Illya did not rouse when Miss Jones came into the room in the early hours to give him another dose of the painkiller, but Napoleon, on full alert, was sitting up with his gun in his hand the instant she opened the door. He hadn't even changed his clothes to go to sleep, preferring to be ready for anything.

'Relax,' she whispered, holding up the syringe to show him. 'Just a little more to help him sleep. Sleep will help him heal.'

Napoleon exhaled, and put the gun down with an apologetic smile. 'I've honed my reflexes over the years,' he said. 'You never know when Thrush are going to come a-knocking, and they can enter a house just as quietly as I can, I assure you.'

She smiled, bending over Illya to take his temperature before baring his left arm to carefully inject another dose of morphine.

'I've learnt something from your entry, Mr Solo,' she said grimly. 'I have tied empty cans on strings to all of the windows and doors. This is the only room I haven't done, because I didn't want to wake him – or you.'

Napoleon gave her an approving grin.

'I should tell the London headquarters about you, Miss Jones. They're currently recruiting.'

'Elidh, please,' she replied, and Napoleon could see enough in the dim light to tell she was blushing.

'Ay-lee?' he repeated curiously, giving her a flattering amount of the attention that he almost did not know how to turn off any more. 'That's an interesting name.'

'E-l-i-d-h,' she qualified. 'My mother was an Irishwoman, God rest her soul. Most perfect woman I ever knew. I know that all children think that of their mothers – '

'Not all are so lucky,' Napoleon quibbled. 'Some people wouldn't give their mothers the time of day.'

'Well,' Elidh replied, then trailed off, seeming lost in thought.

'I have a little Irish in my family history myself,' Napoleon commented.

'Well, don't all Americans who once happened to look at a shamrock?' Elidh asked rather cynically.

Napoleon was a little taken aback, but he liked that the woman was a straight talker.

'Well, I do like a lady who can speak her mind,' he said with his most charming smile.

'Mr Solo, I'm getting rather mixed messages from you,' Elidh said directly, fixing him with her gaze. 'You flirt with me like a professional, but when you look at him...' And her eyes moved to Illya, asleep in the bed. Napoleon's gaze drifted with hers and settled on Illya's face, childlike in sleep, his blond hair mussed, his full lower lip in a slight pout and his eyelashes dark along the edges of his eyelids. Only the vicious bruise down one side of his face spoke of a more sinister scenario than the sleep of the innocent.

He shook himself. 'I'm sorry, Miss Jones,' he said softly. 'Flirting is a habit with me. I have been – ahem – a charmer, I guess, all my life, and it is also very useful in my profession.'

'And him?' she asked, glancing at Illya again.

It was a rare moment that Napoleon found himself blushing, but it happened this time. Although he was gregarious as a façade, he was actually intensely private over the central core of himself, and what Elidh was trying to elicit from him was an admission of something that was a crime in most countries in the world. In Illya's home country it would probably get him killed.

'He is my partner,' he finally settled on saying. 'I rely on him to keep me alive, and he relies on me.'

'That almost didn't work this time, though,' Elidh said softly.

'No,' Napoleon echoed her soft tone. 'No, it didn't.'

That was what always rankled on him the most. Illya had been injured many, many times, so often that Napoleon was, in a fashion, used to it. Illya regarded his body like any other tool he used for his job, and if it was broken on a mission, he repaired it and moved on. So far, thank god, he had escaped permanent disability or death, and he was sensible enough to do all that he could to avoid those eventualities. He was not a masochist, just a pragmatist. So Napoleon had grown almost – almost – inured to the idea that on half their missions he would find Illya beaten, battered, strung up, or otherwise affected by Thrush's diabolical machinations. What Napoleon could never grow used to was that feeling of anger, of self-recrimination, at not having got there in time to prevent those things from happening. No matter that Illya was the most bull-headed man he had ever known, with a tendency to go off like a lone wolf in pursuit of his prey. Napoleon still blamed himself when he wasn't there to prevent Illya from getting hurt. He hadn't been there this time, as per Waverly's orders, but he didn't blame Waverly, he blamed himself.

'He's alive,' he said, aware that Elidh was watching him with a good deal of understanding in her eyes. Rather too much understanding, he thought.

She settled herself in her chair and folded her arms across her chest. Napoleon suddenly felt rather dominated, sitting as he was cross-legged on his bed of cushions on the floor.

'I am a nurse, Mr Solo,' she said. 'A nurse who works in A&E in an extremely busy hospital in the culture capital of the United Kingdom. I live in a melting pot. I have seen many, many things, and I have learnt not to judge. I wouldn't say that all of my kind are without prejudice, but that doesn't matter. I'm talking about myself. I have seen people of every hue walk, crawl, be wheeled through my doors, and I treat them no matter what. They all bleed red. I have seen people with disabilities and disfigurements that would have some people in the street crossing to the other side. They bleed red too. I have seen people with an array of household implements pushed into places in their body that that would make your eyes water. I have removed them, with no further comment than a little common sense safety advice. And I have seen a gentleman die while the man who loved him was excluded from the room, because their love was not approved of. Love is not a crime, Mr Solo.'

Napoleon cleared his throat. 'I – haven't said that Mr Kuryakin was anything more than my partner – my business partner, if you will,' he clarified.

Her eyes were steady on his face, and she smiled. 'You don't need to,' she said.

She picked up the empty syringe and bottle of morphine, and left the room.

Napoleon sighed the sigh of the weary. It was almost four in the morning and he hadn't had nearly enough sleep recently. He got up from his makeshift bed and moved to the chair placed so conveniently next to the bed. Illya shifted a little in his drugged sleep, and a slight smile pulled at the corners of the Russian's mouth.

'Illyusha,' he murmured, putting his hand softly on his partner's arm. Illya barely tolerated such terms of endearment in his waking life, leaving Napoleon to use terms loaded with ironic humour; tovarish, little Russian, and so forth. But he could not stop Napoleon from thinking, Illyusha, my sweet, golden, idiot friend…

((O))

There was something about the relief that night that made Napoleon fall into a deep sleep, the kind of sleep he had grown to regret. Perhaps it was the knowledge of the cans Miss Jones had so cunningly tied to the windows. Perhaps it was because he knew Illya was finally out of pain, sleeping well, and so close to safety. Perhaps it was just that he was exhausted after a week of ceaseless worry and walking the streets of London every day trying to find his partner. Whatever it was, he did not wake until he was gifted with a sharp kick to his ankle, and his eyes opened to the muzzle of a gun pointed directly at his face. Instinctively his fingers twitched for his own gun, but he had left it on his bed. It didn't really matter anyway. The second man, who had a gun pressed tight against Illya's forehead, would have prevented him from even starting to raise it.

He hoped that Miss Jones was safely asleep in her bed. He wondered why the cans she had spoken of hadn't made a noise – but then he remembered that she had explicitly told him there were no cans on the window in this room, in deference to Illya. The breeze on his face told him that Thrush had exploited that one weakness, in the only room that had a light in it. When she had told him she hadn't defended this window he should have got up and done it then. But he hadn't. He had been tired. He had been distracted. He had let Illya down again.

'U.N.C.L.E. are surrounding the area, you know,' he said, keeping his voice much calmer than he felt. 'How do you propose to get us out of here?'

The thought occurred to him suddenly that perhaps they had no intention of getting them out of here. Perhaps their plan was a quick bullet to the brain. But then if that were so, they'd already be dead, wouldn't they?

'We got in, didn't we?' the swarthy Thrush operative behind the gun told him in a low voice. 'We'll get out.'

He glanced at Illya. He was still asleep, despite the gun muzzle that was pressing so hard onto his forehead that the flesh around it was white.

'Be careful with him, won't you?' Napoleon asked. 'You damaged him rather badly last time, and I want to be able to return him to the store.'

A hand under his arm jerked him to his feet. He glanced at Illya but tried not to look too concerned. Things like that could make things even harder for them. He cursed silently under his breath as another Thrush man entered the room with Miss Jones held firmly by the arms and a strip of white cloth gagging her. Damn it! They had got into the room, even gone through into the rest of the house, and he had slept through it like a baby.

'Leave her,' he said seriously. 'She's just a nurse. She's not U.N.C.L.E. and she doesn't know anything.'

The swarthy man grinned. 'Since when has not harming innocents factored into Thrush plans? That's your weakness, pal. Orders have changed. We want him alive,' he said, nodding towards Illya, 'and looking at the state of him a nurse will be a useful asset.'

Miss Jones' eyes widened, but she looked relatively calm, to Napoleon's relief. She struggled for a moment as if trying to reach the gag, but the man holding her was too strong, so instead she nodded her head emphatically towards the suitcase.

'Er – yes, the suitcase,' Napoleon nodded. 'It's full of medical supplies and clothes for Mr Kuryakin. If you want to keep him alive it might behove you to bring it along.'

'Check it,' the swarthy man said, and the operative holding the gun to Illya's forehead removed it and walked round swiftly to give the case a brief search.

'Clothes, drugs, and bandages,' he said briefly.

'Any shoes? Any tie pins?' the swarthy one asked.

'No, nothing like that.'

Napoleon grimaced. It had taken Thrush a while but it seemed that they had finally caught onto the fact that U.N.C.L.E. agents often had a small arsenal and escape kit in their jewellery and shoes. It was obviously time to change concealment tactics.

'It's essentially a medical kit,' he said dryly. 'That's its only priority.'

'Take the case along,' the man in charge nodded.

'What about Illya?' Napoleon asked tensely.

'He'll manage,' the Thrush man said without sympathy. He touched his gun to Napoleon's temple and nodded at another of the men. 'Search him – thoroughly.'

Napoleon stood motionless as one of the Thrush minions slipped his hands carefully up and down his body, removing tie, tie pin, shoes, and watch.

'He got cuff links?' the swarthy man checked.

Napoleon smiled his most charming smile, jerking his cuffs out from under his jacket sleeves. 'A gentleman is never without cuff links,' he said, revealed two gold links that also contained a blade and a small amount of explosive.

The cuff links were removed. Standing without tie and shoes, Napoleon took stock of what they had missed. There were a few explosives and incendiaries in his jacket buttons, a pick in one side of the collar and a small blade in the other. His trouser cuff held a couple of homing pins, but they wouldn't be much use. All in all, the Thrush men had been annoyingly thorough.

'Take the jacket, too,' the swarthy man said, and Napoleon's heart sunk a mite further as he shrugged off his last repository of useful items.

'All right,' swarthy man nodded. 'Get the Russian.'

At a jerk of his head the other man hauled Illya upwards out of the bed. Suddenly coming to consciousness, Illya cried out involuntarily, trying to reach his left hand towards his injured right arm. He looked confused and horribly vulnerable in his loose pyjama bottoms. It was suddenly obvious to Napoleon just how much weight and muscle he had lost in the past week.

'Be careful with him,' he said, rather more tersely than he had meant to.

'Come on,' the Thrush leader said unsympathetically, jerking Illya towards the door. The Russian stumbled forwards, apparently with hardly any idea of what was going on.

'Look,' Napoleon said, spreading his arms wide. 'Let me. I'm hardly going to be a flight risk if I'm supporting him, am I? Whereas I'm proficient enough in judo to flip a man holding me before he's had a chance to know what's happening.'

There was a moment of silent consideration between the Thrush men, then the top man nodded.

'Let him take his pal,' he said.

Napoleon went to Illya's side and put his arm around the thin, bruised body. He hadn't seen the lash marks on his back until now, and they made him wince. He knew he had risked exposing a vulnerability in showing such open concern for his partner, but then all agents knew that the bond between partners was strong, virtually unbreakable. Love did not have to enter into it. As he had said to Miss Jones, they kept each other alive. Illya was like air, light, and warmth to him. Love was a different thing entirely.

'Come on, tovarish,' he murmured. Only Illya would understand the sentiment of endearment behind the ironic appellation. 'Just a little walk now.'

Illya's eyes were unfocussed, his body limp, but Napoleon could see the tightness of pain around the edges of his mouth.

'Thought we were waiting til – ' he began incoherently. '...hardly walk...'

'Plans changed,' Napoleon said shortly. If Illya had no idea they were being removed from the house at gunpoint then there was no point in telling him. 'Come on, you can walk. It's not far.'

Illya gave a slight snort approaching a laugh. 'A wide, wide sea,' he murmured, and stumbled as his bare foot caught under the edge of the floor rug.

Napoleon sighed, and gritted his teeth, thanking god that Illya was not a big man.

'Let me sweep you off your feet,' he said, carefully turning the Russian so that his injured arm was on the outside, and then lifting him in his arms.

Illya grunted and made noises of pain, but his eyes closed as Napoleon settled him against his chest. He recalled how many women he had lifted like this, usually as a preamble to depositing them on the nearest bed and divesting them of their clothing. It always looked so easy in the movies, but it really wasn't. Even less so when one was trying not to aggravate bruises, a broken arm, and broken ribs.

Carrying the Russian down the stairs was an awkward business, but Illya seemed utterly unconscious of anything now he was nestled against his partner's chest. As they were taken outside to a waiting van Napoleon wondered what had happened to the U.N.C.L.E. agents who were supposedly stationed about the place – but then Thrush had plenty of means at their disposal for rendering people inert. They could have taken out the whole area with gas if needs be. He only hoped that they had used non-fatal force. Dozens of good agents didn't deserve to die just so Thrush could get their hands on the famed Solo-Kuryakin combination.

He settled Illya as comfortably as he could on the bare metal floor of the van, and turned to Miss Jones as she was shoved in behind him, reaching out to tug off her gag as the doors were slammed behind them. His eyes would have spoken a million apologies, but it was utterly dark as soon the doors closed.

'I never meant you to get into trouble,' he said quietly.

Somehow he knew she was smiling. 'I got myself into that when I came across your partner bleeding on the road,' she said. 'Just as I told you, Mr Solo; I'm a nurse. I've seen a lot of things. And I don't like to leave a patient who needs me.'

He knew that being kidnapped by Thrush personnel, that being almost certainly scheduled for execution when her usefulness was exhausted, had never come up in the line of her duties, but in deference to her bravery he said nothing.

'Is the case in here?' he asked.

'I think they've got it in the front,' she replied. 'I can't exactly tend to Mr Kuryakin in the pitch dark anyway.'

'No, no, I suppose you can't,' Napoleon murmured.

The van's engine started up, with an accompanying vibration and bloom of exhaust scent. Illya stirred and asked dazedly, 'Napoleon, what's going on?'

Napoleon felt for him on the dark and put a hand on his arm.

'Take it easy, Illya,' he murmured quietly.

He felt the realisation of trouble shudder through the Russian's body. He was trying to rouse himself further.

'Nap-Napoleon? What is happening?'

'Tell him,' Miss Jones said quietly in his ear. 'Or you risk agitating him even more.'

'Illya, we're not being extracted by U.N.C.L.E.,' Napoleon said heavily. 'We're in the back of a Thrush vehicle.'

Illya was still and silent, as if trying to let those facts sink in through his drug dampened brain.

'Thrush?' he asked after a moment, disbelief sharp in his voice.

'Yeah.'

Napoleon leant against the divide between cab and cargo area, and let the vibrations run up through his spine. They weren't travelling very fast but that didn't tell him much. They were still in suburban streets, where a speeding van would gain unwanted attention.

'Napoleon?' Illya asked again, apparently struggling hard against the morphine that was dulling his mind.

'There's nothing you can do, so lie still,' Napoleon said more tersely than he meant to.

He waited for the inevitable argument, but it did not come. He wasn't sure whether to be gladdened or concerned about that. Illya rarely missed the chance to peevishly assert his ability. A lifetime of being judged too small and too weak had seen to that. What Illya lacked in size he made up for in skill, strength, and bloody mindedness. Napoleon kept his hand on Illya's arm, glad of the darkness that hid both his worried expression and the fact that he was gently stroking the Russian's arm from the perspicacious nurse who was trapped in the van with them.