their friendship, could only hope that he was right.