Jules Cutter had immediately reported to a both puzzled and relieved Waverly. Then, he looked for Napoleon Solo in his office. The man was leafing through a file absentmindedly and peeped at him mechanically.

"Solo... Illya Kuryakin is back. He woke up a few minutes ago and..."

He paused... Nothing. He didn't expect that. The old Napoleon would have leaped from his chair, raced towards Medical. No one could have prevented him from seeing his friend. Wrong, Cutter thought. The old Solo would have been stuck by his partner, at the moment.

Instead of which the dark haired man sighed faintly and gave him the ghost of a smile.

"I guess that Doctor and nurses are looking after him."

That never stopped you trying... Cutter nodded, taken aback, but the other lost in thought paid no attention to him. He cleared his throat.

"He's extremely weak, of course, but, well, he did recognize me."

Napoleon Solo kept a faraway look which made Cutter uncomfortable but he insisted.

"I think he'll do well, with time."

The ghost of a smile, again, which faded instantaneously. Solo got up calmly.

"I must talk to Mr. Waverly."

"I told him, Solo, he knows..."

The other man ignored him, heading to the corridor. Cutter took hold of his arm as he went out.

"Damned, Solo! He asked for you!"

"Oh."

No surprise, just evidence. Napoleon Solo got free politely.

"I have to talk to Mr. Waverly."

"He told your name, Solo. You..."

He talked to a brick wall... Cursing, he followed the agent.


"You know the place, Mr. Solo. You know the Doctor. Mr. Kuryakin will be..." Alexander Waverly hesitated, considering his agent's inscrutable face. "It's the best. They'll take care of him, see at his safety and..."

"No."

"No?"

Jules Cutter leaned back against his chair giving Napoleon Solo credit for his self-assurance, but Waverly's tone betrayed his lack of understanding. The Old Man was frowning, probably on the edge of harrumphing. The dark haired man didn't look like to be impressed, to say the least, nor defiant. He didn't confront his superior. He had stated his opinion. "No." Period.

"Mr. Solo..."

Napoleon Solo stood upright, bent over the round table, laying his hands flat on it and he repeated flatly.

"No." Then, he went on, hammering out his words. "As soon as possible, I'll take Illya to Mousehole, at Mikey's home."

Waverly kept silent for awhile. The pipe strategy... Jules Cutter could have predicted it. The Old Man checked the pipe, filled it carefully, with no indication as to whether he had paid attention to his agent's words.

"Sit down, Mr. Solo."

Solo hesitated. Waverly raised an inquiring eyebrow, pointing his pipe at the chair.

"It's an attractive idea, Mr. Solo."

But... Because there was a "but". The dark haired man sat down, keeping his eyes in Waverly's. There was a "but". He knew about the "but": safety, medical cares...

"Of course..." Waverly paused to light the pipe and took a puff at it. The pipe strategy... "Of course, we could make the place safe, and see at the medical cares."

But...? The Old Man's face showed concern.

"Mousehole is quite far from New York, Mr. Solo. You... It wouldn't be easy for you..."

Alexander Waverly searched for words. Apparently. Of course, he didn't. It didn't fool Jules Cutter, not Napoleon Solo.

"I mean... Mr. Kuryakin will need his friends. He'll need you. Mousehole is..."

Napoleon Solo raised his hand.

"You..." The dark haired man paused, offering a grim smile. "You want me to organize the meeting, sir. I'll have very few spare time. Your ... clinic is a calm, peaceful place. A cold one. The Doctor, the nurses are efficient. They're nice. They're... boring..."

"And?"

I don't trust them... But he couldn't say that. "That's all, sir. Mikey will take care of him."

Alexander Waverly played with his pipe, almost absentmindedly.

"So, Jules, what do you think?"

Oh, thank you, sneaky old fox... Mousehole... Mikey... Jules Cutter kept memories of his first meeting the fisherman, determined to fight in order to protect his "protégé", a young man he knew for a few hours, a man who had just been released from jail... He took a deep breath.

"The clinic is safer..."

Napoleon Solo stiffened imperceptibly.

"Mikey..." Cutter sighed. "Mikey is family."

Alexander Waverly rested his chin on his palm, thoughtful.

"Well... we'll ask Mr. Kuryakin about what he wishes."


The thought of death had made him feel both bitter and almost hopeful. Hopeful, as he had realized that for days, months, years, he'd be a limp, powerless body, a vegetable unable to survive on his own, unable to communicate, and desperately aware of his condition. Bitter because of all he'd leave unsaid and undone. Just too bad.

Nothingness.

He had been terrified.

Chaos.

Gentle words, harsh tone, voices comforting, begging, scolding, yelling...

Hands squeezing his wrist, grabbing him roughly, shaking him up and down, dragging him mercilessly into life...

He was alive, back in Medical.

People were fussing over him, doctors nurses. They were encouraging and reassuring. Everything was okay. He was doing well. He would be fine.

"Oh, and... Do you remember your name? Who is your partner? Where are we? Can you move that finger? Do you feel this?"

Perfectly reassuring. They pricked, poked, pushed, pulled him relentlessly.

"My name is Illya Kuryakin. My partner is Napoleon Solo." Where the hell was he, by the way? " We are in the Uncle HQ, in New York. Yes, I can move it. Ouch!"

"You're doing well, Mr. Kuryakin. Oh, and, who is Mr. Waverly? Can you squeeze my hand? Do you feel this?..."

Napoleon... Ouch! Please...

He was alive and exhausted.

And happy.


The Doctor pointed at the chairs in the corridor.

"Don't ask me why, how, I couldn't tell you. Illya Kuryakin will pull through. Of course, he'll need some rest, some physical therapy, but he's fine. Really." He looked at each of them. " I mean... in one month, I'll qualify him for light duty. And then..." The man smiled.

"He's awake and you can go, now. Just one thing... He's slightly grumpy."

Napoleon Solo chuckled with delight. Something had just been torn to pieces, something like a heavy curtain, or a fog which had kept him cut off from reality for days, weeks. Everything got back in its place, for the first time since he had left the clinic.

Illya was alive. He was doing well. He was grumpy... and probably hungry...

"Grumpy? So, by the way, he's fine. Thank you, Doctor. Thank you very much."

The man raised his hands.

"Mr. Kuryakin survived despite the blast, the falling, the drowning... He... Well, that's luck, Mr. Solo. First of all, that's luck."

"And stubbornness..."

Alexander Waverly peeped at his agent with amazement. He had been put under a great strain for weeks, and suddenly... Suddenly he was back to his old self.


"He regained consciousness, and you have to know that he... He's fine." He paused for a second, breathless. " And... I won't do anything!"

"Ts ts ts, Doctor... You'll do exactly what you'll be told to do...'