A/N: If you've made it this far, I assume you've been enjoying it in some way, shape, or form, and that makes me very happy. I wish I could write better for you, but it is what it is, and what it is—is a story that just needs to be finished before I spend a few months angsting over it, :)

Chapter warnings: vomiting; mentions of suicide


Act IV: Melody No. 17/Burn Bright

A flash filled his field of vision, followed closely by an earthshaking bang, and Illya blinked rapidly as an engine revved.

After a split second of wondering where he was (apparently in the cab of a truck) and what he was doing there (apparently being driven somewhere in a hurry), he realized it might help if he actively attempted to assess the situation rather than simply coming up with hypothetical scenarios, and so he started taking inventory.

First, himself. In pajamas. What. The. Hell.

Second, out the windshield. Snow. A dirt road. Frozen, if the bumping as the truck sped along was any indication.

Third, the guy sitting next to him. He looked sort of vaguely familiar. Couldn't attach a name to him, though.

Fourth, the driver. Napoleon. Looking just a hair on the frazzled side. Speaking—oh.

Speaking. Words. English.

Whoever-it-was who was sitting between himself and Napoleon spoke words back, and Illya finally managed to start making sense of their communication when Napoleon said, "As our duly designated explosives expert, any ideas on what happened?"

Based on the lack of an immediate response from Whoever-it-was, Illya figured that Napoleon had been talking to him, so he glanced around.

Attention rapidly drawn by the smoke and flames reflected in the side-view mirror, the Russian decided that the raging inferno was the most likely subject of the American's question. He concluded, "It exploded," since, whatever "it" was, it had probably been the source of the flash-bang and was now being thoroughly incinerated.

Exploded therefore seemed the logical conclusion.

Napoleon made a sound that labeled the answer as having been less than satisfactory, then pressed wryly, "Spontaneous combustion?"

Illya shrugged. Hell if he knew. And hell if he was going to let on that his brain currently possessed a disturbing lack of memories regarding where they were and how they'd come to be there.

"Don't tell me you set that up."

Had he set that up? He couldn't—well, he remembered something about explosives. Plastic explosive. Whoever-it-was (Gerry? Yes, that was Gerry.) had brought an exploding mask to Illya, who'd used it to blow something up.

Had that something been the thing they were currently driving away from? He still couldn't recall that part but, in any case, he could certainly oblige Napoleon's request, so he nodded, "Very well."

Napoleon dragged a hand down his face before looking back to the blond. "Oh my god, Illya—there were people in there!"

"There were," Illya echoed, the question mark he'd intended lost in a tone that sounded empty to his own ears. Meanwhile, Napoleon's tone had sounded… strange.

"We were going to send a team to recov—they didn't have to die!"

Well, the tone was somehow strange, but the statement was simply ridiculous, so Illya asserted quietly, "We all have to die, Napoleon."

"That wasn't your call to make!"

What was that tone? Was he… was Napoleon angry? The ever-equanimous Napoleon Solo was angry? At him?

Not wanting to make another dive in the wrong conversational direction, Illya gave up and admitted his confusion: "What wasn't my call to make?"

Solo took his focus off the windshield to look in his direction, and whatever the brunet saw in his eyes seemingly prompted the driver to spin the wheel and pull the truck over to the side of the road. The abrupt veering of the vehicle set his insides to flipping, and Illya took advantage of their sudden stop by shoving open the cab door and proceeding to desecrate the snowy ground with the contents of his stomach.


Not too much earlier…

There was definitely something off about Illya, and Napoleon was a bit dumfounded by his own inability to notice it earlier. Or, rather, he had noticed that something was wrong, and was simply annoyed that he didn't realize just how off was 'off'.

In hindsight, it was insultingly obvious. The drinking, missing meals, forgetting his medication. Losing his habitually tight control on his emotions, slapping Napoleon's hand, fighting with Oleg. Punching out a lighting fixture—allegedly as part of a calculated move, but obviously not as carefully-considered a plan as he would have expected of the Russian.

And now Illya was working out how much explosive would be sufficient for blasting open the door without also blasting open the humans in the holding cells. And he kept asking Gerry to confirm his numbers.

Illya. Asking someone else to check his figures.

Most people? A good idea.

Illya? This was the guy who had gotten bored one evening seven years ago, spent that time memorizing a base-10 logarithm table, and to this day took great delight in impressing/horrifying people by spitting out the logarithm to at least three decimal places of any number suggested to him.

During a lull in the calculations, Solo ventured, "Hey, Illya, what's the logarithm of five?"

"What?"

"Log five. Base ten."

Kuryakin glanced to Ogola, apparently wondered whether an error would go unnoticed by the engineer, and settled on, "In the event you've forgotten, Napoleon, we've more pressing matters to attend than my amusing you with extraneous mental gymnastics," before turning his face back to the plastic explosive he was breaking into pieces.

And that was as good as having a flashing neon sign screaming Warning! hung over the blond head. Gerry shot a questioning look in Napoleon's direction, but he shook his head silently in response: get out fast seemed the best option for the time being, so he let Kuryakin keep at his work and crossed his fingers that no sudden meltdowns would occur.

A short time later, Illya announced that he was finished preparing the explosives, so Napoleon nodded, "Okay, now we can get out of the cell. What about these little beauties you selected?" He drew the keys from his pockets and held them up to display the set of colors.

Kuryakin blinked several times. "The… deep red opens the weapons cabinet in the guardroom just outside the cell. The black… is for a—a truck in the garage immediately above us." Another few blinks. "The last… is for a keyhole outside the garage door. It… it should lock every point of entry to the building so Park and his cronies stay put until U.N.C.L.E. arrive to take them in."

"Alright. Red, firearms; black, truck; green, lockdown." He grinned. "Excellent selection there, partner."

The flash of a rather fake smile. "Yes… red, black… green."

"You have a problem with green?"

"No… no, not that I can recall just now…"

Napoleon scratched at his cheek and waited a moment or two. When Illya did not seem inclined to expound on the comment, he rubbed his hands together and declared, "Alright, time for a brilliant plan."

"And peanut butter."

"Huh?"

Illya sniffed. "While you were zoning out and creepily staring at me, Gerry and I decided that the weakest spots of the door appear to be the slots and near the hinges. With something sticky—for instance, peanut butter—we ought to be able to adhere some of the explosive to those spots and improve our chances of blasting through." He shrugged. "We can likely succeed by using more explosive at any given spot on the door, but it would not hurt to reduce our risk of failure and/or injury."

"And how are we getting your improvised adhesive device?"

"With our fingers crossed," Ogola asserted. The secretary headed to the door as Illya shuffled himself and the explosives around to keep the latter hidden. Gerry rapped at the upper slot with a couple of knuckles and, when it slid open, stood on his toes to get a better view of Oleg peering in. "Hiya, buddy. I was promised a last meal. If Andy's a man of his word, a peanut butter sandwich should be involved."

The slot slapped shut and Gerry turned back with a shrug, urging, "Fingers crossed, kiddly-winks."

A few minutes later, the lower slot opened and something in plastic wrap was shoved through before the slot clapped closed again. Gerry brought it over to the table, fumbled with the wrapper for a moment, peeled back the upper slice of bread, and cackled gleefully.

"Holy anelloni, Batman, I can't believe it frickin' worked." He brought the booty over to the man with the explosives. "Your adhesive, my liege."

Illya grinned and accepted the proffered sandwich. "Well, Napoleon, at what point in your brilliant plan can we set the fun part?"

Solo stroked his chin in thought. "As soon as I tell you what the plan is. I'm thinking… blast open the door. Illya and I will incapacitate Adam and Oleg in some way, and Gerry can help disarm them. Ger, how are you with guns?"

"Depends on what the goal is," the secretary half-shrugged. "I can hold onto it and try to look intimidating, but I can't aim and fire as fast as is usually desirable. Also, people don't take us short folk very seriously, so I probably wouldn't look that intimidating."

"Okay. We'll open the weapons cabinet, check it quick, and try to make sure we all have something before we go upstairs. If possible, it would be better to just try and sneak into the truck unnoticed. If the sneaking goes awry, though, at least we'll have something to confront the Thrushes upstairs with."

Illya muttered in review, "Blast, wrangle, weapons, upstairs."

"Once we're up there—Gerry, do you remember seeing how they opened or closed the door for the vehicle you came in?"

"I couldn't say for sure which was the 'open' button and which was the 'close' one," Ogola said, "but there were two buttons and each of them made the door move in some direction."

"Okay, okay… Illya, how'd you feel about opening the door?"

The Russian nodded. He'd be most likely to be able to read any important labels on the buttons, so it made sense.

"I'll be at the wheel, then, and Gerry will get in with me. You open the door, join us in the truck, and—"

"No."

"No?"

"As you and Gerry will already be in the truck, it would make sense for me to also seal off the building, seeing as I would still be outside the vehicle." Illya glanced at the floor for a moment of thought. "You drive out, I walk out. I use the… green key to close all the doors and such, then catch up with you." He smirked. "Don't drive too fast."

Solo frowned at the idea of letting someone else be the last one out. "Maybe we should—"

"It is a fine plan as it is Napoleon. We knew you'd come up with something daring yet achievable. Well done."

Napoleon couldn't repress a chuckle. "Is that your way of saying 'shut up, we're doing it'?"

"Yes. You should be so proud of my effort at tact."

Solo accordingly handed the green key over to Kuryakin and said, "Let's get the explosives set. How are we setting them off once they're attached to the door?"

Illya slipped the key into the breast pocket of his pajamas. "Very quickly."

Gerry added, "We're using three pieces of explosive, and we have about four seconds before they go off once they're in contact with the spark. Attach a piece of plastic, get the spark going with the Velcro, and attach the Velcro to the plastic with a little more peanut butter."

"You attach the plastic one at the upper hinge," Kuryakin told Solo, "Gerry attaches the one on the lower slot, and I attach the one on the middle hinge. Adhere the Velcro as Gerry said, once you've rubbed the bits together and achieved a spark. Gerry should fit most easily under the bed, and you and I will take shelter best we beneath the table."

Napoleon gave a nod, snapped off the listening devices attached to the communicator they'd been left with, and stuck the communicator in his key-less pocket. "And as soon as it's gone boom, we run through and so on and so forth."

Moments later, the bits of plastic explosive mask were stuck to the door, and Napoleon commented, "My kindergarten teacher would be impressed by our innovative use of peanut butter, I'm sure," before a pulse of static drew his and Gerry's attention to the ceiling.

"Kuryakin, how are we feeling today?"

Illya pressed the plastic a bit more securely by the hinge and returned dully, "I'm sure you'll be pleased to hear that plotting your death has been keeping me in high spirits."

"Thank you."

Another pulse of static signaled the end of the odd little interview.

At Napoleon's suspicious glance, Illya huffed, "I was joking, of course. It will be far more enjoyable to think of him rotting in prison for life than to allow him the mercy of an early grave. We have our plan, Napoleon, and I will fulfill my role."

"When are we going?" Gerry piped up.

Solo glanced at the nonexistent watch on his wrist and judged that now seemed as good a time as any, so they pre-ripped the Velcro, collectively attempted not to look surprised at how well the peanut butter held up the explosive, and on Kuryakin's count ("Three, two, one—") set the sparks. They smushed the strips by the plastic, took cover, and

BAM

went the door. Solo was the first through the newly created aperture, entering the guardroom as the sound of an alarm (presumably set off by the explosion) blared. Adam was sprawled on the floor near the door, so Napoleon focused on the slack-jawed but still standing Oleg, rushing to tackle the guard down before he could properly react.

Gerry came over then and relieved Oleg of his nightstick and handgun as Napoleon pinned his arms, and Illya focused on the wall of buttons and switches, promptly finding what he was looking for and turning off the alarm. The intercom speaker on the wall clicked.

"What's going on in there?"

Solo kept his arms clamped around the still-conscious guard and, as soon as Ogola had stuffed the T.H.R.U.S.H. uniform beret into Oleg's mouth, Kuryakin pressed the speaker button. He affected Adam's voice as best he could but coughed a bit to compensate for his imperfect impression when he said, "Sir, the—" Cough. "—er, Oleg thought it would be okay to use a fork to—" Hack, wheeze. "—clear out the toaster—"

"Oh, good god, you fools! Fix it and stop making such a racket before our guests get the impression that you're incompetent."

Cough, cough. "Yes, sir." Illya flicked off the intercom and met Oleg's glare with a smirk before approaching and taking the two sets of handcuffs from the conscious guard's belt. He glanced to Napoleon. "We cuff him to the table leg and leave the gun on the tabletop. If he moves too much, the gun falls off. Perhaps it accidentally fires, allowing a bullet to ricochet in this small room."

Solo grinned. "I knew I liked you for a reason."

Ogola set down the gun on the center of the table as Kuryakin and Solo wrestled Oleg over to his place of rest. Napoleon pulled the guard's wrists to either side of the leg and Illya cuffed them together. They did the same with his ankles but, finding the cuffs too small to go round the ankles, Illya slipped the ends of the cuffs through the eyelets in the boots, clicked them shut, and shrugged.

"Good enough," Solo agreed, and Kuryakin nodded before moving the gun closer to the edge of the table. They cuffed Adam's wrists and ankles in a similar manner but left him where he was, as he didn't seem inclined to move for some time yet, and Illya took his handgun.

Napoleon took the key to the weapons cabinet to check its contents and noted with chagrin, "This seems a tad overenthusiastic."

Illya and Gerry came over to survey the collection of semiautomatics, the latter giving a low whistle.

"We want them alive for U.N.C.L.E. to recover," Napoleon decided, taking a pistol since that was the only weapon that could be feasibly operated with one hand. He shut the cabinet door. "Gerry, take Oleg's nightstick and stay close to me. Illya, keep Adam's gun but don't fire if you can avoid it."

Illya nodded, then shook his head rapidly and put his newly acquired handgun on the table. "Upon reconsideration, I should not be trusted with such a weapon for the present time."

Napoleon hoped he was successful in masking his grimace. First of all, he should have thought of that himself. Second of all, it was probably not the best sign that Illya himself was bringing up the point. "Okay, you can take Adam's nightstick then."

A nod. "Shall I go up first?"

"What? No!"

"If Gerry is to stay close to you, it would not be safe for him if you go first. Also, as the plan is for you to exit the building in the lorry—that is, 'truck'—you will be sitting ducks until I can get the door open, assuming that the garage door is reinforced, as it likely is. It is reasonable for me to go first, so I have a head start to the door-opening switch before you start for the truck."

"That's true—" Before Napoleon could get any further, Illya was already out the door and silently padding up the stairs. Yelling after him seemed like it might attract unwanted attention from whoever might have been up there, so he sighed a bit and mused, "Did I hear wrong, Ger, or did you in the recent past say I was the senior agent on this case?"

"I guess blind obedience from your subordinates is a skill you acquire over time, bello."

Napoleon sighed again. "Well, follow me. I can trust you to follow me and stick close, can't I?"

"Like peanut butter to a cell door, sugar-pop."

Solo set off for the narrow stairwell, starting up as Kuryakin's feet vanished from his sight, and Ogola accordingly kept to the stair just behind the senior agent. At the top, Napoleon peered up through the hole in the floor that joined the Cell level to the Garage level of the building. He scanned the space, dominated by a truck, a sedan, and piles of stuff: a bunch of tires in one corner and stacks of boxes in another.

A setup similar to the one below (wall of buttons, table, etc.) occupied part of the wall between the tires and the boxes—and a T.H.R.U.S.H. guard was lying under the table. Nearby was a familiar pajama-clad figure and a second guard. The latter was in the midst of drawing his gun when the former calmly used the nightstick to whack the weapon away, jabbed the guard in the neck with his knuckles, and proceeded to heft the man over a stack of tires and let him drop head-and-hands-first through the stack.

Gerry leaned up to whisper, "Want me to check downstairs to see if Mr. Kuryakin left his sense of self-preservation lying around somewhere, sir?"

"Just ask him to get in an elevator and he'll find it in a hurry," Napoleon whispered back.

Once the second guard seemed adequately incapacitated, Illya turned back to the stairs from below and briefly motioned toward the black and gray truck sitting across the room before moving in the direction he'd just indicated. Napoleon and Gerry followed, arriving at the cab of the truck a second or two after Illya reached a control panel by the garage door, and they climbed in. Solo started the engine as the garage door tilted open, cursed the manual transmission, mentally thanked his manual transmission expert/official British person Mark Slate for his transmission of tips and tricks, and eased the truck out of the building as soon as the opening was large enough.

Solo kept the vehicle rolling along, not wanting to hinder their speedy exit by hitting the brake but keeping the pace slow enough that Kuryakin should easily be able to catch up with an easy jog. He kept glancing at the rearview mirrors to check on the Russian's progress, and Ogola soon voiced the driver's concern: "I don't think he's coming, man."

That confirmation of his own thoughts was enough for Napoleon to halt the truck and hop out, running back to the building they'd just departed. Once he was near enough to speak without shouting, he could see that the key had been inserted in its place and turned, and he could hear Illya quietly muttering. Napoleon tried to cut in, "Illya, we're done here. Come on."

Illya's eyes stayed on the key. He continued murmuring flatly, as if nobody had attempted to interrupt him. "'We are exerting ourselves only to return to the same spot…'"

"What?"

"'…it's surely the road of "alases" we are following…'"

"As apropos as Aristophanes quotations may be, now is not the—"

"'…what can we do? Nothing whatever but bite and scratch…'"

"Illya, do you really want to wait and see if Park has an 'override' button in there? Let's go."

Napoleon grabbed him by an arm but, when the attached person wouldn't be budged, quickly resorted to foisting the smaller man over his shoulders and running them both back to the truck, the passenger mumbling all the way. Gerry evidently anticipated their arrival, as the passenger side door opened just as they reached it; Napoleon deposited the third of their trio into the seat, slammed the door, and dashed around to resume his spot at the steering wheel. He floored the gas pedal to make up for the bit of time they'd lost but had only covered about a hundred feet when—

BOOM!

Gerry yelped, Napoleon white-knuckled the steering wheel in an effort to keep them moving in a moderately straight direction, and Illya finally ceased his mutterings.

"You alright?" Solo asked once his ears stopped ringing.

Ogola grunted a bit as he pulled himself into a more upright position. "Yeah, but I think I'll put on my seatbelt now." A click signaled fulfilment of that thought. "And for the rest of all time forever."

Solo silently seconded the idea by one-handedly securing himself with his own seatbelt, then glanced across to the opposite side of the cab. "You might want to buckle in too, Illya. And as our duly designated explosives expert, any ideas on what happened back there?"

A moment of hesitation as Kuryakin surveyed the rearview mirrors, then, "It exploded."

Napoleon snorted. "Spontaneous combustion, you think?"

Illya shrugged, and his uncharacteristic disinterest in anything even vaguely combustible jogged Napoleon's memory of the odd little recitation of yester-minute. And how he was fixated on the key. And had been emotionally unstable of late. And had seemed set to hang around a building that would explode about a minute later—

"Don't tell me you set that up."

Illya nodded. "Very well."

Napoleon dragged a hand down his face before looking back to the blond. "Oh my god, Illya—there were people in there!"

"There were."

"We were going to send a team to recov—they didn't have to die!"

"We all have to die, Napoleon."

"That wasn't your call to make!"

"What wasn't my call to make?"

Solo took his focus off the windshield to take a good look at Kuryakin's face, and the genuine lack of comprehension on that countenance was so complete—the potential for Illya's having deliberately done something so strong—the possibility that he had intended to go up with the building seemed so real—the likelihood that Illya was having violence-ridden blackouts seemed so unpleasantly far from zero—that Napoleon's stomach flipped and he had to pull the truck over to get a hold of himself.

Just as he had rested his forehead on the steering wheel to take a few breaths, a sudden gust of coldness blew into the cab and he looked up again to find Illya had shoved open the passenger door and was vomiting onto the side of the road. Gerry fumbled around the glove compartment and found a moderately clean rag in there, which he handed over to Illya once he seemed to have finished.

The Russian wiped his mouth, chucked the cloth back into the glove compartment, and drew the cab door shut. He let his head drop to his hands and said, "Wherever we are going, let us go there."

Napoleon drummed his fingers on the wheel for several moments before offering tentatively, "You don't remember what just happened."

"No, I… I remember now. I think."

"What happened, then?"

"I forgot."

"You just said you remember—"

"Yes. I mean, I remember that I forgot… forgot to ask about the keys. There were two of the light blue keys: one was to seal the exits, the other was to activate a self-destruct mechanism. They… the colors looked the same to me. I… I took one of them with the intention that I would ask you to replace it with the appropriate color if necessary. I forgot to ask."

"Wha—Illya, there weren't any light blue keys marked on the map. That key was green."

"I'm colorblind, Napoleon—I can't see all the—oh, ya katastrofa, Napoleon. U menya net glaz, u menya net mozga, u menya net sily…"

Ogola tapped Solo on the shoulder and, as Kuryakin rubbed his forehead and continued on in Russian, said quietly, "Give me the communicator. I'll call Bai and Wayside, and you keep driving."

Napoleon silently did as asked, and a moment later Gerry said, "Open channel D."

"Channel D."

"Wayside? Ogola. We're out, driving on a country road. The trackers should still be working. Where do we go?"

Quiet, then: "Proceed until you come across the first available right turn. Make the turn, then stay on that road. It'll take you to Pyatigorsk. Anton and I will meet you there and escort you to a satellite office."

"Pyatigorsk?" Napoleon, who could just hear Wayside's side of the conversation from his vantage point, echoed.

"Report, Ogola." The order overlapped with Solo's muttering, so Napoleon assumed she hadn't heard his eloquent contribution.

"We're all three out. Park's building has been destroyed due to an error made under pressure. Minor injuries sustained." Gerry glanced to his side and noted that Illya had progressed to softly muttering and rocking himself to and fro gently. He leaned a little more toward Napoleon and lowered his voice as he added, "Is there any psych staff at the Pyatigorsk office? It might be a good idea for us to have a little check-in before embarking on any transatlantic odysseys."

Another piece of quiet, then: "There's at least one nurse on-duty at all times. No dedicated psych staff, but one of the translators is a certified counselor. If that's not enough, I can look into area hospitals."

Ogola looked to Solo with a questioning expression. Napoleon eyed Illya, recognized his current behavior as being a self-soothing ritual he'd seen while monitoring the Russian's dorm room a couple of months ago, and decided, "A counselor should be fine."

Gerry relayed the verdict to Wayside.

"Okay. Is Kuryakin available to help read the signs, or should I give landmarks for a place we can meet up?"

Gerry put a hand over the speaker on the communicator and asked Napoleon, "Is it okay if I ask Mr. Kuryakin, or d'you think bugging him would make it worse?"

Napoleon considered it and, reasoning that the blond had seemed functional during most of the action, offered, "Maybe having a job to do would help him."

The secretary leaned closer to Illya. "Mr. Kuryakin—Illya?"

Kuryakin gave a start as soon as Ogola patted at his shoulder. "Hah? Chto eto?"

Ogola smiled slightly. "Hey, kid. We could do with your mad Cyrillic skills."

"Ah—oh, reading—yes, yes, of course."

Gerry uncovered the speaker—"Here's Kuryakin for you."—and handed the communicator over. "It's Wayside. We're setting up a rendezvous."

"Yes, of course. Hello, Ms. Wayside. …We approach from the East, so R264? …Excellent." He spoke half to Napoleon as he said, "When we make the right, we are on R264. Make a right onto E50, left onto Fabrichnaya Ulitsa, first petrol—that is, gas station on the left. …Yes, we'll wait for you, then. …Did you need to talk to either of the others again? …Goodbye."

Illya closed the channel and handed the communicator back to Gerry, who prompted, "Fasten your seatbelt."

As he buckled up, Illya stated, "We are meeting Mr. Bai and Ms. Wayside at a gas station across the street from a prison. It seems ironic somehow, but I am at a loss for witty comments on the matter."

They proceeded to Pyatigorsk and were met by Bai and Wayside in a small sedan, and both vehicles were driven out to Doletskaya's Tailor Shop, as a captured T.H.R.U.S.H. vehicle was certainly a prize worth inspecting.

Once the truck had been handed off to an agent from the U.N.C.L.E.-Pyatigorsk office, they headed inside and were met by a receptionist and the head of the office, Svetlana Dmytryk, who helped the receptionist hand out the badges. A nurse labelled by her nametag as Phuong emerged from the hallway behind the desk just as the process was being concluded and asked, "Who is minor injuries?"

Solo and Kuryakin pointed at each other: "He is."

Ogola briefly poked a finger in Kuryakin's direction, so Phuong declared, "Majority says it is you, so I will see you first."

After sparing a betrayed glare for Gerry's benefit, Illya protested, "Mr. Solo was hit in the head, so I believe he ought to take priority."

Phuong produced a penlight from her back pocket and shined it into the unpleasantly surprised Mr. Solo's eyes. "Look up. Right. Left. Down. Straight." Another click and the light was extinguished and replaced. She held up a finger and moved it around. "Any blurring, Mr. Solo?"

"No."

"Headache?"

"Only this blond one here."

"Dizziness? Trouble balancing? Unexplained change in sleep pattern?"

"No, no, and the change is temporary and easily explicable, given the recent circumstances."

"Irritability or other mood changes? Mental fog?"

"No."

"Okay. If you stay fine, you should still maybe see your physician when you go home. Any change at all while you are here, you tell me."

"Yes, ma'am."

Phuong turned back to Illya. "Your turn. What's wrong with you?"

Illya thought a moment before raising his hands by way of an answer.

Phuong took the one that looked worse off and asked, "What did you do, huh?" Catching sight of the bandage on the wrist, she added, "Why only on this part? Is this the worst?"

The Russian glanced to Solo. "I'd been meaning to ask you that."

Napoleon frowned. "Why I didn't bandage them all, or why there's anything to be bandaged?"

Silence.

"You don't remember how it happened?"

Another pause before the reluctant admission. "My head's been a bit—" He flinched back as Phuong's penlight made an abrupt reappearance. "I don't have a concussion! I am on an antidepressant and stopped taking it suddenly!"

"Ah—that might do it." The penlight was mercifully withdrawn.

"Yes, it might and it apparently has. Would you mind directing me to the restroom?"

Phuong tilted her chin as she scrutinized the Russian's face. "Nausea?"

"Given a few more moments' delay, I can answer that without words."

She gestured to the hall beyond the gate. "First door on the left."

The automatic gate barely swung open in time for Kuryakin to march through without breaking his stride.

Phuong looked over the remaining group. "Anyone else injured?"

Gerry grinned, "Nope. Miraculously enough, the black guy emerged completely unscathed."

"The meeting room has the most chairs," Dmytryk offered. "We can wait there while Phuong takes care of Mr. Kuryakin." She turned to the receptionist. "Edouard, have Mandy Stevenson from Translation join us, please."

"Yes, Ms. Dmytryk."


U.N.C.L.E.-Pyatigorsk meeting room

"Now, Mr. Ogola," Bai started, clasping his hands on the table. "Veronica mentioned you said something about an error causing the destruction of Andrew Park's… facility. Could you and Mr. Solo elaborate on that?"

Napoleon supplied, "There were several color-coded keys. Illya had to pick a few quickly. He's colorblind so he mixed up a couple of the colors, mistaking the 'self-destruct' key for the 'lockdown' key. He's been under a lot of physical and mental stress, so he forgot to ask Gerry or me to double-check the keys he'd grabbed."

Bai nodded slowly at Solo's story, then looked to Ogola. "Can you confirm this version of events?"

"Based on what I know," Gerry said, "that sounds right."

"We will, as a matter of completeness, have to check Mr. Kuryakin's medical record and speak to him as well, but for now I am satisfied that you all acted appropriately. I will, however, have to advise Mr. Waverly that Mr. Kuryakin should be placed under guard until he has had sufficient training and made adequate improvement in his mental health. We were lucky this time that no innocent lives were lost, but we cannot risk having him unexpectedly out in the field again."

Despite almost being dissolved into a puddle of relief at this outcome, Napoleon gathered enough of his brain cells to ask, "A guard, Mr. Bai?"

The CEA smiled at the wary assertion. "Nothing dire, Mr. Solo. What I will recommend is that you, Dancer, and Slate are reassigned to monitoring Kuryakin—with his knowledge of it, this time. He goes about his regular activities, checks in with you, informs you of any unusual events, and does not go anywhere out of the ordinary without supervision. In that way, Mr. Kuryakin is safe, and you and your friends get another assignment under your belts."

Wayside chimed in, "We should probably get some calls made, Anton. You take Waverly and I'll take the Russian police. I'll start with the Pyatigorsk department and work up if necessary."

"You can use my office," Dmytryk said, standing up. "Solo and Ogola can wait for Mandy here and brief her on why Kuryakin needs her." She addressed the stayers-behind. "Once you have briefed Miss Stevenson, you can press the square button on the phone." A gesture to the desk phone on the table. "It will connect you to a secretary who can help you get food and a change of clothes, shower, a place to rest… so on, so on."

Seconds after the senior officers had left, the meeting room door slid open again and a young lady with brown hair and a notepad came through.

"Mandy Stevenson, I presume," Napoleon offered, getting to his feet.

"Yes." She came over and shook each of their hands with a warm smile before taking a seat on the opposite side of the table. "You can call me Mandy."

"And I'm Napoleon."

"Gerry," the last person asserted.

"I am not a psychiatrist, a psychologist, or a full-time counselor. I cannot prescribe medication. I am a full-time translator, but I'm a certified counselor in the U.S. and am allowed by our employer to treat any U.N.C.L.E. worker worldwide in the absence of more qualified personnel."

Napoleon accepted the disclaimer with a nod.

Mandy put her notepad on the table and took a pen from her blazer pocket, clicking it. "Tell me what you can about Illya. I got a very small amount of background from Dr. Boateng while you were making your way over here, but of course he didn't want to give too much detail since Illya's in a safe place and being closely watched, so he's unlikely to be an immediate threat to himself or others."

"What kind of stuff do you want to know?"

"Oh, any recent events that might have affected him. Observations on his demeanor or behavior, especially anything out of the ordinary. Anything you'd be comfortable sharing and that might help me address any concerns when I speak with him."

Gerry waved at Napoleon. "You know him better, so you start."

Napoleon inclined his head. "Alright. Events. His parents died suddenly a few weeks ago. As he mentioned to Nurse Phuong, he's been on antidepressants recently. We were abducted by T.H.R.U.S.H. and just escaped."

Mandy jotted down a few things. "That's quite a bit, isn't it?"

"Observations. Increase in alcohol consumption. Decrease in appetite. More volatile, emotionally. There's been a couple of times when he's gotten this kind of blank look on his face." He motioned with his hands a bit. "Well, sometimes he does that on purpose, but in the past few days it seemed less like a poker face and more like he was… I don't know, in his head? Not entirely connecting with the world?"

"Dissociating?" Mandy suggested.

"I don't know. One time, he punched out a light. Lots of scratches on his hands; some glass hit a vein or something and he claimed it didn't hurt. Another time, he was just talking to himself and I was trying to talk to him but he didn't seem to notice me at all."

"Memory lapses," Gerry put in quietly.

"Yes—yes—actually, he seems to have trouble remembering what happens around the times when he… dissociates, if that's what it is." Napoleon tapped his fingertips together in thought. "I guess that's the priority for getting you involved: make sure he won't get so out-of-it that he'll hurt himself somehow on the way home, and tell us how we should deal with it if he does… have another incident."

The phone before Dmytryk's former place at the table beeped and Mandy leaned over to press a button. "Yes?"

"This is Phuong here."

"This is Mandy. Can I go in now?"

"No. Mr. Kuryakin passed out."

Napoleon stood up, Gerry whacked him in the arm with a quiet "chill, kid", and he sat down again as Phuong continued, "He is awake now but I want him to have a few minutes of quiet before you come over."

"Ten minutes, maybe?"

"That is fine. I will call again if something changes that."

Mandy switched off the connection and Napoleon asked, "Say, you speak Russian?"

"Uh-huh."

"Think you could translate something for me?"

"Probably. What is it?"

"Pardon my accent—and, if it's a string of curses, pardon my language—but… u menya net glaz, u menya net mozga," Solo attempted to repeat what he'd caught of Kuryakin's comments in the truck.

Mandy tilted her head. "It means, 'I have no eyes, I have no brain.' Did Mr. Kuryakin say that?"

"Just something I overheard," Napoleon grinned, figuring he'd probably said enough to prep her for her upcoming appointment. When she nonetheless hummed and scribbled some more on her notepad, he asked, "Would you be an American or a Canadian, Mandy?"

"American, and I almost was assigned to the same office as you, but I thought I might get more excitement out of someplace beyond the U.S." She sighed a bit. "This is the most excitement I've had in the four months I've been here." The translator leaned forward with her elbows on the table, smiling hopefully at Napoleon. "Is the New York office more exciting?"

"Well, uh, I find it reasonably invigorating, but I've never asked the folks in Translation how they feel about it."

She sighed again and sat back. "I guess it's inherently more exciting for you in Enforcement."

"Gerry here's in Secretarial," Napoleon offered, and she accordingly turned her hopeful grin to the other man.

Gerry scratched at his head. "Don't know if 'exciting' would be my first choice of adjective, but I'm never bored. Would 'not-boring' be a step up for you?"

"Yes! I mean, I just assumed somewhere foreign would be more interesting, but I guess that doesn't apply to a satellite office. I mean, there's really no recruiting for Enforcement going on here—"

"You, uh, want to be in Enforcement?" Napoleon cut in.

"Oh, yes! I think I'd be very good at it, but there are only about five Enforcement guys permanently based here, and the rest are like you: just popping in and out when an assignment calls for it. Since U.N.C.L.E. has sort of a 'don't call us, we'll call you' policy when it comes to recruitment, and none of the Enforcement guys around here will give me the time of day, I can't figure out how to get my foot in the door."

Napoleon tugged at his collar briefly: that quizzical expression being pointed in his direction suggested that he seemed the best available candidate for a doorman. "Well, well—Ms., uh, Ms. Dmytryk mentioned something about a shower and a change of clothes and I'm feeling rather ripe at the moment… which button…?"

Gerry snickered, Napoleon cuffed him in the ankle with his foot, and Mandy smiled indulgently as she returned her hand to the phone and pressed in the button. She spoke in Russian briefly, listened to the reply, and rejoined with "okay" before sitting back again.

"Nydia will be in shortly to get you fixed up." The smile broadened. "I'm sure we'll have the opportunity to chat a little more before you leave for New York."


U.N.C.L.E.-Pyatigorsk medical room

"Good morning, Mr. Kuryakin. I'm Mandy Stevenson. You can call me Mandy. May I call you Illya?"

"I suppose that depends on what you are."

"I'm a translator."

Illya frowned. "I need a translator? Can I not speak coherently in whatever language is required?"

"Well, my main work is in Translation, but I'm also a certified counselor and I'm here with you in that capacity. I understand you've experienced some traumas lately and have been exhibiting symptoms of psychological distress."

"Says who?"

"The folks you came in with. And Dr. Boateng confirmed that you are a patient of his."

Illya rolled his eyes away with a sigh and set to muttering in Russian.

"Illya… do you really think they'd post a translator in Pyatigorsk who didn't speak Russian?"

He slowly met her gaze again.

She smiled a bit.

He frowned a moment. "Ty hovoryt' po-ukrayins'ky?"

"Uh… Ukrainian?"

Nod.

"No, I'm afraid I don't speak Ukrainian. English, French, Portuguese, Russian."

An aborted laugh emerged as a soft snort as he looked away and set to muttering in Ukrainian.


U.N.C.L.E.-Pyatigorsk meeting room

"I talked with Mr. Kuryakin." Mandy chuckled. "That is, I talked to him a lot and with him very little, and his medical record filled in the rest."

"Is he okay to travel?" Bai asked.

"Maybe. How does he handle travel? Any anxiety about flying or crowds or anything like that?"

Solo offered, "He mentioned once that he finds it unpleasant, but I'm not sure what exactly he meant by that in terms of what bothers him and in what way and how badly."

Mandy had been addressing Bai, but she now turned to Solo. "So he talks to you then. You should find out the particulars of the unpleasantness."

Bai put in, "So he is—how should I put it… touch and go?"

Mandy held up a finger. "History of psychological disorder." Another finger. "Abrupt stopping of medication." Another finger. "Sudden deaths in the family." Another finger. "Being kidnapped. Any one of those can get you scrambled in the head—which reminds me." She turned back to Napoleon again. "I should probably have a little chat with you as well, Mr. Solo. And Mr. Ogola."

Napoleon chuckled. "You know, oddly enough I've hardly given the abduction itself a second thought. I'm more worried about our friend of the four fingers." After a few moments of staring down Mandy, Solo insisted, "I'm fine."

She nodded. "Okay. Now, Mr. Kuryakin has already had problems with memory and temper. More stress could easily cause another episode of one or both of those. What we must determine is whether it is more stressful for him to be here, or to take the trip to New York." She motioned to Napoleon. "Hop to it."

As Solo headed off, he could hear Mandy add to Bai, "Whether he returns now or later, though, I'd seriously recommend he see Dr. Boateng as soon as he gets there. I'd trust him under the close supervision of you and Ms. Wayside during the trip, but beyond that it would be dangerous to ignore the possibility of ongoing psychosis…"

Napoleon softly closed the door behind him as he glanced around the room. It was very small with windows opening to a small courtyard that seemed to have potential as a garden (in spring and summer that potential was likely realized), and the walls were a calming blue. A side table composed of three shelves was set near an IV setup that was set near a bed in which there was an unquestionably unamused Russian.

The American quirked a smile. "I was going to ask how you're feeling, but I think that expression says it all."

"I must say I resent that, of the two times we've confronted T.H.R.U.S.H. together, I seem to get the worst of it."

Napoleon perched himself at the foot of the bed. He gestured at the IV drip. "Did Phuong tell you what that's for?"

"Yes, but I wasn't paying attention. Given my acute increase in alcohol consumption, insufficient food intake, and that the food I was taking in was not gluten-free as I had thought it was, I assume it has something to do with dehydration or malnutrition or some combination thereof."

"Given that you passed out, one or both of those seems likely. Anyway, I have a quick opinion poll for you."

"Ah, so marketers have at last breached the impenetrable fortress that is U.N.C.L.E.-Pyatigorsk."

"Would you rather destress and decompress within the walls of the impenetrable fortress, or wing your way back to New York and de-whatever there?"

Illya frowned. It seemed more an expression of confusion than of contemplation, so Napoleon asked, "What's up?"

"I am allowed back to New York?"

Napoleon frowned back. "Your visa's still in order, far as I know."

"But—has it slipped your memory that I recently blew up several persons in a certain former T.H.R.U.S.H. hideout?"

"Ah. Based on what you told us, Gerry and I were able to vouch for the accidental nature regarding the procurement of the keys. And once it came time to use the last key—well, if we hadn't used it at that point, we'd have had several murderous T.H.R.U.S.H. agents on the loose. You made the snap decision to protect our lives, and potentially others'. It's unfortunate that it came at the expense of Park and his squad, but it was the right choice."

"Acci—Napo—Mr. Solo, is our chosen profession one that lends itself to tolerance of… accidents?"

"Illya. Under the circumstances—"

"How is this to work? Is our uncle to sweep it under his rug? I took lives. Granted, they were not overly worthy lives and I will certainly not mourn them, but there is an order to things. Charges to be brought."

"Our industrious Mr. Bai and Ms. Wayside have been working the phones since we got here. Park and his… associates… were known and wanted criminals internationally. Russian authorities have declared it an accident and have made it clear that they'd prefer not to be pestered about the matter anymore."

A blond eyebrow arched. "Rather quick on the draw, aren't they?"

"We, uh, rather suspect that they'd been surveilling Park's building and were not exactly displeased to… see them go."

The other eyebrow went up. "They knew we were in there?"

"They neither confirmed nor denied when Mr. Bai asked. And before you ask, Mr. Bai has conferred with Mr. Waverly, and he agrees that everyone acted to the best of their abilities. Once we write it up and submit a report, it should be case closed."

Illya leaned further back into the mattress and closed his eyes with a sigh. "This seems highly questionable from a moral standpoint." He looked to his visitor. "At least tell me I have been taken off the Enforcement training track until such time as I no longer need to be confined to a psych ward."

"You're not being confined to a psych ward."

Illya held up the blanket half-covering him. "Do you know what this is? This is a suicide-proof material." He maneuvered it with his hands. "Cannot be torn. Cannot be twisted into a noose. You looked around the room. The lack of decoration is no accident. The IV is only here since the nurse insisted, but that—" Pointing at a camera discreetly embedded in a window frame. "—Na—Mr. Solo, I put my free hand near the needle one time and Nurse Phuong careened in here like you will not believe."

"First of all, I don't see anything unprofessional about your calling me 'Napoleon', so please stop 'Mr. Solo'-ing me. Second of all, Mandy says you're free to go home as soon as you think you can handle the flight."

Illya frowned. "Then why was I placed in a room like this and compelled to interact with a counselor?"

"You're in a medical room because you're physically ill. I hate to dwell on things, Illya, but healthy people don't faint for no reason."

A grimace from the Russian.

"As for the counselor bit, I'm afraid that's on me and Ger. When you were just standing there at Park's door—and then when the place went up in a fireball—well, between that and everything else that had happened to you lately, I was worried that you might have… intended to go up in a blaze of glory, as it were."

"Suicide?" A scoff. "Don't be daft. I'd never go through with it." He added under his breath, "Even if it may seem the logical course of action at some points."

The prolonged silence from the normally effusive American eventually drew Illya's attention, and the obvious tightness in Napoleon's face drew his concern. Solo finally stated, "I had a sister."

Given the context and the past tense ("had a sister"), it didn't take a rocket scientist to connect the dots.

Drawing a blank on how to recover from his previous remark, Illya attempted, "Napoleon, I—you never told me you had a sister."

The brunet directed a humorless smile to the blanket. "You never told me you're colorblind. Call it even."

Illya hesitated a moment. "Forgive my harshness. Even if I am somewhat out of sorts, that is no excuse for me to—"

"I'm not telling you this to make you feel bad. Or to tell you not to say or think what you do. I'm telling you so you'll understand why I take it very seriously. And if you start to think you might go through with it, I'm asking you to tell someone. I don't care who. Just tell someone or stay with someone until you've changed your mind."

"Of course. But I promise—"

"Don't promise anything you can't stick to."

Illya leaned forward—glanced at the camera in the windowframe and leaned back—shook his head and leaned forward again until he could reach Napoleon's knee with his free hand. "I promise I will never… go through with it. And in the event you do not believe that vow, I further promise that I will discuss this matter with Dr. Boateng and keep him apprised of any changes in my… mentality."

Napoleon gave the hand a quick squeeze before releasing it.

Illya leaned back again. "So I am free to go, you say?"

"Yes."

Illya blinked at him a few times, then moved his free hand to cover the entrance point of the IV. As Kuryakin had claimed, Phuong careened into the room faster than Solo could blink.

"Ah, Nurse," the Russian greeted calmly. "Please remove the drip. I am leaving."

Napoleon chuckled. "We, uh, do still need to get plane tickets, Illya."

"Then I suggest we get them before I have to work out a means of stowing away on the next outgoing flight." He turned to the nurse, gestured to the IV unit. "Will you be so kind?"

"Really, I'd prefer to wait until the doctor can come in, in a few hours—"

"As would I, but I assume your competence in applying this device extends to competence in removing it. I'd prefer it to be properly removed, of course, but I have no issue with detaching it myself if you decide not to lend your assistance."

Phuong looked at Napoleon while poking a finger in Illya's direction. "Is this one always a problem?"

Illya interjected with a withering smile, "I am not being a problem," letting the 'yet' remain implied.

"I want you to stay here until your tickets are ready. I will gather a few high-electrolyte drinks and some anti-nausea medication for you, but until then you stay with the IV." The nurse again poked her finger at Illya, this time speaking to the blond as she added, "If you tear it out, I will find some insidious way to ensure you regret it."

"I respect your use of adjective."

Phuong took this as an adequate vow of cooperation and accordingly left.

Napoleon got up from his spot on the bed. "I'm just going to pop out to let our traveling companions know that you're ready to go as soon as we can get a flight."

"I am ready now. I am willing to wait until we can get a flight."

"You have no choice but to wait until we can get a flight."

"I am taking the path of least resistance."

Napoleon moved closer to the head of the bed. "You sure you'll be okay?" he asked quietly.

"You mean, am I sure I'll not have a psychotic break on the voyage? As confident as I can be."


Mineralnye Vody Airport

This wasn't quite how he was expecting the trip home to go. He'd expected trouble, of course, but this wasn't the right trouble.

Dmytryk had called up the head of U.N.C.L.E.-Moscow (who not-so-accidentally happened to keep up a few friendships with ex-KGB agents), and the section head had accordingly suggested to anticipate a long, miserable time in the security line. If they were patient, they would ultimately be permitted to keep their assorted belongings and proceed homeward without further harassment.

As it turned out, they were whipped past the security line almost before Bai could produce his U.N.C.L.E. identification. The group had barely finished exchanging befuddled expressions before a quartet of men in dark suits matter-of-factly slipped in and amongst them. This tactic was exactly the sort of thing that raised an agent's guards, and that instinct proved worthy when the suited-up men strode off and the New York-based group found themselves missing a person.

A person who was not happy about being rendered missing and was accordingly expressing his displeasure in the form of rapid-fire Russian. Wayside stepped up and, in somewhat more broken Russian, made an effort to support Kuryakin's protestations. Bai occasionally tossed in a nyet or a da as seemed appropriate, and Solo and Ogola attempted to insinuate themselves between Kuryakin and the suit brigade.

After a bit of back-and-forth, Kuryakin offered more conciliatory remarks to the men before adding to Wayside, "They are quite intent that I speak with them, so it will be easier for now if I comply. I do not believe they will attempt anything untoward."

Kuryakin asked something of Suit Man No. 1, who nodded and in a thick accent assured the group of U.N.C.L.E. associates, "We only talk with Mr. Kuryakin, yes? Only talk, and he will be returned to you, yes?"

"Yes. He will return," Solo repeated icily as Bai casually put his hands in his pockets to facilitate a casual display of his shoulder holster.

As he joined the suit-wearers as they departed en masse behind a door off a wide corridor, Illya flashed a smile Napoleon's way; between his pallor and the strain of the past few minutes, it was somewhat less reassuring than the blond had likely intended.

A quiet set over the others, and Solo and Ogola sort of raised their eyebrows at each other in a silent conversation, which succeeded in establishing that neither of them had a decent idea of what the hell was going on, so the former prompted, "Ms. Wayside…?"

Wayside, taking a position near the door, responded absently, "Solo."

"Uh, Ogola and I are just about sub-remedial in terms of Russian language skills, and we'd hate to jump to stereotypical conclusions on who those fellows were and what they want with Illya, so…?"

"Oh, yeah, sorry. I'm not sure, but my best guess would be SVR."

"Maybe FSB," Bai suggested, which Wayside shrugged at in a way that suggested she was pretty sure she was right, so he added, "but probably SVR."

"Oh." Solo clenched then quickly unclenched his fists. "Well. In either case… crap."

Another few moments of silence, then Ogola lightly nudged Solo's arm.

"Yeah, Ger?"

"I'm feelin' a little sub-remedial in acronyms here, bebop."

"I don't remember what they stand for, but if you're doing a 'where are they now' on the KGB, the FSB and SVR would be a good place to start."

"Oh. Crap."

About four hours later, the U.N.C.L.E. crew had missed the boarding time for their flight and was still missing one of their own. Wayside or Bai occasionally ventured closer to the door, then returned to the others to report that there was still talking going on in there.

As soon as a familiar figure emerged from the closed door, Solo virtually teleported over and accosted him with, "Are you okay? What happened? What'd they want?"

Kuryakin smiled the smile of someone who was just this side of collapsing on the floor, then clapped such a heavy hand on Solo's shoulder that the potential for a second fainting spell in the day seemed doubly likely.

"And a hearty 'hello' to you, too, Napoleon. They wanted to apologize for hindering our progress homeward, and to gift us with first-class seating on the next flight to New York, with stops in Moscow and London, departing from gate seven. We board in forty minutes."

Napoleon ran a glance along his other co-workers, who seemed onboard with his wary tone as he said, "How nice of them. That still answered almost zero of what I asked you."

Illya kept his hand on Napoleon's shoulder as if for support as he started pushing forward. "We are in the wrong terminal. We should get moving." Once they were a few feet from the door, he said quietly, "If you know who they are, you should guess that I cannot relay the details just now."

Napoleon put an arm around the blond and managed to have only a mild mental freak-out when Illya didn't protest. "They didn't threaten you or hurt you, did they? Can you tell me that, at least?"

"No threats. No hurting." A hollow laugh. "Perhaps they thought I was managing to look miserable enough on my own, without their aiding the process."

After these past couple of minutes of close proximity, Napoleon figured that the 'looking miserable' had been accompanied by some 'feeling miserable'. Assuming the men in the suits hadn't wanted that misery all over their shoes, hopefully he'd at least had the privilege of being miserable in a reasonably respectable receptacle.

"Mr. Bai," Solo said, "I don't suppose you or Ms. Wayside have some toothpaste or a little mouthwash on you."

Bai made a pitstop off to the side of the thoroughfare and rummaged in his bag while Kuryakin quipped, "Why, Napoleon, you don't think bile and reconstituted banana is a scent worthy of first class? You offend me."

"I only have toothpaste," Bai concluded, holding up the relevant thing. "You can swish with some water at the restroom sink. And Phuong said you could have another anti-nausea pill if the first did not seem to be working."

Illya patted Napoleon on the back and pulled away to take the mini tube of toothpaste and the pill and head into the nearest restroom, walking with a posture that was unusually upright even for him.

Napoleon looked to the senior agents. "What do you think?"

Wayside leaned against the wall opposite the men's restroom, so Solo joined her to allow for a more discreet conversation while Ogola and Bai lingered elsewhere so they looked less like a group of people plotting something.

"If they are who I think they are," Wayside answered, "there are a few possibilities. One, they're investigating Kuryakin for something. I don't really buy that, though, since U.N.C.L.E. just did a hell of a background check on him and we didn't turn up anything that seemed likely to be a Russian national security concern."

"Mr. Waverly mentioned Russia is, uh… taking its turn at being less than enthused about our uncle at the moment."

"That's the second possibility: they're trying to get him out of the U.N.C.L.E., either by talking him into resigning or hoping we'll just go away and leave him alone."

Solo raised his brows. "And what do you think they'd do if we'd left? It's not as if Illya couldn't manage to find his way onto a New York-bound plane independent of us."

"It would let them say, 'Look, those guys left you behind. Therefore, you would be better off without them.'"

"That's, uh… that sounds a little flimsy."

"That's why the most likely possibility is the third: they probably offered him a job with a government agency. If this was the first time they approached him, they were probably nice enough about it. He probably only seems as bad as he does because he's sick, and maybe concerned that they'll be less nice if they approach him again."

She smiled humorlessly. "Unless, of course, he's already accepted, but I'd find that possibility a little hard to believe. We cleared Kuryakin to work with us. Most of the folks we clear aren't overly excited about going in for a single nation's interests: they're either getting out of that line—you being former U.S. Army, for instance—or were never interested in the first place, which we think is Kuryakin's case."

Napoleon matched her grin. "Do you think they'll… approach again?"

"Normally, I'd say 'yes'. But even though Russia isn't our number one fan right now, they are still a member nation of the U.N.C.L.E. and they'll come around to liking us again sometime." She chuckled. "I think once they start liking us, that's the U.K.'s cue to question our value. Then it's usually the U.S., or sometimes China—anyway, they might've given Kuryakin the ol' stink-eye for not asking permission before signing on with us, but I doubt if they'll do anything else. Soon as they once more approve of our existence, they'll be glad he's with us and they know it."

Illya emerged from the restroom a few minutes later, breath somewhat improved and a bit of moisture lingering around his sideburns and neck from some vigorous face-washing. This time he quietly refused Napoleon's support as they continued on their way to the appropriate terminal. Wayside collected their tickets from a worker at the counter of their gate, and they settled into the seating area to wait to be boarded.

Napoleon had barely taken the seat next to Illya when he noticed the man at the counter staring at him. As soon as the airline worker noticed Napoleon was returning his attention, he tilted his head slightly in invitation, so the American murmured that he'd be back in a minute, then got up as soon as the Russian grunted a bit in acknowledgement.

Solo glanced at the nametag printed in Cyrillic and Roman letters. "You beckoned, Piotr?"

Piotr motioned vaguely in Illya's direction. "Is he ill?"

Not certain how well a potentially ill passenger would be received and certainly not wanting to in any way jeopardize their exit, Napoleon thanked him for his concern and said, "Just a little tired."

He frowned at the slouching blond and informed Solo quite confidently, "He looks ill."

"You don't know what he looks like on a normal day, so I don't think you could really judge, friend."

A furrowed brow and a huffed-out sigh later: "Just say he's ill."

"No, really—" Napoleon broke off as the man motioned him to come closer, and he accordingly leaned in so he could whisper.

"If you say he is ill, I can have you board first, so he gets settled before the crowd boards. Maybe I can even have the people seated near the restroom trade seats with you, so he has better access." He leaned back with raised eyebrows.

"Oh! Why, yes, he is a bit under the weather—"

"Thank you."

The airline worker scooped up the phone on the desk, tapped a button, and spoke in Russian through the intercom feeding sound throughout the terminal. A middle-aged couple approached, and he presumably explained the situation to them, as they nodded and the middle-aged man patted Napoleon on the shoulder with a companionable, "Okay, okay," before withdrawing from the desk.

Piotr confirmed, "They agreed to trade seats with you and your friend." A glance to the clock on the board behind him. "I can let you board in five minutes."

"Airline employees are the true heroes in this world, Piotr."

"Remember that if you want a snack and I have to charge you five dollars for three cashews."


One week later

Several days of observation in U.N.C.L.E.-New York's Medical section convinced Dr. Boateng that Kuryakin's psychological symptoms had been acute rather than chronic, and he was finally cleared to go home the day before the start of the spring semester. Waverly and Boateng agreed with Bai's suggestion to temporarily assign Solo, Dancer, and Slate as security detail for the Russian until he'd achieved more training (to protect himself from T.H.R.U.S.H. threats) and a more stable emotional state (to protect everyone else, given his growing proficiency with weapons and explosives).

Their return to the 81st Street apartment was somewhat less auspicious than Napoleon had hoped, as the evening consisted of doing a security sweep of the residence, having a dinner of plain rice since that was the only non-rancid food product present, cleaning the more deeply dust- or grime-covered portions of the joint, and checking their class schedules.

Then, sleep.

Sleep had been the plan, anyway, but half past one in the morning, Solo woke up again. He wasn't quite sure why, but his usual cause of late-night wakings was either a noise or being thirsty. He wasn't thirsty, so there must have been a noise. Upon further listening and a begrudging jaunt to the window that turned up no sign of sirens or outdoor disturbances, he trudged to the door and opened it just a crack to check for fallen items and/or uninvited guests.

It was only slightly reassuring when he found his housemate set up at the coffee table with laptop, textbook, and several notebooks at hand. Napoleon closed the door again with an internal sigh and took a few moments to decide how to terminate this unauthorized work session, then reopened the door and approached the situation.

"'Twas the night before school, and all through the house, not a creature was stirring… except for the resident workaholic." Napoleon plunked down cross-legged at the opposite end of the couch. "I thought you said you were going to bed. About three hours ago. Something about a long day meriting an early night."

"I did and I was, but I lost so much time over winter break that I thought it wise to do a bit more work now so it would not look as if I waited until the last minute to prepare." A melancholic sigh. "I never thought I'd be one to resort to cramming for school. Alas." He spared a final glance in Napoleon's direction before pushing his glasses back up the bridge of his nose and returning his focus to the slideshow he was putting together on his laptop. "You have an earlier start to classes than I do. You can get another few hours of sleep."

"Not while you're sneakily attempting to pull an all-nighter."

"I was not being sneaky and it is not an attempt. I marched myself straight out here with no subterfuge whatsoever and I have every intention of following through."

"You need rest. Doctor's orders." Recalling that both a psychiatrist and an M.D. had made it quite clear that sleep was rather a big deal, especially for the immediate future, he amended, "Multiple doctors' orders."

"What I need is to not make a buffoon of myself in class tomor—today. It is my first time teaching a course on my own and I must set a strong precedent for the rest of the semester."

"Being alert and conscious would probably help with that."

"Having more than thirty percent of a slideshow at the ready would also help." Illya turned back to his laptop and readjusted his glasses again as they slid down his nose. "Go to sleep, Napoleon. I will work as quickly as possible and get some rest if I have time."

Napoleon frowned for a moment, then exclaimed in a loud enough voice to make Illya jump, "Oh, look, I found a distraction!" He produced the gift-wrapped package that he'd snuck into the living room and hidden behind his leg upon taking a place on the couch. "Found the poor thing still unwrapped in my sock drawer. I thought you'd have opened it when I was in Brazil."

Illya accepted the thing as the American moved it nearer. He turned it over in his hands a few times before informing it, "I was going to but I… missed you too much."

"You missed me?"

"Yes." He spared a glance to the brunet and issued a frown proportionate to the smile he'd observed. "I thought you'd have deduced that. Even if I expressed it rather sarcastically, I assumed you'd have been able to figure out that I missed and was… worried about you."

"I did, but it's nice to hear it directly." He paused a second as something else seeped in. "You were worried?"

Illya frowned a little harder at the gift. "Not if you're going to rub it in, I wasn't."

"Okay, I won't 'rub it in' then. It's just so rare that you admit anything like that."

"I'll try to do it more often, but don't get your hopes up."

"My hopes are always up."

"I know. It is one of your more obnoxious traits."

Napoleon thought he heard a mumbled "and a reason why I like you" tacked on to the end, but it was smothered by the sound of ripping as Illya tore into the paper.

The paper was set aside as Illya got to the innards and read the title of the book he'd uncovered, "A Christmas Carol." He examined the binding and flipped a few pages. "Is there some sentimental value to its having been pre-owned, or have you simply accepted the wisdom in frugality and plucked it from your own collection?"

A laugh-shaken, "You're a fine one to talk about frugality, my friend. A custom-made necklace?"

"The Rubik's cube was custom, as well," Illya remarked, continuing to peruse the volume as if to ascertain the secret behind its having been chosen by a person with a perpetually open wallet.

"That—that seems a bit exorbitant for you." He hastened to add, "Not that I don't appreciate it—"

"Your mind can be at ease, Napoleon, for the entire expense was in the ballpark of what you might spend on fancy coffee in a morning." Suppressing a smile at the utter bewilderment on his housemate's face, he explained, "Beads and cord are quite cheap."

"You made it?"

A scoff. "Stringing beads hardly requires a fine arts degree."

"What about the cube?"

"I was allowed to create the parts using the 3-D printer at our university." After he'd promised to spend extra time as a lab assistant for the rest of the school year, of course, but Napoleon didn't need to know that part. He looked chuffed enough as it was, and if the brunet got any happier he'd never get in those extra hours of sleep before going to class.

"Anyway—" Illya held up the book. "—I believe we've gotten away from our main topic, here. Of course I enjoy Dickens—and I thank you, if I've not already done so—but the fact remains that I find it hard to believe there is not an extensive backstory to this particular gift."

Napoleon fiddled with the remnants of wrapping paper. "It, uh… it was my sister's copy."

"Ah. Do… do you still want me to have it after I—"

"Yes. She was special to me, and I think she'd like you. So it's sort of a gift from both of us."

Illya smiled dryly, "Are you quite sure about that? I can be rather a jerk to her brother."

Napoleon reached one hand to rub at the back of the self-confessed jerk's neck. "She'd like you."

He opted not to argue the point, fearing that would set him up for accidentally upsetting Napoleon's sister's surviving brother. Doing so that one time back at the Pyatigorsk office had been enough. "May I ask her name?"

"My parents had a thing for naming their children after the figureheads of failed French empires. Carlota."

"I… don't believe I saw any pictures of her at your parents' house."

"You believe right. They still find it painful so she's tucked away in family photo albums."

Illya turned the book over again in his hands and asked it, "How long?"

"Coming up on eighteen years. She's been dead longer than she was alive."

He removed Napoleon's hand from his neck and settled their entwined fingers on the couch. "You were quite young, then."

"Mm. She read this to me at Christmas a few years." Napoleon used his pinky to reach over and flip some pages. "We had to stop every couple of minutes so she could explain all the funny words and phraseology, but she was patient and we always managed to get through it in time for Christmas Eve."

"You miss her?"

"Yeah."

Illya nudged Napoleon's knee with the book. "Are you sure you wouldn't rather keep this?"

"I have a few of her other things. I know you're not big on sentimental gestures, but I'd like you to keep it."

"I will cherish it. Thank you, Napoleon."

"You're welcome." He pressed a quick kiss to the Russian's temple. "Now, while I have you more vulnerable to manipulation, will you please call it a night?"

"No." Illya rose to his feet. "I will put your generous gift somewhere safe, then return to finish my preparations."

Napoleon sighed and followed the blond back to his room, watched as the book was given a place on his bedside table, and leaned against the doorframe to half-block the exit. "What time's your class, chou?"

"10:30 start." Illya stepped over the ankle stretched across the doorway.

"Ah, excellent! I'll have plenty of time to get there."

Kuryakin froze a few steps away. He turned slowly. "I beg your pardon? Your 'security guard' duties do not extend to—"

"Oh, I'm not going as a guard. I thought I might audit your course."

"You—you have never expressed interest in computer organization."

"I developed an acute interest."

"You—no." Illya shook his head rapidly. "No. Why?"

"What, I can't make an effort to know my boyfriend better by becoming better acquainted with his field of study?"

"No—no—fine."

Napoleon blinked. "Fine?"

"You're about to propose an exchange, aren't you? You stay away from my class in exchange for my going to sleep now."

A toothy smile provided the answer.

"I could accept the condition and then simply continue to work in the privacy of my own room, you know."

"I could have stolen the USB with your work on it while your back was turned, you know."

Illya whipped around to stare at his laptop on the coffee table, realized the flashdrive was indeed missing, and turned back to the self-satisfied Solo. "You saved before ejecting it, yes?"

"Yes, it's saved. And I think I'm in better wrestling shape than you are at the moment, so it's staying with me until seven in the a.m., bub."

His hair almost shifted over one eye as he tilted his head. "Are you quite sure of that?"

"I'm sure that we'd at least have enough of a tussle that we'd wake up a few neighbors. Further, I'm sure that I'd leave it to you to explain our friendly kerfuffle to whoever got sent up here to check on us."

Illya sighed. "Can I see it, at least, to be sure you have it and I didn't simply lose it somewhere?"

"You can have a look around your work station," Napoleon suggested with a gesture to the living room seating area. "Convince yourself it's not over there. I'm not dumb enough to hold it up where you could reach out and grab it."

Another sigh.

"You wound me, chou."

"I'll shut it down." Kuryakin accordingly went over to shut down his computer and gather his textbook and notes. As he returned, Solo shifted out of the way but paused when Illya said quietly, "You can be extra certain of my not working if you join me."

"Ya-what?"

Illya hummed—a stifled laugh at Napoleon's cartoonish double take. "Only to sleep, of course. I… was a bit lonely during my overnight stays in Uncle's medical wing."

As Napoleon hesitated, Illya ducked his chin in an apparent moment of hesitation, then blinked a few times over the rim of his glasses. If the American didn't know better, he'd say the blond was batting his eyelashes at him, but he absolutely did know better since the Russian wasn't prone to that sort of flirtation.

Therefore, he must have been speaking sincerely.

And therefore, he must have actually been lonely.

And therefore, Napoleon joined him in bed.

And then he woke up alone at half past six. Sans the USB drive that had previously been stowed in his pocket. And with a housemate tapping away enthusiastically at his computer in the living room.

"How long have you been up?"

Illya snorted. "How long has it been since you fell asleep?" At Napoleon's sincerely disgruntled huff, he paused in his work to look over. "Are you angry with me?"

A sigh, then a smile. "No. Leopard can't change its spots, right? I'm not mad."

The American chuckled and shook his head as he proceeded to the kitchen.

From whence he proceeded to his eight a.m. class.

From whence he proceeded to a ten-thirty a.m. class on computer organization.


A/N: Non-Gershwin song in the title is by My Chemical Romance, 'cause I felt like it.

And that's that, because I have yet to figure out how to write endings. I am planning a third story in this little series I have going, but it's still in a rather nebulous form at the moment so if it ever gets posted… might be a while.

Thanks for reading through!