How to Save a Life
Illya sighed. Where on earth was Napoleon? He should have already been here by now… unless he was with a woman, which was certainly not an unlikely possibility. Though his partner had been acting strangely here lately, that was one thing that had not changed.
For the hundredth time Illya checked his watch: half past twelve. He'd been at the cafe for a solid hour waiting for Napoleon to show up.
Illya sighed again and drummed his fingers on the table impatiently. His eyes scanned the room around him out of habit, looking for signs of anything out of the ordinary.
He heard the rustling of fabric coming up behind him, and without even turning around to see who it was, said sharply, "You're late."
The rustling sound passed him and Napoleon deposited himself in the chair opposite him. "I'm sorry, Illya, but there was a certain rather attractive young lady who-"
Illya cut short the apology with a terse, "Spare me the tender details of your rendezvous, Napoleon. I already figured as much when you didn't appear after the first half hour."
Napoleon jutted his chin forward slightly and smiled languorously in answer.
Probably savoring the memory of last night, Illya thought. He rolled his eyes in disgust. He never could understand Napoleon's insatiable lust for beautiful women, or why Napoleon constantly seemed in need of some kind of sexual release. Illya realized that everyone needed some kind of respite now and then, especially from the daily dangers and struggles one faced as a spy, but to him, Napoleon's manner of releasing the tension represented not only a weakness, but a danger, as well.
"Have you finished?" he asked sarcastically and gave Napoleon a pointed stare. Napoleon grinned, but before he had a chance to speak the waitress asked them for their order. The waitress was attractive. Illya sat back and watched Napoleon order a big breakfast, punctuating each sentence with a charming smile. For himself, Illya ordered coffee… black. He sent the waitress away with a dismissive glance. Napoleon could get along without her special services for a while. Meanwhile, they needed to talk.
"Napoleon," he began.
"Hmm..?" Napoleon was still eyeing the waitress as she waited on another table.
"Napoleon," He repeated; this time with more urgency. Napoleon swiveled around to look at him, a question in his eyes. A feeling of dread suddenly engulfed the Russian, causing him to swallow convulsively. How to begin?
"Napoleon…we've been friends for a long time." He said, looking down at the table. He felt, rather than saw, Napoleon still looking at him. Inwardly, he braced himself. This was not going to be easy.
"We've worked together, fought together, struggled together… lived together." Here he paused and looked up. Napoleon's face was inscrutable; however, his eyes were not. The expression in his eyes looked something akin to suspicion, and maybe a touch of panic. Illya felt a surge of panic in response. He plunged ahead. "I just…you…what did," he tried again, "what happened during that affair in Paris?" He watched as Napoleon stiffened and the expression in his partner's eyes shifted from startled to deadpan.
Napoleon cleared his throat and glanced off to the right, trying to appear nonchalant and unconcerned. But Illya knew he'd hit his partner where it hurt, and though Napoleon didn't know it, it had hurt him too.
"Why are you asking me this?" Napoleon asked. His voice came out hard. "Why here? Why now? "
Illya read the silent message in his partner's eyes… Why ever?
For a moment, neither spoke. Both just sat looking into the other's eyes, as if searching for something, some sort of sign, something to hold on to. They'd always depended on each other for strength, for support. Now, neither one of them was able to help the other- Napoleon, because he didn't want to; Illya, because Napoleon wouldn't let him. Minutes ticked by… a car honked at some jaywalker crossing the street. Somewhere nearby a woman hailed a taxi.
Illya cleared his throat, breaking the awkward pause. "Something's gotten into you, Napoleon. You've changed. I need to know why."
Napoleon turned away and then looked back again. "Nothing's changed. I'm just as I've always been."
Illya shook his head. "No, Napoleon, you're not."
Napoleon gave a short, bitter laugh. "That's where you're wrong, my friend." He got up stiffly. "If that's all you invited me here to say, then I think I'll be going. See you around." With that, Napoleon walked away, leaving his partner gazing intently after him.
Striding down the street on his way to work, Napoleon couldn't shake the memory of the talk with his partner earlier that day. Snippets of the conversation kept racing through his mind: "We've been friends for a long time… you've changed, Napoleon… what happened during the affair in Paris?" Paris… Paris…. Paris…. Napoleon drew his hand across his face. He was sweating. He was so engrossed in his own thoughts that he didn't see the tall businessman walking straight towards him until they collided head-on.
"Oh, I, uh… I'm sorry." He apologized lamely. The man gave him a dirty look and then hurriedly pressed onward. Napoleon felt even more shaken now than he had before.
Come on, Napoleon, pull yourself together, his mind urged him. He fought desperately to regain control. He couldn't.
Illya was right…. he was different. He'd thought he was hiding it well, but obviously not well enough. Then again, Illya always knew when something was bothering him…. seemed, almost instinctively, to know when to bring things up… when to let things go.
At least, he usually did.
Why should Illya bring all that up now, after all these months? Stupid question, he thought. Illya's given you plenty of time to get yourself back together, to pick up the pieces and move on. He'd been patient; he hadn't asked questions… he had just been there. Watching, waiting… never obtrusive, always supportive.
Quite simply, his partner cared about him. He shouldn't have lashed out at him like that at the café. It wasn't Illya's fault that his partner was weak. It was ironic, Napoleon thought. Most people would consider Napoleon the stronger of the two. He sighed. Little do they know. Illya was stronger than most people thought. In fact, he was the strongest person Napoleon had ever known. Where Napoleon had physical courage, Illya had mental and emotional courage. He would plunge fearlessly into any situation to accomplish a mission or save his partner's life, just like he plunged ahead to ask his partner the unaskable…. the unanswerable. He shook his head slightly and walked faster, forcing himself to concentrate on the pavement instead of his turbulent thoughts. Counting helped. Step, one, step, two, step… Illya!
Napoleon stopped short. There Illya was pulling up in front of Del Floria's. He didn't want to face his partner now, especially after what had happened that day. However, he willed himself to move forward anyway, pasting a smile on his face that he was sure wouldn't fool anyone… least of all, Illya.
"Good afternoon." Illya said casually. Without waiting for Napoleon to return the greeting, he walked down the stairs to the tailor shop, and through the door, leaving Napoleon standing there on the street, a frozen smile still fixed on his face.
Illya pushed open the door of Del Floria's, the tinkling bells announcing his arrival. He briefly nodded his head to Del Floria, then strode through the dressing room and on into UNCLE headquarters.
He felt emotionally drained. It was amazing how much concern for a friend can take out of you. And he'd been very concerned about Napoleon of late.
When Napoleon had gotten back from Paris, Illya had immediately sensed a change in him. Napoleon was closed, even reserved. At first, he had been inclined to think it would pass. He'd been certain that Napoleon would open up in time, but month after month went by and Napoleon still remained silent about almost everything related to the affair. It was uncharacteristic of Napoleon, to say the least... and that scared Illya more than he cared to admit.
To all intents and purposes, the affair in Paris had been a successful mission. Napoleon had gotten the information, returned to UNCLE headquarters in New York with minimal physical damage, and, after a suitable period, he'd gone back to work as usual. Outwardly, everything seemed normal…. almost.
The doors leading to Waverly's office opened with a loud swoosh, abruptly bringing Illya back to the present.
Mr. Waverly looked up expectantly. "Oh, Mr. Kuryakin. Come in."
The doors closed behind Illya as he walked up to the desk. "You wished to see me, sir?" he asked.
Mr. Waverly sat down slowly. Waverly made a point of doing everything slowly. Behind that deceptively languid exterior, however, was a very quick brain: cool, calculating, and precise.
He politely motioned for Illya to sit down. Waverly was nothing if not polite. Illya sat.
"Yes, Mr. Kuryakin. I have a matter to discuss with you. It concerns your partner, Mr. Solo."
"Napoleon?" Illya was a master at feigning surprise, but his shrewd employer knew him too well to be taken in.
"Oh, you needn't look so surprised, Mr. Kuryakin." Waverly said, calmly surveying his face. "You've been expecting something of this sort for some time now. Haven't you?"
Illya could have smiled at that had the situation been less serious. Instead, he nodded his head in reluctant agreement.
"Unfortunately, yes," he said.
"However," Mr. Waverly went on. "I very much doubt that you could have anticipated the fact that this discussion has to do with the results of Mr. Solo's recent psychiatric evaluation."
Illya's eyebrows shot up. This time, his surprise was unfeigned. "What about it, sir?"
Mr. Waverly leaned back in his chair; a perfect contrast to Illya whose posture was now ramrod straight. Waverly answered with outward composure, "According to the doctor's report, Mr. Solo is on the brink of some sort of a nervous breakdown."
Illya said nothing, carefully keeping his face devoid of emotion.
Mr. Waverly continued. "Mr. Solo is being taken out of the field. He cannot continue to function as an operative at present. I am informing you of this because Mr. Solo was your partner."
Illya frowned slightly. Was? "Am I to assume this is permanent, then?"
"You will be informed of the details later, Mr. Kuryakin. Until then, I would suggest you get on with whatever it is that you should be doing at present." Waverly opened the report lying on his desk, thereby discouraging anything else Illya might want to say. Clearly, the meeting was adjourned until further notice.
Illya rose heavily from his seat, and then silently exited the room.
Mr. Waverly looked up as the door closed behind the Russian, closed the report he'd just opened, and sighed.
Illya sat in his office, lost in thought. He frowned in concentration as he tried to digest what he'd just been told. Although he didn't like to admit it, Waverly's news about Napoleon weighed heavily on his spirit. He sighed. Normally, news like this would affect him very little, if at all. He'd grown accustomed to losing people to death, to mental and physical disabilities, to illness-such things happened every day in his profession. But this was different. This hit him much harder, much closer to home. Napoleon and he were not just partners, they were friends. Illya had come to depend on Napoleon. He trusted Napoleon with his life just as Napoleon trusted Illya with his. They'd grown so close over the years that they could practically read each other's minds. They made a good team, he and Napoleon…. and now it might end.
Illya suddenly felt angry, angry with Napoleon for not being stronger… for being human… for reasons so irrational he wanted to kick himself. Irrational or not, the feeling persisted. Illya swiped at his hair in irritation.
You're being ridiculous, he reprimanded himself sternly. It wasn't Napoleon's fault. Whatever it was he'd gone through, it must have been serious enough to affect him so much. Suddenly, all his anger drained away, giving place instead, to compassion.
Compassion-a rare emotion to come across in their line of work. Yet, somehow, between Illya and Napoleon, there had always existed a sort of compassion: a companionship, an understanding. His shoulders sagged. He hadn't fully realized how much he'd depended on that companionship until now. Illya rested his head on his hands. A sharp knock on the door brought his head sharply upright.
"Yes?" he said shortly, his voice coming out more brusquely than he'd intended.
The door slid open, revealing a timid-looking brunette on the other side. At the sight of a woman, he stood up, out of habit more than anything else. The girl looked at him tentatively. "Mr. Kuryakin. Am I interrupting something?"
Everything in him wanted to shout "Yes, you are. Go away!" or words to that effect, but professionalism prevented him.
He forced himself to smile. "No, I'm not busy."
Her face instantly relaxed in relief. She must be new…
"What can I do for you, Miss…?" his eyebrows lifted questioningly.
She blushed slightly. "Ellen." Definitely new.
"Miss Ellen," He repeated. There was a short pause before she realized he was waiting for her to answer. Her already blushing face turned a brilliant scarlet.
"I-I'm sorry, Mr. Kuryakin—"she stammered.
"Illya," he interjected.
"—Illya, it's just that I'm new here and…" She gestured helplessly. "Anyway, I was sent to ask you to report to Mr. Waverly. Something urgent has come up. He didn't want to ask you over the phone or the communicator… he said that the matter was too personal. "
Illya didn't need to be told twice. He grabbed his coat, politely thanked her for delivering her message, causing her to blush and stammer some more- How did she get this job? -and then quickly headed off to Waverly's office.
As soon as Illya stepped into Waverly's office, he sensed that something was very wrong.
Mr. Waverly turned in his chair to face the Russian. "I've called you in here because we've received some bad news. It's about Mr. Solo." Waverly paused.
"Yes?" Illya prompted.
Waverly looked at him full in the face before answering. "We have reason to believe he's being held by THRUSH. In his present state of mind, there's an acute possibility that this organization will be compromised." He sighed heavily. "You see, Mr. Kuryakin, Mr. Solo is privy to some very sensitive information. He was briefed with this information shortly after he returned from the previous affair in Paris. It would mean death to this organization if he were to disclose this information to Thrush." Waverly stood up. "This was a very difficult decision to make, but I have no alternative. You are being ordered to find Mr. Solo and eliminate him."
Illya started. Eliminate him? Kill Napoleon? All the air in his lungs tore out of him… his heart plummeted. He wiped his hand across his eyes and struggled to regain his composure, fighting to keep a calm exterior. His training came to his rescue. "Yes sir," he said quietly, his eyes focused straight ahead of him. "Will there be anything else, sir?"
Mr. Waverly looked at him, his usually genial face a mask. "That will be all, Mr. Kuryakin. You may go."
Illya blindly turned and left the room.
Deep within the bowels of UNCLE HQ, a young, pretty brunette sat fiddling with the dials of what looked like some kind of listening device. The young woman was Ellen.
Mr. Waverly's voice came crackling in over the frequency—
"This was a very difficult decision to make, but I have no alternative. You are being ordered to find Mr. Solo and eliminate him." There was a short pause, then Illya's voice replied shortly, "Yes, sir,"
-The young woman listened intently for a few minutes longer until she heard the door close behind Mr. Kuryakin. Smiling with satisfaction, she switched off the device. So far, Thrush's plan was going according to schedule. Now, they just had to take care of the other UNCLE agent, Napoleon Solo.
Napoleon groggily opened his eyes and groaned. Where on earth was he?
There was an incessant buzzing in his ears. He felt bleary-eyed and heavy. His head felt like a thick cloud had settled there.
Had he been drugged? He couldn't remember. The last thing he recalled was walking down the street to Del Florias and accidentally encountering his partner. For some reason he hadn't wanted to see Illya…
Illya. Where was his partner now? Somewhere you're not, apparently.
Napoleon lifted his right hand slightly and gasped. His arm was covered with tiny little wires which, in turn, were attached to monitors of some kind. He sent his hand further up to investigate; there were similar wires attached to his head as well. His bewilderment was swiftly turning into something closely resembling panic.
Was he in a hospital somewhere? Why would he be…?
A hospital!
His heart took a deep plunge straight down to the pit of his stomach. He suddenly became aware of the unrelenting pounding in his head.
A door opened a few feet away from where he was lying. He thought confusedly that he didn't remember seeing a door there. His instinct warned him to close his eyes and pretend he wasn't awake, but for some strange reason, his eyes refused to shut. Instead, they focused unblinkingly on the person standing in the doorway. Even stranger, the room almost seemed to be whirling around the open door and the figure standing there. … He must have been drugged.
Surely this can't be real. It must be a nightmare, he thought desperately…. or was it? He didn't know. All he could think of was the pounding sensation in his head and the figure in the doorway. His thoughts were becoming more and more incoherent by the second…. nothing was making any sense. His last conscious thought before sinking into oblivion was… Paris.
Illya was screaming. Illya was in pain….. And it was all his doing, all his fault. Oh God, what have I done? Napoleon let out a scream of agony that equaled, if not surpassed, that of his partner. Why wouldn't they torture him and leave Illya alone? After all, it was him they were after, not Illya.
Illya screamed again. Napoleon cringed at the sound. He wanted to kill the bastards that were hurting his partner… his Illya.
Napoleon could see the men leering at Illya, his once beautiful face contorted in pain. Napoleon's heart thudded in his chest. Then, all of the sudden, the men were gone and he was torturing Illya. He was responsible. He looked at his hands in horror, but at the same time, refused to believe that his hands could be used as instruments to hurt the man he cared about more than anyone in the entire world and yet… No… it wasn't me. Napoleon thought. It couldn't be. As if to confirm his thoughts, the leering men suddenly reappeared and began where they left off.
He closed his eyes tightly as the Russian let out another piercing cry. "No!" Napoleon screamed at them. "Stop… Please!" But his tormentors only laughed and kept on, ignoring his pleas… ignoring Illya's screams.
"Oh, come on now!" Illya pounded the wheel in frustration. He was stuck in the middle of heavy New York traffic. A man in the car behind Illya rudely honked at him. Illya pulled his brows into a glowering frown. Why did some people feel the need to honk when, clearly, no one could budge an inch? They were practically stacked on top of each other! Illya rolled his eyes irritably. The man was an idiot.
The car honked again. So he was determined to be aggravating, was he? Illya smiled viciously as he thought of all the many ways he could inflict pain on the blaggard. He gave the man a malevolent glare in the rearview mirror. If only I could get my hands on you... The man's answer was another prolonged honk.
For a split second, Illya's anger got the better of him and he could almost feel the man's neck between his hands. He calmed himself just in time. Relax. Breathe. He was on edge and it was showing. His self-control was fraying at such a rapid pace, he wasn't sure how long he could hold himself together.
His mission kept coming to mind with brutal clarity. Kill Napoleon. He banged the wheel again, only not out of frustration, this time, but pain.
Why did Mr. Waverly send him, of all people, to do it and not some other UNCLE agent? Waverly wasn't cruel-
Illya drew himself up with a jerk. What's the matter with you? Waverly is head of UNCLE headquarters. It isn't a matter of cruelty. He does what the job requires… just like you.
The honking escalated, and Illya's endurance reached its limit. He pulled over as soon as traffic allowed, got out of the car, slammed the door, and walked off, quickly disappearing into the crowd.
Back at UNCLE headquarters, Mr. Waverly stared unseeingly out the window. He was standing in an almost brooding sort of manner, his back facing the door.
A sound broke the silence as his secretary buzzed him at his desk. He turned, and walked slowly towards it. Wearily, he pressed the switch.
"Yes, Sarah?"
There was a click as she responded. "Mr. Walsh has reported seeing Mr. Kuryakin. He just crossed 24th street. "
Waverly nodded. "Very good, Sarah. Tell Mr. Walsh to keep in touch." He flipped the switch back and returned to his position by the window, his mind returning to what he was thinking about previously.
He sighed. Sometimes this business could be very difficult. He thought of all the tough calls he'd had to make over the years as head of UNCLE headquarters in New York. Strangely, he didn't have any regrets. If he could do it all over again, he would have made the same decisions. He had no doubt about that. He wished he could say the same for this particular situation. He felt sure he was right, but there was always that dreadful 'what if'. It was that 'what if' that was troubling him. Perhaps he hadn't made the right choice, after all.
Mr. Waverly sighed again, leaving his post by the window to pace the room. He felt confident that Mr. Kuryakin would find Mr. Solo. Of that he had no doubt. The man seemed to have an almost uncanny sixth sense when it came to his partner. Yes, no matter where Mr. Solo was, Mr. Kuryakin would find him. Waverly was much more worried about the other part of Mr. Kuryakin's mission; the outcome of which he was anything but certain about.
Something—a sound, a sense of danger shocked Napoleon awake. He jerked up midway before realizing he was strapped down to the bed. Napoleon blinked confusedly. Where am I?
Recollection swept over him like a crashing wave. He remembered. He was at the hospital. The empty room… the wires on his arms… the figure at the door-and Illya!
Tears began coursing down his face. Where was Illya? The last Napoleon had seen of his partner he was at the mercy of Thrush… and precious little mercy they'd shown the blond UNCLE agent.
The image of Illya's face, all battered and bruised loomed unbidden into Napoleon's thoughts. Napoleon winced. It was just like Paris, except in Paris, Illya had been in even worse shape. After helplessly watching his partner go through unrelenting interrogation for what seemed like forever, Napoleon had gone crazy and had actually tried to kill Illya to save him. Thrush agents had caught him before he was able to do so, and they'd dragged him off. Napoleon didn't see his partner again until he'd escaped and returned to UNCLE HQ, only to be welcomed by Illya himself!
At first, Napoleon had been shocked and confused. The last he'd seen of Illya, his partner had been so injured that he could barely walk and yet here Illya was back in New York safe and apparently uninjured. It had taken Napoleon a while to fully grasp the doctor's explanation that his experience in Paris had only been an illusion; a reality based on an experimental hallucinogenic drug. It was hard enough having to deal with the emotions that resulted from his ordeal, but to find out that none of it was true, and that it was all one horrible nightmare made those emotions much harder to contend with. Napoleon was used to realities… realities could be faced, conquered. But he was powerless against the demons of his own mind.
And now it was happening again. Suddenly, Napoleon felt tired… so tired. Fighting seemed so futile, but he had to keep fighting… for his partner's sake, if not for his own.
"Illya." His voice shattered the empty stillness. "Illya..." There was strength and comfort in that very name. His eyelids opened and closed intermittently. Napoleon could almost feel himself taking leave of his senses and it frightened him. He had to stay awake… to stay sane. Illya needed him. Illya…
Napoleon's throat felt parched. He needed water.
The room felt like it was closing in on him. There was a creak. Napoleon watched the door open in what seemed like slow motion. He could barely make out the figure in the doorway. Napoleon tried to speak, but his voice refused to come.
Illya suddenly loomed up out of nowhere. He stood over Napoleon, his eyes bloodshot and wild.
"Help me," Illya gasped hoarsely. "Help me, Napoleon." Then 'Illya' disappeared, and in his place stood a man in what looked like a white doctors' uniform.
Napoleon stared at him. Something about him seemed so familiar…
The man stood beside him, slowly pulling on latex gloves. "Your friend will die if you are not more forthcoming, Mr. Solo. Answer our questions and you will both live." He hovered over Napoleon. "Now, tell me, what is this information that you are keeping from us? You will tell us, you know." As he spoke, he fitted a new bag on the IV, and adjusted the drip count.
Napoleon made no answer. The man smiled… it was an unsettling, evil smile.
And then, Napoleon remembered where he'd seen him. His eyes narrowed. It all suddenly made sense. It was exactly like Paris… the mind games, the intertwining meshes of illusion and reality… and now he knew why. The man was his UNCLE psychiatrist.
Illya pushed his cleaning cart through the corridors of a Thrush facility, carefully keeping his face down so as not to attract attention. He was undercover as a janitor. Not the most prestigious job he'd ever had undercover, but it would provide him with the anonymity and security clearance he needed in order to proceed undetected. He knew they were holding Napoleon somewhere in this facility… the question was where?
On his left there was a room marked Supplies. He ducked in, taking his rattling cart with him. He wondered if Thrush purposely used these carts so that they would know even where their janitors were at all times.
He pulled out a gun that he'd smuggled in. He rapidly screwed a silencer onto the muzzle, rolled the gun into a large cleaning rag, and put it into the trash section of his cart. He grabbed some chemicals from the supply room and expertly mixed them together. He smiled grimly. Just a nice little distraction for the Thrushies…
Leaving it smoldering thickly in a corner of the supply room, he rattled his way out and quickly maneuvered his cart to an elevator at the end of the corridor.
Now, to find Napoleon.
Napoleon was drowning in the depths of his subconscious. He could even almost feel himself gasping for air, desperately trying to reach the surface. He struggled, causing the murky waters around him to recoil. Exhaustion pulled at his muscles, threatening to overwhelm them. His body felt like lead. Panic gripped him as he felt every ounce of strength rapidly draining from his limbs.
"Napoleon." The voice faintly echoed through the deep recesses of his subconscious. Somehow, the voice reached down the corridors of his mind and slowly dragged him up towards the surface of reality. He moaned.
The voice called him again, "Napoleon." He'd know that voice anywhere… it was Illya's.
Illya had found him! He was safe. His eyes weakly fluttered open. He could see a form… he tried hard to focus his vision. Illya's face gradually came into sight.
Napoleon smiled in vague relief. "So, now you've come to rescue me?" he asked in a weak attempt at humor. Illya smiled, but the smile was forced. Something was wrong.
An alarm sounded. Clattering feet could be heard clamoring above and around them. Napoleon's eyes widened slightly in alarm.
"Don't worry. I set off the alarms on purpose," Illya explained.
Napoleon relaxed, but only slightly. He could still sense that something was bothering his partner.
Napoleon looked at Illya. "What is it, tovarish? What's wrong?" Illya looked down, refusing to meet his partner's eyes.
Napoleon tried to lift his hand to raise his partner's face to his, but his hand weakly fell back on the bed. Illya stared at the limp hand like one frozen in time. Napoleon studied his partner's face, watching the different play of emotions. It was clear Illya was thinking something, but the varying expressions on his face were far too fleeting for Napoleon to decipher. Unexpectedly, Illya's eyes filled with tears.
"Napoleon…" Illya choked on the name.
Napoleon looked at him. "It's okay, tovarish." His hand came up again and this time, it was caught by Illya's stronger hand, instead of falling back down again.
Illya swallowed, fighting tears at the sound of the familiar endearment which only Napoleon used. The silence overflowed with unspoken words, thoughts, emotions.
"No." Illya shook his head. "No, it's not okay, Napoleon." Illya said, still holding firmly to Napoleon's hand. "Things have been going on at UNCLE since you've been away." He told Napoleon the whole story, carefully gauging his partner's face all the while. Through the whole story, Napoleon kept his eyes fixed on Illya's face, never once allowing them to stray. When Illya finished, there was a short pause.
"You were right, you know." Napoleon said unexpectedly.
Illya looked confused. "About what?"
Napoleon still gazed at Illya's face. "That day at the café… you were right. I have changed."
Illya waited for him to go on, watching Napoleon's face with concern in his eyes.
Napoleon went on, his voice rising and falling as he spoke. "I don't want to be the great… Napoleon Solo… anymore. Or even an UNCLE operative." He looked at Illya. "I'm tired, Illya." He said simply. "I don't mind. Really, I don't. I'm glad that he sent you…" he trailed off.
For a minute Illya looked confused until he suddenly realized that Napoleon meant he wanted Illya to kill him. Illya gasped.
"I'm glad that he sent you." Napoleon repeated. He cleared his throat weakly and continued. "If it had been anyone else, I couldn't bear it. With you, it's different. You're my partner, my friend."
Napoleon could see Illya tearing apart inside. He watched as Illya's soul suddenly became embodied on his face, letting Napoleon see all of his inner turmoil, his pain, his intense sorrow. Napoleon felt Illya's grip on his hand tighten.
"Tovarish, there's something… I want… to tell you." Napoleon could hear his voice getting weaker and weaker.
Just then, Illya glanced towards the IV bag. His face suddenly froze and he involuntarily let out a strangled cry.
"Yes." Napoleon said, immediately realizing what his partner was thinking. "I'm going… to die anyway. Once they realized… that I wasn't going to talk… they no longer… needed me alive." Napoleon gave a short, humorless laugh. "Now you see… why I wanted it to be… you?" He wheezed, "But I wanted to tell you… I wanted to tell you—" He looked up at his partner earnestly. "—that I love you, just in case I never… got the chance." He took a deep, shuddering breath. His face contorted, as if he was in pain.
Illya couldn't speak. His hand shook visibly. Napoleon tried to squeeze it with his own hand, but his fingers didn't have the strength. "I had to let you know… before…" He left his sentence unfinished.
Illya finally found his voice. "I'm glad you told me." He tenderly brushed Napoleon's hair back from his face. For a moment, they just sat there: Illya stroking Napoleon's hair; neither of them saying a word.
Napoleon suddenly remembered the doctor. He needed to tell Illya that his UNCLE psychiatrist was a double agent. "Illya," his voice was barely a whisper.
"What is it, Napoleon?" Illya leaned closer.
"The psychiatrist… the one I was seeing… he's a double agent. Tell Waverly."
A strange look settled onto Illya's face for a minute, but it disappeared as swiftly as it came. "I'll tell him." Illya reassured him.
Napoleon relaxed in relief. He coughed. God, he felt so weak. Illya gave Napoleon a questioning look. Napoleon nodded. "I'm ready, tovarish."
Illya took the gun, then looked at his partner. "Are you sure…?" he left the words hanging in the air.
Napoleon smiled almost serenely, "I'm positive."
Illya hesitated.
"Do it, tovarish." Napoleon pleaded faintly.
Illya raised the gun… and pulled the trigger.
The door to Mr. Waverly's office swooshed open. Mr. Waverly looked up to see Illya standing in front of him.
Mr. Waverly looked at Illya steadily, but the deep, dark circles under his eyes showed how much these last few days had meant to him.
"Well, Mr. Kuryakin?" It was more of a statement than a question.
Illya nodded.
Mr. Waverly sighed. "I see."
"Napoleon told me that Dr. Morris is a double agent. He wanted me to tell you." The words came out with difficulty.
Mr. Waverly sat like one turned to stone. "I see." he said again.
Illya cleared his throat. "You couldn't have known, sir. Considering the circumstances, you made the right decision."
Illya paused briefly and then continued. "I've already taken Dr. Morris into custody. He is no longer a threat to UNCLE." Illya said quietly. For a minute he stood there, as if waiting for a response, but received none. After a few more minutes of agonizing silence, Illya turned and was about to exit the room, when Mr. Waverly's voice suddenly stopped him.
"I'm really, truly sorry, Illya." He said, breaking habit and calling the agent by his first name. Illya's vision dimmed with unshed tears. He wasn't surprised to see that Mr. Waverly's eyes had filled also. His heart swelled with sympathy for the man who had looked upon Napoleon almost like a son.
"I know, sir…I know," he answered softly, squeezing the man's shoulder in sympathy. Giving Waverly's shoulder one last squeeze, Illya silently exited the room.
A lone, solitary figure sat hunched in a darkened cell- it was Dr. Morris. On Waverly's orders, he had been placed in an UNCLE holding cell for questioning until further notice. No one had gotten him to say anything, however, despite various attempts.
Upon arriving, Dr. Morris had immediately declared that he would not speak until he'd seen Illya Kuryakin. He'd stuck to his word. Since his detainment, he had remained doggedly silent. Even now, he sat, detached and aloof, in the farthest corner of the cell, balefully looking daggers at anyone who spoke to him.
A creak, followed by the menacing sound of footsteps walking down the corridor caused the Thrush agent to sit up in alert. Illya stepped into view.
Dr. Morris was the first to speak. "So, we meet again, Mr. Kuryakin." he drawled sardonically, rising out of the shadows as he spoke. "Although, our roles are considerably changed this time."
Illya's lips tightened. "Considerably."
"So sorry to hear about your friend." the doctor continued, putting an extra emphasis on the word "friend". "And he was such a nice-looking fellow, too. Such a shame." He heaved an exaggerated sigh. "But, after all, you would have done the same had you been in my position."
Illya's eyes flashed dangerously. "Perhaps you will have the chance to find out, Dr. Morris."
The deadly tone of Illya's voice would have sent shivers down the spine of any sane human being, but Dr. Morris merely displayed his teeth in a derisive smile. He looked at Illya defiantly. "It doesn't matter what you do to me now. The mission has already been accomplished. Thrush has won!" The last he said exultingly, eyes blazing in triumph.
Illya looked at him, a sinister smile spreading across his face. "I wouldn't be so sure if I were you."
A loud harrumph sounded from behind Illya. "Just so, Mr. Kuryakin." A deep voice agreed. "Surely you didn't think you could get away with it, Dr. Morris. Or did you?"
Dr. Morris's expression turned from one of complacent triumph to one of angry fear as Mr. Waverly himself appeared. "What do you mean?" Dr. Morris demanded angrily. "The mission was accomplished!"
"Actually, doctor, that's where you're wrong," Waverly contradicted him. "You've accomplished nothing, except to be captured. You see, we've known for quite some time that there was a mole here at UNCLE. In fact, it was part of Mr. Solo's mission to find out exactly who it was. Thanks to him, we discovered it was you."
"That changes nothing," Dr. Morris retorted, leaning his back against the wall with restored confidence. "Even though you've managed to capture me, Napoleon Solo is still dead, which was the main purpose of the mission."
Waverly looked at Dr. Morris in mock surprise. "Good grief, man! Hasn't it dawned on you yet? Napoleon Solo is not dead."
Dr. Morris stared, a combination of shock and disbelief on his face.
Waverly calmly proceeded, "You see, I knew a storm was brewing from the moment Mr. Solo returned from the affair in Paris. Thrush doesn't like to leave things undone, so it was only a matter of time before Thrush would strike. Working under the assumption that Thrush was watching my every move, I gave Mr. Kuryakin the order to eliminate Mr. Solo, taking the chance that he would disobey my order and lead us to Mr. Solo. It was my hope that by doing so he would ultimately lead us to you." A look exchanged between Illya and Mr. Waverly. "Nor was I, in the least, disappointed." Waverly went on. "Mr. Kuryakin accomplished all those things, and more. Now, there is only the question of what to do with you."
Dr. Morris gave an incredulous laugh. "You must be bluffing."
Waverly smiled. "I assure you, Doctor, this is far from a bluff."
"But Napoleon Solo is dead!" Dr. Morris insisted, his voice rising. "I killed him myself! He's dead, I tell you!"
Illya cocked an eyebrow. "Did you see him die?"
Dr. Morris didn't answer. He just glared at Illya in sullen silence.
"No, of course you didn't," Illya answered for him. "You didn't see him die because he did not." He took a swift step toward the bars until his face was within inches of the doctor's. Clenching his teeth, he hissed, "But, unlike you, doctor, I will get to see you die!"
Dr. Morris gave an angry roar and lunged forward to attack Illya through the bars. Illya expertly warded off the attack, twisting Dr. Morris' arm back across the bars with a sharp crack. Morris howled in pain, and fell back against the opposite wall. Alerted by the sounds, two UNCLE agents came scrambling down the corridor. Instantly, they rushed into the cell, grabbed the writhing Dr. Morris and took him away.
For a moment, Illya stood gazing after them, a kaleidoscope of emotions displayed on his face.
Mr. Waverly deliberately cleared his throat to break the silence. "Well, now that that's settled." he said. "And the young woman, Ellen, has been taken care of, I presume?"
Illya roused himself from his reverie and straightened. "Yes," he answered, and then added, "It's all over now." Looking down at the floor, Illya shifted on his feet. "I should probably be going now." he said to no one in particular.
Waverly nodded his head. "Yes," he agreed. "After all, you don't want to miss your flight."
Illya looked up and smiled for perhaps the first time all week. "No, sir," he replied, then his face sobered again. "Mr. Waverly… I want to thank you for the transfer. You didn't have to do that. "
Waverly brushed the agent's words away with his hand. "Nonsense, Mr. Kuryakin, I wanted to. It's the least I can do after what I put you through."
Illya shook his head seriously. "Sir, you only did what you felt you had to do. I understand."
Waverly stood there a minute looking into the blue eyes steadily regarding him and saw that what Illya said was true-he understood. If he were in Kuryakin's place, he would not have been so forgiving.
"You're a good man, and a good agent, Kuryakin," he said finally. "Take care of yourself."
"Yes, sir. You too." Illya smiled, stretching out his hand. "Well then, goodbye, sir."
Waverly smiled back and took Illya's proffered hand. "Goodbye, Mr. Kuryakin." he replied.
The two men turned and went their separate ways.
Somewhere in Europe, a young, blond-haired, blue-eyed man was sitting in a hospital ward, his eyes fixed on the figure lying on the hospital bed in front of him. The object of his unwavering attention was another young man: dark-haired, handsome, his eyes closed in what seemed to be a deep, deep slumber.
The blond appeared to be studying the steady rise and fall of the man's chest. The expression on his face was a strange mixture of anxiety and relief. Apparently satisfied, he shifted his gaze towards the man's still face, his eyes hungrily devouring every inch. It was as if he were afraid it would disappear from view if he didn't take it all in at once and savor the view to the highest extent.
The mysterious blond was unknown to the hospital staff. All they knew was that he came in every single day without fail to check up on the patient; sometimes sitting motionless at the patient's bedside for hours on end. The doctors seemed to sense that it was better not to ask questions and for the most part left him alone, as he obviously wanted nothing but to sit there alone with the patient. The nurses didn't say much to him, but at intervals they could be seen gazing at him in appreciation when they thought he was unaware of their presence. He didn't seem to notice. He only had eyes for the patient.
Today, he'd been sitting there for the past three hours, barely moving a muscle. One had to look closely to be sure the young blond was actually breathing. A shrill noise, sounding something like an alarm of some kind, went off. He took what looked like a pen from his pocket, spoke into it for a couple of minutes and then put it back inside his coat.
He got up. Apparently, it was time for him to leave. The nurses quickly went back to their posts so that they wouldn't be caught staring. He bent down over the bed and kissed the dark-haired man's forehead. Slowly, he moved towards the door, stopping with his hand on the doorknob to look back at the still slumbering patient. He smiled.
"I love you, too, Napoleon," he whispered softly. And with that, he quietly closed the door, and strode away through the bustling corridor.