'I can feel the wind blowin'
It shakes the trees and the power lines.
What makes a man spend his whole life in disguise?
I think I know,
I think I might know.'

"What Makes a Man" ~ City and Colour

One hour later, in an opulent, Northern section of the city, two men stepped from the shadows and knocked on a manor's back door.

The grass was fresh, despite autumn temperatures. Its lush green made the men's faded tweed hats pop out with obnoxious clarity. Grounds keepers and cooks walked home for the day. They departed with the setting sun.

Nobody noticed the smaller of both men hesitate before knocking on the back door. Nobody noticed the larger, dark haired man gaze not at the door but at his friend with earnest and worried eyes.

Nobody ever noticed them.

The back door swung open to reveal a dark kitchen. A butler appeared, carrying his coat.

"Oh thank the fates!" Napoleon exclaimed in an Irish accent. "We were hoping we weren't too late to tell Faivre that his automobile is on fire!"

The butler dropped his things. "Monsieur Faivre! Monsieur!"

And just like that, Faivre could be seen racing out his own front door to a trail of smoke from the east side of the house.

Napoleon and Illya slipped into the still-swinging back door and up the stairs.

They found Madame Faivre exactly where they expected. She wiped stage makeup off with a shaking hand, staring at her reflection where she sat at the vanity mirror. Dots of glitter in her hair matched a stray one in Illya's eyebrow. Napoleon hadn't the heart or desire to thumb it away.

Napoleon pushed ahead so that he led the way and Illya didn't fight him on it. Solo's natural charm made him less intimidating, even if they were close in height.

"Madame Faivre?"

The aging woman swiveled on the bench, eyes wide.

Both men immediately hunched a little in an instinctive need to make themselves look smaller when they saw a discoloured patch on Helen Faivre's cheek. Though over a week old, the bruise stood out in mottled green and mauve. It was ugly and the worst sort of statement piece.

"How do you know where I live?" she gasped out.

Napoleon's face broke into a smile and he found it genuine, to the surprise of everyone present. "Pageant contestants make the best sources of information, I've learned."

Faivre only squinted her eyes, confused, for a minute before her brows shot up in realization.

"Well," she said, her smile weak but courageous, "For a pair of gentlemen you deserved those sixth and thirteenth place ribbons."

Napoleon shot his partner an amused look.

Kuryakin shrugged. "You really do make a beautiful woman. I guess I just don't cut it."

"We can't all be so 'exotic' as myself," said Solo.

Illya would normally have smiled, maybe even chuckled, but all Napoleon got was a nod. It made him pale a little.

When Illya's eyes again found Helen's, she sighed. "You're here about my husband, I assume?"

Napoleon fought to conceal his astonishment. "Of course, ma'am. But you sound like this isn't the first time someone has approached you about your spouse's…er…less savory activities."

The woman nodded. She set down the washcloth, her whole posture defeated. "And all of the world's governments offered me the same thing you are about to: that I can finally be free…get away from…But they always turn back on their word!"

Her eyes filled and she hid them with a shivering hand.

What Kuryakin did next was Napoleon's greatest shock of the day, even in competition with snipers and pageant strutting.

In an impulsive rush, like an eastern wind, Illya crouched at Helen's side, her hand nestled in both of his. The Russian's face was breathtaking, a work of art. So open that it felt like intruding to look at—fear and empathy and pain and a pinch around Illya's eyes that spoke of infinite loss.

A single tear rolling down Kuryakin's cheek almost made Napoleon pass out.

"No," said Kuryakin. "Is not like that. I know what it is to be manipulated. We are here to protect you, not use you."

Solo didn't dare to even breathe. He held it, turning steadily red in the face, and gazed with a strange longing at his partner.

"I promise," said Illya, "That you will never be harmed, not while I stand guard. I will not lose…not again…"

The woman looked into Illya's eyes for an endless moment. She seemed to shed twenty years as lines around her eyes smoothed and a flare of her nostrils spoke of understanding. Faivre squeezed Kuryakin's hands back.

Napoleon finally sucked in a quiet breath, feeling like an intruder to Illya and Helen's intimate stare off.

Their eyes were desperate, haunted, and filled with such determination that all of Monsieur Faivre's men could not budge it.

At last Helen nodded. "For you, dear boy, I will do it."

Illya said nothing. He leaned forward and pressed his lips to the old woman's cheek. It was chaste, a school boy's action upon a teacher or mother, but Napoleon still felt he should look away.

And I, Napoleon vowed in his mind, am here to protect you, precious oaf.

Smoke. Tobacco ash. Steam from a rusted sink.

The coughing clicks of a phone being spun on its dial, again and again and again.

Those were the only sensations that penetrated Solo's slice of the world. He manhandled a cup like a belligerent suspect, washing it for the fourth time in a row. Despite this, his face oozed utter calm. More placid than a bell hop's.

He finally threw the cigarette into the tray. It was a terrible habit, picked up from a terrible man. At least, or so Napoleon consoled himself, he had better taste in cigarettes than Sanders.

"Yes, I know my code is not active any longer…Da, comrade…but the numerical check point is!"

Napoleon gave up on the dishes. He leaned on the sink, arms braced against it, and bowed his head. Kuryakin's endless attempts to dial the right authorities—Russian, he presumed from the mixture of English and Russian conversation—had at last succeeded and now he sat arguing into the phone in the other room.

A thick manila envelope sat on the safe house's kitchen table but neither man had gone through it. It contained Mrs. Faivre's statement and a few records of her husband's illegal nuclear affairs. Enough to bring him to UNCLE for questioning, certainly.

They would turn it over to Waverly in the morning and the case was over. Done. Out of their hands, now.

Solo's heart beat faster.

Done. Over.

"Spasibo. Da!" A hush overcame the sitting room and, in turn, the kitchen. Both men went mute from different emotions. Illya on account of being on hold and anticipation for an answer to whatever question plagued him. Napoleon because of his desperate need to not feel like a child.

To understand how Faivre has wounded you, Peril.

Illya never willingly called his Russian handlers. Those times usually involved Waverly's fierce looks and the offer to back Illya up if the "Ruskis" were being problematic.

Kuryakin had stared at Waverly for a long time after that one. As if he couldn't decide whether to be insulted.

"Am I not a…'Ruski?'" he had asked.

Waverly had flapped his hand in an amused gesture. "Don't be silly. You're one of us now."

Solo had tried to memorize Illya's shocked, touched face.

Napoleon's right hand clenched around the drying towel. That memory stung now.

"Da. I am still here…What is the word?" There was absolutely no further sound from Illya but Solo suddenly tensed.

Something in the air did a one-eighty. Super charged, like the air before a lightning strike.

Napoleon's head shot up.

"…You're sure? Positive? In the market, you say…" Illya made a choked noise Solo couldn't even hope to interpret. "I…I will…I can't believe…Da. I'll be on next flight out."

A clatter signalled unsteady hands hanging up the phone receiver. Napoleon listened to Kuryakin's bedroom door slam and went over to it.

Solo was not a whimsical man by nature.

But he indulged himself, just this once, and placed a hand on the door. Splayed, trusting fingers and all.

There came a sudden thud from the other side of the door. Almost as if…as if Illya had indulged himself too.

"Illya?" Napoleon hated how pleading his tone came out. He swallowed. "Kuryakin? What are you doing?"

The tacit Russian was silent for so long that Solo doubted he'd answer. There was a rustle, like his head had lifted from its weary repose against the door.

"Packing," said Illya. "I am packing. Go away."

Napoleon's face dropped of all emotion. His voice came out low and dry. "I think I have water in my ears. I hallucinated your response."

Waverly's hands were folded on his cluttered desk, smile pert as usual. But sympathy shone behind the large glasses.

"No, Mr. Solo. You heard me correctly. Mr. Kuryakin requested two weeks off to go to St. Petersburg, Russia. Hence his empty desk. He boards his flight in…" Waverly checked his watch. "Now, actually."

"Time off? Vacation time, no less?" Napoleon nose wrinkled. "Sir, you and I both know that's a load of—"

"Napoleon." It was this use of his first name that silenced him. Waverly stood, voice soft and eyes sadder. "I never said Illya took vacation."

Napoleon blinked for a full minute. Then his lips parted and his face drained of colour.

"No," he breathed.

Waverly nodded and if Napoleon didn't know better, he'd say the man looked bright eyed. "I'm afraid so."

"Who?"

Waverly bit his lip, a rare tell. "He wouldn't tell me."

"Sir, may I request—"

"It's already approved," said Waverly. "Go."

Napoleon was out the door before Waverly sat back down.

Lanky Russians, as it turned out, were fast.

Napoleon had missed getting on the Russian's flight but bought himself a ticket for another two hours later.

Luck was on his side—Illya had still been meeting with someone at the Kremlin when Napoleon arrived. Napoleon had watched from the shadow of the American embassy as his friend's bright head of hair emerged from the Kremlin doors.

And then he'd promptly disappeared.

Napoleon now found himself spinning around on the sidewalk, trying to find wherever his partner had run off to. Several policemen in their black musher hats eyed the "Yankee" suspiciously yet passed without incident.

He sagged against a lamp post.

Shame welled up inside Solo.

I don't know where he lives…does he even live in the heart of the city? Another Russian city?

Illya had certainly left on foot, not in a car. Within walking distance, then.

In a flash, Napoleon straightened. "I know where you are, Peril."

It was a dingy thing, two floors of moldy carpets and men playing poker at the bar downstairs. But the two men had stayed here while on assignment once—

And it was within walking distance of the Kremlin.

Better yet, nobody ever asked questions at the Plachushchiy Medved'. The seedy motel was prized for discretion. Politicians didn't dare stay there, so it was mainly the working class who utilized its plush yet dirty accommodations.

Stepping into the front lobby bar, Solo smiled at the familiar feeling of the room's smoky, ship-like interior.

"Master Zolenko!"

Solo turned from his place at the front desk. A ruddy faced man walked over from the poker table, apron around his hips.

Solo tipped his head. "There's the proprietor with no propriety!"

Kush winked at Napoleon. He switched to English for Napoleon's sake, never fooled by their 'two Ukrainian brothers on vacation' act. "I was surprised when Comrade Kuryakin came in by himself. Looked peaky."

Napoleon took a step back in surprise.

Illya gave Kush his real name?

The snowy haired innkeeper seemed to read Napoleon's mind. "Fear not, Mister Zolenko, or whatever your real name is. Your identity and privacy are safe with me."

And surprisingly, in this country with its ironclad fist and horrible justice system, Solo looked into the man's eyes and believed him. He saw only an honest, homely empathy. Napoleon relaxed immediately.

"You want a room next to your bratishka?" asked Kush.

At the familial moniker, Napoleon paused.

Kush shrugged one shoulder. "No matter who you are, that's true of you both. It is perhaps the most honest part of everything you ever told me about yourselves. You're a good bratishka."

Napoleon finally smiled a real smile. It felt like his first in decades. He reached over the front desk to shake Kush's hand. The man nodded, eyes crinkling in a grin. He handed Solo a big brass key.

Just as Napoleon paid and dragged his bags up the stairs, the door across from his swung open.

Russian and American stared one another down. Illya did not look surprised to see him.

He was, however, angry.

There it was at last. The cherry on top of Napoleon's personal Hell sundae. It made Illya's fingers tick against his thighs and crimson blossom in his cheeks.

"What are you doing here?" he hissed.

Napoleon ignored the venomous tone. "I'm here to get to bottom of this."

Looking deep into Illya's eyes, Napoleon let the disappointment wash over him. His chest deflated and his brows drew together.

It wasn't anger. It was just play acting a predictable role.

Illya was still terrified.

Terrified and defeated.

At least that was one emotion both men shared.

Napoleon was so lost in his own despair, a drowning man ignored by the coast guard, that he missed when Illya spun on his heel and shuffled down the stairs.