The rendezvous spot, a little club with a wonderfully appalling reputation, was even more of a cliché than Napoleon had expected: a thick haze of smoke had settled like a fog over the room, casting further shadows across the dimly lit faces of its inhabitants. Despite the gloom, it took him all of two seconds to spot Illya, who had made himself prominent by wedging himself into the seat closest to the wall, at the table with the best view of the door.

Napoleon picked his way through the murmuring crowd, trying his best to look like someone who was trying his best to be inconspicuous. "Subtle," he murmured, pulling up a chair across from Illya, who was studiously ignoring him in favour of glaring at a mug of some indeterminate liquid that was probably a weak imitation of beer. "Nobody will ever suspect we're secret agents if we lurk in the shadows and meet at strange hours in suspicious locations. Forgot the cloak and dagger at home, did you?"

Illya glowered at him, but his eyes were dancing with a suppressed smile. "If it's at all possible for you to keep your voice down, Napoleon, I'd recommend it. We don't want to give the game away too soon."

Napoleon leaned forward, propping his elbows on the table, and whispered, "I can't help it. I feel like I should be doing something nefarious. Don't you?" When Illya made no sign of dignifying that with a response, he sighed, leaning back. "I spotted four Thrushies on the way over here. They're worse at being unnoticeable than we are. You sure it's safe for you to be here?"

"I told them I'd have to meet with you periodically to allay any lingering suspicions. And you needn't worry about being overheard, so long as you keep your voice down; the ambient noise level here makes it particularly difficult for any sort of audio surveillance to be effective." Illya had turned his attention back to his drink, as though by sheer force of will he'd be able to make it palatable. "If it looks as though I'm getting some important information from you, so much the better."

Obligingly, Napoleon swiped his napkin and pretended to scribble state secrets on it as he spoke. "Mr. Waverly seems to think things are going exactly according to plan. You're quite a catch for Thrush, you know; we've decrypted five messages this week already, all bragging about your dramatic change of allegiances." He picked up the napkin, made a show of re-reading its blank surface, and started folding it elaborately.

"Apparently I make a believable mercenary." Illya accepted the folded-up napkin with due solemnity. "I expected them to be less credulous on the whole, really."

Napoleon felt his shoulders tense up. "Trouble? We can still pull you out without much-"

"If there were trouble, I would have notified you earlier. I think they are slackening the reins enough to let me make mistakes while they can still afford to have me do so." Illya pocketed the napkin. "They'll come around, Napoleon. I've made it very clear that I will not provide any detailed information until they can assure me a certain level of-" His lips curled into a smile. "-job security."

"Another game of who-blinks-first, huh?"

"Something like that." Illya straightened. "Now, my friend, you should get out of here and back to your busy schedule of espionage. Next week, same time. Hopefully I will have more to report."

"Of course," Napoleon said, and grinned as Illya finally took a sip of his drink. "Next time, get me one of those."

Wrinkling his nose, Illya pushed the mug to the far side of the table. "You can have mine."

"I think I'll defer that pleasure until next time." Napoleon stood, and found himself hesitating. "Illya, it's not going to be easy for you when you come back. Mr. Waverly and I are the only ones who know. Everyone else thinks you really are a traitor, that we're just stringing you along to minimize the damage you'll cause."

Illya took up his glass again and raised it in a wry salute. "I know that. I'll survive somehow."

Napoleon grinned and turned to leave.

"Napoleon?"

A couple of the Thrushies were watching them, so Napoleon didn't turn, just stopped in his tracks and pretended to fiddle with his cigarette case, keeping his voice low. "What is it?"

A silence behind him. "Nothing," Illya said, finally. "Be careful."

"You too."

And Napoleon stepped out into the clear, cold night, stamped his feet while he waited for his Thrush tail to catch up, and led them on an entirely pointless but intriguing journey across half the city before losing them, almost unintentionally, half-wanting the chase to go on, half-wanting them to catch up so he could release some of the energy buzzing around inside him, so he could play the game the old way. He waited around for stragglers, probably longer than he should have, and when he finally got home, it was to lie in bed and stare at the ceiling until the alarm rang.

Another day.

Life got on much the way it always had, with the same array of dastardly schemes, the same ubiquitous Innocents who had the gift of stumbling right into the middle of things at the worst possible moment. The meetings, once a week in a shady club, became routine, Napoleon catching Illya up on the snippets of information to dangle in front of Thrush, Illya dropping hints here and there about a genuine double agent buried in UNCLE's ranks, both of them unravelling the rumours and lies like old times.

Most of the time, the mood was light, and they exchanged witticisms and critiqued the form of their dwindling pool of Thrush surveillance cronies. Sometimes Illya would have a fresh bruise or bandage, evidence of the fact that his new employers were still trying to test his mettle by assigning him all the most dangerous jobs, and the jokes became a means of survival, a way to negate the dangers.

One evening, Illya was particularly withdrawn, and once they'd conducted the business side of things, he got up to leave first, then turned. "If I get back," then, catching himself, "when I get back." He stopped speaking for a moment, took a deep breath. "You can stop worrying about me, Napoleon. I don't have that desperate need for companionship you've shown on so many occasions."

"Right," Napoleon said. "Don't think you can get rid of me that easily."

He'd thought Illya would turn, say something more. He didn't.

Thrush was intercepting a shipment of particularly dangerous chemicals. Napoleon was intercepting Thrush.

The firefight was nothing spectacular; Napoleon was working alone on this one, but these Thrushies were the particularly expendable types, the ones with terrible hand-eye coordination who would need a year or two of advanced firearms training to handle a BB gun. He'd managed to take down three of his dozen opponents before backup had even arrived.

"Looking good, Solo." One of the newer field agents Marshall? Mitchell? came up behind him on light feet. "Guess you didn't really need us here after all."

"It's always nice to have company." Napoleon nodded to the other packing crates, and his companion got the message, waving for the rest of the UNCLE agents to fan out.

There was a renewed burst of fire from the Thrush end of the warehouse, and, once it had died down, Napoleon moved to the edge of his shelter, started to glance out to get an idea of who was hiding where.

It took him a moment to register the gunshot as coming from somewhere closer at hand than he'd expected, and his training had him rolling back a split-second before his shoulder decided to let him know, vehemently, that it didn't approve of colliding with bullets at such extreme speeds, and he realized that last burst of fire had been cover; they'd had someone come in from the side.

Smarter than the average Thrushie.

Someone was pulling him back, which was good because his legs felt like they weren't working right, and then, only then, when his mind started replaying the last few seconds, when he started trying to figure out where he'd gone wrong, already planning for the next time he found himself surrounded by gunmen in an old warehouse, only then did he remember seeing something just before the gunshot, the flash of golden hair, the stricken expression.

They went two weeks without meeting after that; Napoleon was pulled from active duty to recover for the first week, and the Thrushies had Illya off on some particularly involved mission for the second.

When they were finally face to face again, Illya wouldn't meet his eyes. "They told me they needed proof that I was with them really with them. It was the only way they would be convinced."

"I understand."

That got Illya's attention; he glanced up, narrowing his eyes. "Do you?"

"It was dark in that warehouse." Napoleon raised his glass to the light, watching the bubbles rise. "It could just as easily have gone the other way."

The next week, Illya didn't show up at all, nor the week after that.

"I understand your frustration," Waverly said, steepling his hands on his desk. "I share it. But we must trust that Mr. Kuryakin has things well in hand."

"Yes, sir," said Napoleon, with a casual joviality he was miles from feeling. "I'm sure he's pulling that famous Russian charm on everyone as we speak."

But as he turned to leave, something made him look back, and he saw that Waverly's gaze was still locked on him, carefully expressionless. Too calm. Too composed.

"I don't appreciate being kept in the dark, sir," Napoleon said, before he could stop himself.

"I'll keep that in mind. Good night, Mr. Solo."

Napoleon hesitated, then left to go home and stare at the ceiling until the alarm went and the day started all over again.

The phone rang.

Napoleon rolled out of bed and hobbled, still tangled in the sheets, to pick up the receiver.

Illya's voice on the line was calm, as though he were merely continuing a previous conversation. "Napoleon, we need to meet."

"Illya?" Napoleon's right hand was clenching the phone too tightly, and his left was already fumbling across the table for a piece of paper, a pen, but of course it found nothing; written records left traces, and traces could be followed. He stilled his fingers' nervous explorations. "What happened? Why haven't you been-"

"I don't have time to explain. The warehouse. Twenty-five minutes. Come alone."

There was a click, and the line went dead.

"Your subtlety never ceases to amaze me," Napoleon told the receiver, and hung up.

Napoleon arrived fifteen minutes early, killed his lights and circled around back so he could make a second grand entrance if need be. A hasty exit wasn't entirely out of the question.

He'd contacted Waverly en route, of course, notified him of the phone call on their newest reserved frequency, and he'd received a reply that was the perfect blend of professional and personal worry, are you going alone, will you need assistance, Mr. Solo, did Mr. Kuryakin mention anything else, you do realize this could be a trap. It was exactly how he'd expected Waverly to react, exactly how Waverly had reacted a half-dozen times before, almost to the letter.

Once he'd signed off, the platitudes and questions still racing around in his head, Napoleon found himself wishing he hadn't made the call at all.

Stepping into the warehouse was strange, sent a phantom twinge through his shoulder, had him twitchy and aching to shoot something, if only to force some motion in a place that was almost preternaturally still. He settled for scoping the place out, ensuring it was empty, putting on a game face, and finally settled on the casual approach: no weapon drawn, unthreatening, leaning against a packing crate, contemplating lighting up to give his hands something to do.

Illya was punctual, playing the good little spy, wearing something that looked suspiciously like a trenchcoat in the weird half-light streaming in from outside.

"Well," Napoleon said. "Aren't we looking suspicious tonight."

Illya's eyes were bright in the gloom; he looked good, less nervous, less frustrated. Things were obviously going well. "I apologize for the unnecessary dramatics, Napoleon, but I couldn't risk a meeting at our usual club."

"Somehow I think they'll attract enough disreputable scum that they won't notice our lack of patronage tonight." Napoleon caught himself scanning the area behind Illya for lurking Thrushies, saw the faintly amused smirk when Illya caught him doing it as well.

"Your lack of faith in me is reassuring, Napoleon. I must be doing my job well."

"Oh, you have that effect on people. Must be the shifty little eyes."

"Whereas by acting as much as possible like a stereotypically loud American, you're allaying any and all suspicions, I suppose? Truly a cunning plan."

Napoleon held up a hand, but couldn't resist grinning; he couldn't believe how good it felt to slip into the old, comfortable banter. "All right, all right. Whatever you have to report, it must be important."

The flicker of a smile faded from Illya's lips. "Nothing I need to report to you, Napoleon. There's something I need you to report to me. I know that you and Mr. Waverly have been feeding me a somewhat... limited collection of intelligence reports."

Napoleon shrugged. "That's just SOP, Illya. In case you get tired of being a double agent and decide to go triple, presumably with the aim of confusing everyone."

"Exactly. But Napoleon, they're beginning to give me access to very big things, and I feel like I might be getting closer to this double agent of theirs. I have to be able to compare the genuine, complete intelligence files with the ones Thrush has compiled."

"Illya, you know I can't-"

Illya moved forward a step, and there was new steel in his eyes. "I need it to maintain my cover, Napoleon. If they're getting conflicting information from their agent in UNCLE, I need to know about it before their gaze turns on me more than it already has."

"That's not how this works," Napoleon said, and reached for his cigarette case to hide the restlessness of his fingers. "You're undercover, Illya. If they call you out on this, you can just say we were obviously on to you and filtering your information. You've made it through worse assignments with less of a cover."

Illya studied him for a moment. "Then give me the new frequency to reach Mr. Waverly. I'll speak to him myself, when it's safe for me to do so. What harm could there be in that, Napoleon?"

Napoleon paused, took a long drag of his cigarette and watched the whorls of smoke fade into nothing. "The Old Man's not going to like this," he said.

Illya glanced up, heaved a sigh that was somewhere between exasperation and amusement. "And when has that ever stopped you before?"

"All right," Napoleon said, and handed over his cigarette case. "Don't say I never did nothing for you. But if he asks, this was your idea."

Illya smiled, flicking it open and squinting at the ciphered frequency. "Of course."

When Waverly called Napoleon into a meeting the next day, he was half-expecting a stern word about protocol, maybe a debriefing about whatever discussion he'd had with Illya the night before.

He wasn't expecting to see Waverly sitting at his desk, looking pale but resolved, flanked by grim-faced Operations men.

"Sit down, Mr. Solo," Waverly said.

Napoleon sat. "Sir, I can explain-"

"I very much doubt that." He folded his hands on the desk. "I have reason to believe that Mr. Kuryakin has legitimately entered the employ of Thrush."

There was a silence, and Napoleon thought maybe Waverly was waiting for it to sink in, for him to deny everything, but the statement was so patently untrue that there was nothing to argue against. "You don't say."

"He contacted me last night and requested access to files with higher security clearance than I would be comfortable offering in his present position. He asked several pointed questions. When I asked questions in return, he was cagey, alluding to this as-yet unknown Thrush double agent. When I requested that he tell me why he needs access to these files, he couldn't come up with a reply."

"Mm," said Solo, studying the men flanking Waverly; this was the first they'd spoken of Illya's assignment in mixed company, and these two were nothing special, not internal agents or any sort of elite recruits. It took him a moment to realize that Waverly must have had them in the room for one reason only: to make the point that Illya was now compromised, that he needed to be compromised.

"I decided that I should play along, to a certain degree, to discover the extent of this distressing new development. When I did, he requested only information about our latest plans of attack on Thrush. What's more, in the past three weeks, we have had four operations go pear-shaped. It's as though somebody tipped them off."

Napoleon shrugged, but there was a strange, sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. "Illya's always played his cards close to his chest. If they've got a double agent here-"

Waverly leaned forward, and there was something almost entreating in his posture. "We can still cut our losses, Mr. Solo. He trusts you implicitly."

Napoleon stood. "And I trust him," he said, and walked out.

Officially, he was relieved of duty on an indefinite basis. Unofficially, Waverly was keeping an eye on him, getting in touch from time to time, suggesting he seek out Illya and give him a chance to turn himself in, like Napoleon had the faintest idea where Illya was, like he knew how to contact him, like he wanted to in the first place.

After meandering around on a particularly sleepless night, Napoleon did try, once, leaving a folded napkin with the words "IK - twenty-four hours" on their usual table at the club, but when he came back, the napkin was gone and there was nobody around. He felt oddly relieved.

So he stayed at home, mostly, tried a little cooking and smiled at the neighbors and finally got around to rearranging the furniture. Twice.

"I understand that this is may be difficult to take," Waverly said, looking wholly out-of-place in the living room, nursing a half-heartedly polite cup of coffee. "We need you back, Mr. Solo. We need to find Kuryakin and ensure that he returns to us so we can determine the extent of the damage he's caused."

"Of course, sir," Napoleon said, thinking of placid waters, of all the turbulence underneath. "Would you care for some more cream?"

The grocery store was crowded, and Napoleon was squinting critically at a bunch of grapes, when a hand ghosted over his shoulders. "Hello, Napoleon."

Napoleon turned. "Illya."
Illya looked small, looked strange and pale and shaken, but his lips quirked into some approximation of a smile. "I hear Mr. Waverly has been telling you to find me at all costs. Are you always this good at following orders?"

"You're one to talk." Napoleon moved on to the apples, scowled at one with a particularly vivid array of bruises. "Or so I hear."

When he looked up, Illya's face had clouded over. "Napoleon," he said, "I have to talk to you about that. Will you come with me?"

"Well, I was planning on doing some cooking tonight, but I might be able to make time." Napoleon paused, turning things over in his head. Someone nearer the radishes was looking everywhere but at them, furtive and not-watching in the most obvious way, and, just like that, everything snapped into place, and he realized what Illya was saying. "Illya, you're not asking me to join-"

But Illya was just standing there, tense and resolved, and Napoleon swallowed a bizarre urge to tell him everything, right then and there, to give him every scrap of information he knew, just so he could take it to Waverly later and say he didn't tell them, and he wouldn't tell them, and you were wrong.

Illya took a step forward, finally, fingers brushing the side of Napoleon's coat, and said, "It's all right. I understand," and then he was moving away, slipping between a mother with her particularly full grocery cart and a group of tall, boisterous men.

By the time Napoleon had pushed past them, he was gone.

The note Illya had slipped in his pocket said warehouse midnight perhaps I can convince you in one of their oldest ciphers, and so Napoleon drove straight up to the front door five minutes late, lights on, radio blaring. Illya was waiting for him, and only raised an eyebrow at his conspicuous entrance.

Napoleon felt calmer than he sounded, but it was something of a relief just to be making noise, just to be moving and acting instead of hiding and waiting. "What the hell are you playing at, Illya?"

Illya shrugged, but he didn't look like he was feeling the nonchalance. "Spy games. What else?"

"Waverly thinks you've gone over. Really gone over."

"I know," Illya said, picking at a thread on his sleeve. "And what do you think, Napoleon? Need I ask?"

"I've always been the trusting type."

He'd expected a smile, maybe, or at least a sarcastic reply, but Illya's tone was odd, sincere. "You really do trust me, don't you?"

Napoleon stared at him, found himself waiting for the punch line. "I suppose you're going to try to get me over to Thrush as well."

"It would prevent them from killing you," Illya said, conversationally.

"Well," Napoleon said, "my skin and I thank you for your concern."

"It's not-" Illya began, and paused. "It's different, Napoleon. All the ridiculous little schemes are covers, you know. Something much bigger is going on. They need good agents."

Napoleon leaned back against a packing crate. "UNCLE needs good agents."

Illya mimicked his casual slouch. "UNCLE already has good agents, Napoleon."

"This is ridiculous. You're talking about, what, evening the odds?"

Illya shrugged. "You have to admit, it would make for a more interesting game."

"Mm. And those pesky little morals don't even twinge when you work for liars and murderers?"

Illya said nothing, but he said it emphatically, and this was wrong, this was wrong-

"Illya, I don't-"

The gunshot echoed weirdly in the wide-open space of the warehouse, the sound familiar enough that Napoleon's hand made an abortive grasp at his newly healed shoulder, but found nothing there, no blood, no pain, and his other hand was already reaching for his weapon, eyes scanning for intruders, catching a flash of movement, a handful of people approaching from the other side of the warehouse, and he'd nearly fired before he recognized the man in the front the new one, Marshall or Mitchell or whatever and the man next to him Alexander Waverly.

He turned in time to see Illya fall.

Someone pulled him away from the body, bundling him into a car, and then the Old Man was speaking to him, but Napoleon was staring at his hands, and there was still nothing there, no blood, no pain.

The restaurant was nearly full already, echoing with happy chatter and softer conversations and the occasional bout of raucous laughter. Napoleon paused at the entrance, adjusted his bowtie, inspected his reflection in the full-length mirror, and grinned.

Sometimes being ordered to change one's patterns of movement had its perks.

Illya glowered at him over his menu when he sat down. "You're late."

"Fashionably late," Napoleon corrected. "And only by twenty minutes."

"Well, I'm starving. I ordered us the calamari appetizer already."

Napoleon winced. "I hate calamari."

Illya was the very picture of innocence. "Do you? I'd entirely forgotten."

"Hah," Napoleon said, and glanced down at his own menu. "Bit of a change of pace from the old, smoky, uh, charming club, isn't it?"

"Startlingly decadent."

They were quiet for a while, Illya pretending to sulk and Napoleon pretending not to notice, and the companionable silence only ended when the waitress came up with their appetizers. Napoleon just stared at his plate, while Illya dug in like he'd been starved for a month.

"You could have told me, you know," Napoleon said, keeping his tone deliberately light.

Illya paused midway through shovelling a forkful of seafood to his mouth. "Told you about what?"

"About that little scheme you and Mr. Waverly concocted to get the dirt on all of Thrush's ongoing missions."

Illya frowned at his food, then took a more hesitant bite. "Oh, that," he said.

"Yes, that. I'm pretty good at keeping secrets, you know." Napoleon watched as Illya paused for a sip of wine, then resumed his attack on the defenceless appetizer. "I do it for a living, even."

"It was necessary that you be kept out of it, Napoleon." Illya considered his half-eaten calamari as if tasting it for the first time, and, after due consideration, reached for the salt. "We needed to make Thrush think I really had gone over. You were the most creditable witness to that."

"Thanks, I think." Napoleon leaned back in his chair. "Was it really necessary to stage your own death?"

"Oh, that was a vital part of it." Illya swallowed. "Once I had the information, we needed to make them think I'd been killed so they wouldn't change any of their plans at the last minute. They never realized I was in contact with Mr. Waverly the entire time they thought you were my sole point of contact. And that night at the warehouse, they had men with guns trained on you, Napoleon. We had to cause a distraction."

Napoleon picked up the pepper shaker, dusted a half-hearted sprinkling onto his own untouched food. "We'll have to do something about your flair for the dramatic one of these days."

Illya snorted.

Napoleon swirled his wine thoughtfully for a long moment, watching Illya eat. "You know," he said, "a cynical man might come up with a second explanation for the whole thing."

"Mm-hmm?" Illya said, mouth full.

"Sure. What better way to test my loyalty to UNCLE than to put me in that sort of situation?"

Illya went quiet, dabbed at his mouth with a napkin, and finally sighed. "Napoleon, you can be such an egotist."

"Like I said." Napoleon smiled. "A cynical man might think that."

"I don't know if it's worth anything," Illya said, glancing up from his plate, "but I was against it from the start. Mr. Waverly had to order me to deceive you. Three times."

Napoleon leaned forward, resting his chin in his hand. "You know what, tovarisch? It's worth more than you think." And, with a dramatic flair, he scooped up a massive forkful of calamari and ate it.

Illya stared. "You hate calamari, Napoleon."

Napoleon grinned, took another bite. "There's plenty you don't know about me."

And Illya rolled his eyes, playing along. "Trust me," he said, "you're more transparent than you think."

"Right. Are you going to finish yours?"

"You are without question the most transparent man I have ever met."

"Because if you're not, I could just grab this bit on the end and-"

"The most transparent- Oh, don't you dare, Napoleon."

And as the night wore on, as the band in the corner downshifted from peppy tunes to crooning ballads, as the crowds vacillated from the bar to the dance floor to the booths in the corner, two old friends slowly, slowly got to know each other for the first time, all over again.