Illya checked his watch again as he sat at his desk awaiting Napoleon's return from Medical. They had been met at the agents' entrance by Dr. Jameson, Chief Medical Officer and Mr. Waverly himself that morning as they reported for duty. "Good morning, Mr. Solo, Mr. Kuryakin," the Old Man had said, "Have I heard correctly, Gentlemen, that you have been actively avoiding your annual physicals for the past three weeks?"

The CEA had colored slightly. "Ah, Sir, um…"

Mr. Waverly waved his hand dismissively to silence his subordinate's stuttering. "Mr. Kuryakin, you will go with Doctor Jameson immediately. Upon your return to your office, your partner will go to Medical." He then turned to Napoleon. "If you are not in Medical ten minutes after Mr. Kuryakin has left, Dr. Jameson has been instructed to refer you directly to my office."

"Understood, Sir," Napoleon had replied. He nodded to Illya as he and the doctor turned and walked away.

Illya had hated every moment; stripping down to put on that ridiculous gown that opened at the most inopportune and embarrassing times, his blood being drawn to fill vials for later testing, the poking and prodding of his body by the doctor and lastly, the chest X-ray and EKG. It all felt one step below THRUSH torture and he was glad when he was told he could dress and head to his office. As soon as he came through the door, Napoleon grabbed his suit jacket, smiled grimly and headed to Medical.

That had been just over three hours ago. Even if he flirted with every nurse there, Napoleon still should have been back a half – hour ago. Perhaps he decided to stop in the Commissary, it is lunch time now, after all. His phone rang just as he decided he would go meet his partner. "Kuryakin."

"Doctor Jameson here," came the reply, "Did Mr. Solo return to your office?"

"No. In fact, I was just about to go the Commissary; I assumed he went there."

A deep sigh came through the receiver. "I was afraid this might happen. Mr. Solo received some…disturbing news and opted to take the rest of the day. I advised him to speak to you before he left but…"

Illya interrupted. "What sort of bad news?"

"I'm not at liberty to say, patient confidentiality prohibits…"

"I am his partner! I get his diagnoses and prognoses all the time!"

"Yes, Mr. Kuryakin, you do when it's mission related. Since this isn't, he will have to tell you himself as I don't have his permission to tell you anything. However, I can tell you that Mr. Waverly is aware and has given you permission to go check on your partner."

"Why did you not say so in the first place?" the Russian growled, "Goodbye." He slammed the handset down in its cradle, snatched his jacket and headed for reception.

Forty minutes later, Illya was at his partner's door. There had been no answer when the doorman had rung the apartment, but he had assured Illya that Napoleon had indeed entered the building and gone upstairs and since he knew the blond had a standing invitation, he was allowed to take the penthouse elevator.

He tapped out the code they used to alert one another that the key was about to be used and all was well. He unlocked and stepped inside the door, reset the alarms and looked around. Though it was a partly sunny afternoon, the apartment was darkened because the blinds and drapes were closed. Illya strained his ears, but couldn't hear a sound.

"Napoleon?" Silence. How odd. Instinctively, he drew his weapon and slowly began to search the apartment. Could he be sleeping? Even so, the intercom should have awakened him. He moved through the kitchen, office and living room before finally walking down the hall to the master bedroom.

Napoleon was slumped on his bed, coat and shoes still on despite the penthouse's warmth and dirt on the comforter. He had a tumbler in his hand full of scotch from the smell of it. He looked drawn and pale. He gulped from the glass, closed his eyes while the liquor burned down his throat, opened them and gazed at Illya's Walther. "Are you here to finish me? Because that would make things a lot easier right about now."

Alarmed, the Russian holstered his weapon, shed his coat and sat on the edge of the bed. "What has happened? Doctor Jameson would tell me nothing; only that I should speak to you. Napoleon, what is this news he mentioned?" He watched as his partner sat silently; he could see sadness flitting across his face, but there was another emotion showing itself more. A shock ran through him when he realized that Napoleon was afraid. "Napasha," he whispered, "what is wrong?"

Napoleon drained his glass and set it on the nightstand. "Doctor Jameson found a lump on my, ah, right testicle during my physical. He sent me for an ultrasound."

"Oh no, moy droog, no. You have testicular cancer?"

"He doesn't know!" He laughed mirthlessly. "Jameson said it's extremely rare for testicular cancer not to be revealed during an ultrasound, but I'm one of those special cases where a diagnosis couldn't be reached. So, he has to perform surgery. He wanted to do it today, but…it was just…too much. I said I'll come back tomorrow morning."

"Did he explain what he would have to do?"

Napoleon nodded. "Are you familiar with the procedure?" When the blond shook his head Napoleon said, "When a diagnosis of testicular cancer is uncertain, the doctor may biopsy the testicle before removing it. The surgeon makes a cut above the pubic area, withdraws the testicle from the scrotum, and examines it without cutting the spermatic cord. If a suspicious area is seen, a portion of it is removed and looked at right away by the pathologist. If cancer is found, the testicle and spermatic cord are then removed. If the tissue is not cancerous, the testicle can usually be returned to the scrotum, and treatment will be surgery to remove only the tumor or the use of appropriate medicines to shrink it." He began to rock back and forth. "Jameson wanted to 'be on the safe side' and just remove it. I said no, I want the biopsy. Beyond the fact that he'd be doing it without a clear diagnosis, I would be treated with radiation that would render me sterile and probably impotent."

"Bozhe moy!"

"Illya, you know that sex and seduction are part and parcel of being an effective agent. I'd be damn near useless in the field. And the idea that I might never be able to…really be with a woman again, or father a child if I want to, that terrifies me." He rubbed his hands across his face. "I, ah, I'm afraid I wouldn't feel like a real man anymore." He swiped at his face again and Illya thought he had wiped away a tear. "I'm afraid I wouldn't feel like anything anymore. This hasn't been a good day, to say the least. Nothing's going my way today."

Illya kicked off his shoes and eased onto the bed so that he was sitting next to his partner with his back against the headboard. They were about a foot apart, but he wasn't sure him moving closer was something Napoleon wanted. "Why did you not call me? We have been partners for three years."

The older man shrugged. "I don't know. I was feeling overwhelmed by what he was telling me. I resented him trying to get me to consent to surgery so quickly and just wanted to get out of the building. I just, ah, needed some time to process stuff."

"Nyet. You needed, you need a friend. Let it be me, Napoleon." He pulled his legs up so that he could rest his elbows on his knees. "You are not alone. You do not have to go through this alone. You have drummed it into my head that we must be honest with each other. That honesty has built our friendship and trust. You are the first true friend I have ever had and I am grateful for your friendship because I know what it is like to be completely alone in the world, to have to face frightening things on missions and in life knowing there is no one to call because no one cares. I needed someone so many times and I had no one. You need someone now, Napoleon. I am right here. Let it be me."

Napoleon turned toward his partner, slid closer and pulled the smaller man into a tight hug. "Thank you, Illya," he whispered into the Russian's ear, "Thank you." He laid his head on the blond's shoulder and allowed himself to be comforted by his friend's hands rubbing up and down his back. He remained there for a few moments before pulling back and standing and removing his coat. "The Pity Party is over. Have you eaten today?"

"No, I have not."

"Me, neither. Come on, I'll make us an early supper. I've got the makings of an Italian feast."

Illya followed Napoleon to the kitchen. "Would it not be better to order takeout?"

"Cooking relaxes me and gives me something else to focus on besides this mess," Napoleon replied as he tied on an apron. You want Alfredo or Bolognese sauce?"

The two men sat in the living room with drinks in their hands digesting their meals. Napoleon had indeed prepared an Italian feast of hot and cold antipasti, spaghetti with meatballs topped with Bolognese sauce, and a tiramisu for dessert. He had made so much that even Illya's prodigious appetite had to surrender. Napoleon glanced at the Russian, who was sipping vodka and stubbornly forcing himself to stay awake and smiled. You have no idea, Partner Mine, what you have done for me. I mean, I knew we were building a friendship, but I didn't realize how strong a bond you feel with me. I have faith that things might turn out all right and even if they don't, God forbid, you'll have my back. I am humbled and proud that I am worthy of your friendship. Look at you, fighting sleep just in case I need you. You're the best, Kuryakin.

Illya's eyes snapped open and he caught Napoleon looking at him with a beatific smile. "What?" he asked.

"You're tired. Let me give you cab fare or if you prefer, you're welcome to spend the night."

"I can just take the subway."

"So you can fall asleep and wake up God knows where? No, thank you. I need you by my side tomorrow morning when Jameson gives me the results of the biopsy. So please, take the money or spend the night."

"And listen to you snore like a wounded moose? No, thank you." The Russian took the cash and shoved it into his pocket. Grinning, he said, "Twenty dollars seems a lot."

"Tip well." He walked his friend to the door. "The doorman will have a cab ready for you by the time you get downstairs." He disarmed the alarms and opened the door. "See you in the morning," Napoleon said as he clapped the smaller man on the back.

"Good night, Napoleon." As he rode the elevator he thought, It does not matter what the outcome of the procedure is, he will need a friend. It will be me.