The room was modest by all standards, but the agents from the United Network Command for Law and Enforcement, UNCLE for short, were grateful for it nonetheless. They had come from a harrowing mission, completing it successfully but at the cost of some injuries that they hoped could be treated without the aid of a doctor.

The blond seemed in slightly better shape than his dark haired partner. Napoleon Solo, the agency's Chief Enforcement Agent for the Northwest Region, had caught the wrong end of an ancient weapon and had lost some blood, and a bit of skin. It would heal, but tonight there would be some discomfort.

The other man, Illya Kuryakin, was nursing what he figured was a broken thumb. It was certainly less serious than Napoleon's pound of flesh, the figurative retribution invoked from a former foe.

Dr. Dabree had once again been raised from the dead and attempted to do great harm to the two men she held responsible for many wrongs, in her estimation. They thought she was permanently gone this time, but the cagey villainess had managed to escape before, and the outcome of this mission held that same sense of uncertainty.

Napoleon submitted to the layman's medical treatment administered by his partner; too many instances of this nature had produced a type of expertise in treating non-life threatening wounds. Neither man figured this one would be the last.

"Illya, how's your thumb? I don't know how you can even work with your hand damaged like that." Napoleon was always amazed at his friend's ability to overcome physical adversities. The man was nearly ambidextrous, but the task at hand insured that he was, himself, in some bit of discomfort.

"I am fine, Napoleon. Mind over matter." It was a typically short response from the Russian. Suddenly a thought occurred to the American half of the team. It was at once sad and optimistic, although Napoleon was unsure which would override the other.

"It's your birthday today, Illya. Have you forgotten it?' A wary look from Solo was met by a small shake of the blond's head.

"I am aware of the date of my birth, my friend. I do not, however, see that it is of much importance considering our situation. I will release you from any sense of obligation to make it happy." There, that was the Illya he knew.

"Well, I know we're not exactly in a party mood, Illya, but still… it's your birthday. That's worth something, some kind of acknowledgement.' Illya kept his eyes to the task at hand as Napoleon tried to ignore the pain of the injury. Without another word Illya finished bandaging the wound, then stepped back to allow the patient to examine it himself.

"Thank you, Doctor Kuryakin. Now, about the birthday…"

"And just where would we go, Napoleon, to celebrate this most auspicious event? We have no change of clothes, and your shirt is a bloody mess. We will do well to get away from here in the morning without drawing suspicion.' Illya was shaking his head now. "No, please, let us simply take out rest this evening and then, perhaps, when we get home…"

Napoleon looked at his friend, acknowledging mentally that the blond looked weary; bruises were now apparent on his cheeks where punches had been leveled. No doubt the broken thumb was painful…

"All right, but we're going to celebrate your birthday. Deal?"

Illya's lopsided grin was his response.