Author's Notes: The following is only a small piece of a fic I have been working for sometime now. I have spent more time and effort in this one story than I have most anything else I've written, and I am in desperate need of constructive criticism! Please read carefully, and rather you like or dislike the story, please let me know if you find any grammatical or spelling errors and also if you would like to review the rest of the story. Thank you for all of your help! –The Tomlette

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The Killer in the Dark Affair

Act I:

"Doesn't he know it's freezing outside??"

Illya Kuryakin bent over a toilet in the men's bathroom of U.N.C.L.E. New York, vomiting behind the closed door of a stall. On the other side of that door, his friend and partner, Napoleon Solo, did his best to ignore the unappetizing sounds while also trying not to feel too sympathetic. Illya was the fool who came into work knowing he had the flu.

Napoleon shoved his hands in his pockets and walked over to the paper towel dispenser, examining it with feign interest. As he did so, he raised his voice to speak to the man locked in the stall. It seemed the only way Illya would hear him over that racket. "Tovarich, if you're that sick, you should've just stayed home today. The world will not end if you take one day of sick leave."

Napoleon had to wait for a pause before he got a response. "I…I didn't…think…I was…" Illya's voice seemed so exasperated and weak that Napoleon frowned and turned to face the locked door, giving in to his actual concern for his Russian comrade.

"Do you need anything?" Napoleon asked, his voice somewhat softer and reflecting his genuine concern, "A drink? A wet towel?"

"My gun would be nice," Illya's weak voice replied. "Then I could just blow my head off and be done with it."

Napoleon smirked a bit. Illya was still making jokes at least, which meant he wasn't quite dead yet. What the American agent didn't realize was that Illya was only half joking. "A tempting proposal," he teased, "Unfortunately, I think the cleaning crew might frown on the idea somewhat."

"Naturally," Illya rasped, "You always manage to ruin my best ideas, Napoleon." This was immediately followed by yet more vomiting.

The smiled wavered on Napoleon's face. "Are you sure you're alright in there?" he asked seriously.

"Da…da…," Illya's answer was strained. Again, Napoleon found himself frowning. Illya only reverted to Russian when he was delirious or seriously ill. "Just…one moment…Napoleon…."

Napoleon sighed and retreated, obeying Illya's request. Again, he found himself somewhat aggravated with the Russian's insistence on coming to work despite his illness. Blasted, bullheaded Illya…Never mind that Napoleon would have done the same thing if he had thought Headquarters needed him that day. But Illya was not really needed for anything specific today, Solo reasoned with himself, at least nothing of which he was aware. Napoleon quietly fumed and waited, dispassionately occupying himself with the water faucet in the meantime.

At length, the horrendous sounds stopped, and shortly there after the toilet flushed. Napoleon turned to the stall door just in time to see it open, and Illya slowly emerged. Napoleon's eyes widened slightly at the sight of his partner, so much so that he had to check himself to keep his jaw from dropping as well. Suddenly, shooting Illya seemed less like a joke and more like a mercy killing.

Though Illya's complexion was light by nature, his face had reached a point of paleness that he looked more grey than white. His blonde hair was in complete disarray, his blue eyes were sunken in and even they seemed to have paled, and he had such bags under his eyes it seemed to Napoleon he should be storing money in them. All in all, Illya looked more like the living dead than an U.N.C.L.E. Enforcement agent.

Napoleon moved aside as Illya slowly made his way to the sink. Napoleon took that time to note the lack of confidence in Illya's steps. He could only assume Illya was lightheaded, dizzy, or both—and wisely so, considering the Russian's most recent activities. He was probably dehydrated. Napoleon no longer found himself cursing the blonde man for coming to work; more so, he found himself wondering how Illya even managed to get to Del Floria's.

Napoleon opened his mouth to speak, but Illya answered his question even before he could ask it. "I'm fine," he said curtly, his voice much stronger than he looked right then, or surely felt. "I just need to wash my face." Napoleon slid even farther away from the sink and gestured to it with both hands, as though saying Okay, so what are you waiting for?

Illya took the invitation and continued his advance on the sink, only to lose his balance along the way. He would have fallen had Napoleon not rushed to catch him. Once they were in such close proximity, Napoleon could feel the heat of a severe fever radiating from his partner.

"Fine, huh?" he scrutinized Illya as he set him back up. Napoleon made sure Illya could stand up by himself before he turned away to retrieve a paper towel and wet it.

"Yes, I'm…fine…just a little dizzy," Illya insisted. However, this time he failed to keep the exhaustion from his voice.

"If you're fine, tovarich, then my last name is Bonaparte," Napoleon responded. He returned to Illya's side with a cool, damp towel and placed it on Illya's forehead. Illya lifted his hand to hold it in place, relieving Napoleon of the duty. "First," the American began as he gently led Illya away. The sickly man wavered again, so Napoleon put his arm around his shoulders to steady him. "I'm taking you back to my office. Then, as soon as you feel up to it, we're going to the infirmary. After that, you are going home, even if I have to drive you there myself."

Illya said nothing; he just walked along beside Napoleon with the paper towel on his head. No complaints, no comebacks, no accusations that Napoleon was over reacting, nothing. Just silence. Which, Napoleon had learned when dealing with Mr. Kuryakin, was consent. Napoleon felt a worried twinge in his stomach—maybe Illya was dying, after all.

When the phone resting on Napoleon's desk rang, he didn't believe he had ever been so relieved.

Since returning to Napoleon's office, Illya's condition had more or less stabilized. Though he was still prone to bouts of nausea, he seemed able to avoid most of that unpleasantness by lying down on the floor. When he couldn't, the trashcan was at hand. All the while Napoleon supplied him with glasses of water and more damp paper towels, even washing out the trashcan when needed—partly to insure that the stench didn't sink into the office, but he did it nonetheless. Napoleon had called the infirmary the instant he'd gotten Illya settled, only to discover that three agents from Section 3 had come in from a courier mission gone terribly awry, riddled with bullet holes and bleeding profusely. Needless to say, they informed Mr. Solo that they couldn't see anyone right then, and they'd call him back when they could. Napoleon had agreed and hung up the phone, understanding that the other agents' lives was more important than Illya's flu, but was beginning to wish he'd argued the point a little more thoroughly. Not because Illya's condition was beginning to worsen by any means, but because Napoleon couldn't do anything in the way of work so long as there was a Russian periodically throwing up beside him. That, and he knew he wouldn't concentrate on anything else until he knew his partner had received some sort of treatment.

Reaching for the phone, Napoleon glanced at Illya briefly. He was lying on the floor again, his latest glass of water practically untouched. Napoleon sighed as he held the receiver, realizing Illya's actions may signal another trip to the washroom in the next few minutes. "Solo."

"Hello, Napoleon." purred a soft voice at the other end. It conjured up the image of an especially attractive nurse in the infirmary. What was her name? Ashley? Annie? "I was told you needed a call back."

"Oh, hello…dear," Napoleon responded, his voice silken despite not remembering the poor girl's name. It wasn't Amy for sure—he'd remember a woman with the same name as his aunt. "Yes, I've been waiting for an hour and…" He lifted his wrist to check the time. "...Forty-two minutes."

The nurse giggled. "You Enforcement lot get finickier with the time the higher up you are," she cooed.

He smiled despite himself. "Well, we Enforcement lot have to be careful with our timing. Even a few seconds off could mean life or death."

Napoleon intended to continue, but a groan from the other side of the room reminded him why he was talking to the lovely Janey in the first place. Sally. Callie. Maybe it was Callie. "Anyway, the call isn't for myself—it's for Illya."

Instantly, her demeanor changed, and her voice became much more professional. "What seems to be the problem?"

"Flu, I think," Napoleon responded. "He started coming down with it earlier this week, after he took a swim in the Hudson. If it isn't flu, it's the worse cold I've ever seen."

"The Hudson?! The Hudson River?!" Janey/Jamie/Annie/Callie exclaimed, horrified. "Well, no wonder he's sick!! Doesn't he know it's nearly freezing outside right now?! I know he's from Russia and all, and I'm sure they have terrible winters but…Napoleon, what on Earth was he doing swimming in the Hudson??"

"Well, ah…" Napoleon loosened his tie a bit as he recalled their last mission. A local job, the sort of the thing usually reserved for the Section 3 agents, were the information in question not so sensitive. It was a recording of some sort, but beyond that even he hadn't ever really known what was on the tape Illya had dove into the river to save, after a THRUSH operative had dropped it over the side of a bridge. This, of course, was after Napoleon had called the man's bluff on dropping the tape in the first place. "It's a long story."

"Oh," the Sally/Ashley/Susie nurse responded, low and unsurprised. Susie. Not quite, but that was closer. "That sort of thing. Well, that sort of situation sounds more like a cold. Though it could be the flu, if he were coming down with it anyway before he jumped into the river. Then the cold would've brought it on faster, and probably harder, than it would have normally. Why don't you bring him down and we'll take a look?"

"Absolutely," Napoleon agreed. After a moment of thought, he added, "By the way, how are the Section 3 boys doing?"

Silence for a moment. Then, "Not so good. Dr. Lodi eventually sent two of them on to a local hospital for surgery. One of them is still here and we're just monitoring his condition for now. He'll probably be okay, but the others…" She let her voice trail off.

Napoleon nodded to himself, sending his best wishes and thoughts to the agents in surgery. Even now, as long as he'd been head of Section 2, it still disturbed him to lose an Enforcement agent. That, more than anything else he did, reminded him just how likely it was he could go to work one day, get shipped off to some obscure location, and never come back to tell the tale. Illya groaned again, bringing Napoleon back to the present. "Thank you for the update," he said sincerely, "Illya and I will see you in a few minutes."

"See you then," the nurse agreed, and then hung up. Napoleon followed suit and turned to face Illya. Sick or not, he knew the Russian had listened in on the entire conversation, and suspected his groans of being carefully placed during the conversation. "Are you ready?"

Illya didn't move for a moment, and then gave Napoleon a response he had not expected. "Julie."

Napoleon blinked in confusion, then smiled just slightly. Of course, Julie the head nurse in the infirmary. How had he forgotten? "Thank you, that was aggravating me to no end," he admitted. "How did you…?"

"You called her 'dear'," Illya explained, his eyes covered with the now more-or-less dry paper towel as he spoke. "You always greet a woman by her name, unless you don't know it."

Napoleon snapped his fingers in mock annoyance. "Blast," he joked, "You're on to me." He then stood and approached his partner's still form on the floor. "You realize that means I'll be forced to kill you."

"Please, do," Illya groaned, "I won't resist. I won't even fight. In fact, my tie tack is a bomb. If you would, just use your watch to detonate it…"

Napoleon shook his head as he kneeled down beside Illya. "I thought we discussed this already," he said, "The cleaning crew would be most upset with us, especially if it were an explosion. You'll just have to wait until we're off. In the mean time, you have an appointment with the lovely Ms. Julie, so! " Napoleon reached down and grasped Illya's arm firmly, then jerked him upwards as he stood. "Up! And please, try not to ruin the floor…"

Illya didn't respond. The sudden change of position forced him to resist that very urge. Napoleon waited, placing his arms around Illya's shoulders again, just in case, until Illya nodded that he was ready. Walking slowly, they entered the hallway and were headed in the direction of the infirmary, when the last thing either of them expected—or wanted—occurred.

The lights began to flash red, and the alarms began to sound.

In a matter of moments, both men were holding their guns at the ready. Napoleon wasn't surprised to see Illya draw his weapon, despite his claim in the bathroom earlier. They barely had time enough to take the safeties off when Napoleon's communicator went off. He didn't have to guess who it was as he withdrew the pen-shaped device from his coat pocket, activating it as other men and women raced by them. "Yes sir, Mr. Waverly."

Alexander Waverly's voice through the small speaker inside the device was as calm as ever, but there was an edge of urgency to his voice. Such an edge was rare for the head of U.N.C.L.E. North America, as he was renowned for facing problems such as almost certain world destruction with an air of casualness. "Mr. Solo, it appears we have been breeched. The tracking device on your person tells me both yourself and Mr. Kuryakin are on the second floor, where the breech is."

"Yes, sir, we are," Napoleon confirmed, and then glanced at Illya. "We will do what we can, sir, but I think Mr. Kuryakin—"

Napoleon didn't finish, the ice-cold stare of his partner's blue eyes forbidding him to go any further. Illya then shook his blonde head vigorously, loose strands bobbing about his face as he did.

"Yes, Mr. Solo?" Mr. Waverly sounded impatient.

"Ah, nothing, sir," Napoleon directed his attention back to his communicator. "A misunderstanding. Where are they located, and how many?"

"There's only one," Mr. Waverly replied, "And he's in the infirmary. There should be other Enforcement agents on their way now, as well as Security."

Napoleon felt his stomach knot. His mind began to run back over the story Julie had just told him about the unfortunate Section 3 operatives, and the one who would probably be okay. He was the only person, to Napoleon's knowledge, that had been let into the building without proper escort all day. "Yes, sir. We're on our way. Solo out."

He was putting the communicator away as Illya was already beginning to stride off, gun in hand, his face a void of expression. His game face one might say, Napoleon thought. It was like a thousand times before, when the chips were down, when the sharp tongues were replaced with fast draws, be the situation inside HQ or in a remote and foreign country. But, by the same token, this wasn't like anytime before either. That thought had barely passed his mind before he reached forward and grabbed Illya's elbow, restraining him from walking any further forward. Illya turned, allowing a look of confusion to cross his face.

"I know why you didn't want me to tell Waverly," Napoleon explained. He held his own weapon across his chest, like a priest holding a sacred crucifix. The comparison was suiting—both believed the objects would save them, in one way or another. "And I understand and respect that. But I also know that not minutes before, you couldn't even walk without assistance." Napoleon paused a moment, allowing the blue ice of Illya's eyes to meet his own steely brown ones. "That said, I need to know, Illya—are you absolutely positive you're up to this?"

For a moment, indignation and even a hint of anger crossed his partner's face. One thing the Russian simply could not stand was to have his abilities questioned, by anyone—not even Napoleon. But then his expression eased, and the senior agent realized that Illya was considering his words. Rather he liked it or not, Napoleon never questioned what he could or could not do unless there was a serious need—and in a case like this, if Illya weren't completely capable of fulfilling his duties, it could cost Napoleon—or anyone else in this building—their life.

"I am sure, Napoleon," he said, his voice firm, but non-abrasive.

Napoleon nodded. Any other agent he would have sent back to their office without a choice in the matter. But if Illya believed he was steady enough, then Napoleon believed he was as well—he trusted his partner to know his limitations. "Then lets go," he said, gesturing down the hall with his U.N.C.L.E. .38 Special while breaking into a run. True to form, Illya fell into stride beside him. "We're already behind the rest of the pack."

Behind them a dampish, brown paper towel lay wadded on the floor, its purpose served and its remains discarded and forgotten.