It takes a little more than a week for Napoleon to tire of War and Peace. On the upside, he's on the road to recovery, able to stay on his feet longer every day, spending more and more time awake. And on the downside, he now has more hours to spend just thinking about things he'd rather not be.

Like the dream he had last night.

He dreamt of Illya.

He dreamt that he made it back to London, to headquarters. He went straight to Illya's room, though the halls took on the maze-like quality inherent in dreams and it took longer than it should to get there. The whole time he was picturing their reunion, the look on Illya's face when he realized that Napoleon was back. The door was open a crack when he got there, and he pushed it open. The room was dark and strangely claustrophobic, and Napoleon found himself becoming uneasy in the usually comfortable space.

"Peril!"

Illya, sitting at his desk, didn't respond. Didn't even flinch. Napoleon stepped forward.

"Illya?"

Still nothing.

"Illya," he repeated, feeling himself start to panic. "Look at me."

He reached forward and touched his shoulder, and Illya turned, but his face...It was blank. Cold. Panic shifted to fear.

"It's me," Napoleon said, and his voice was weak, his still outstretched hand trembling. "Napoleon."

Illya looked at him, eyes steely. "And?"

He'd woken up in a cold sweat, heart hammering.

And he's been thinking about it ever since.

Not that Illya would forget him. Napoleon is pretty damn unforgettable. But Illya moving on...that's a lot more probable than Napoleon would like to admit. It's happened before. People come in and out of his life all the time. The life he's chosen, it just comes with the territory. Partnerships, relationships...they're as expendable as the people in them. And he understood that when he signed up for UNCLE.

Except that the little team has turned out to be different. For the first time, he actually cares, really cares, beyond a professional capacity, about the people he's working with. Gaby, Waverly even. And Illya...

He'd never admit it to anyone, but he's caught feelings for the Russian. And it had happened embarrassingly early on. What started as morbid fascination had become respect had become something else. It's why he'd taken the watch on that first op-a simple action on his part that took little effort. It was an action he wouldn't have taken for someone else. He wouldn't have even thought to. The change on Illya's face as he caught the gently tossed watch had said it all. And the two have gotten along pretty well since then. But there's no definitive evidence that he sees Napoleon as anything more than a partner.

No evidence that he won't have moved on already.

The thought makes Napoleon feel things he's rarely allowed himself to feel in what seems like a lifetime. Fear. Inadequacy. Heart break.

He shakes his head as if doing so could somehow force the thoughts from his brain and tries to get back to reading. But he's read the same page four times now without actually comprehending a word. War and Peace is not doing it for him anymore. He sighs loudly and pushes the blankets off of himself and stands. It doesn't take too much effort this time, and he's able to walk around the little cabin a few times without even breaking a sweat. The exercise seems to genuinely be helping in keeping his mind off of things.

He thinks that maybe some fresh air would help even more.

A few minutes later, he's out behind the cabin, watching his breath come out in puffs. The cold, sharp air stings every bit of the exposed skin of his hands and face, but that small unpleasantness is worth it to breathe fresh air for the first time in over two weeks, even if it does make his lungs ache just a little. And he's not too cold, otherwise, bundled as he is in clothes loaned to him by Bastien. The legs of the trousers are rolled up, as are the sleeves of his long shirt and flannel, the arms of the heavy fur coat extend to his second knuckles, and the hat on his head feels like it may slip over his eyes at any moment-a far cry from the tailored suits Napoleon has grown used to. But he's thankful, more than thankful, and keenly aware of the debt he owes the man. A debt he will never be able to fully repay.

Standing out there in the cold, bouncing on his toes with his hands cupped at his mouth, breathing into them in a feeble attempt to return the feeling to his fingers, his eyes land on a stump with an axe buried in it. Next to it is a pile of uncut wood.

And suddenly Napoleon knows how he may begin to repay the debt.

It takes him a few tugs to get the axe free, and already he's feeling the effort. But he doesn't stop, instead opting to pick up one of the logs and balance it on its end on the stump. And he swings. There's a satisfying thwack, and the two pieces of wood fall away.

He smiles, and he does it again.

And again.

He's well educated and has a remarkably sharp memory, but Napoleon Solo isn't always smart, and as he lifts his ax for the upteenth time, he is made keenly aware of that fact.

It's the reopening of the wound that does it. He drops the ax as though it's bitten him and claps a hand to his side. The feeling is painful and nauseating and sucks the air from his lungs. It takes only seconds before his hand grows warm with blood and he closes his eyes and sighs heavily. He opens them again and pulls his hand away just enough to catch a glimpse of the red, then quickly puts his hand back.

"Shit."

He eases himself into the snow and leans against the stump with a sigh. The cold white power doesn't take long to start soaking through his clothes but his heart is hammering and it's taking longer than he'd like to catch his breath and his bullet wound is aching and he doesn't really feel like standing up even if his ass is quite literally freezing, so he stays put. Minutes pass and his rear-end starts to go numb and he wishes he would've just stayed inside reading.

"I should get up," he mutters, and he thinks about it, he really does, but he's tired and can't actually will himself to move. So instead he sighs and lets his heavy lids slip shut.

xxx

"Das ist doch nicht dein Ernst."

Napoleon opens his eyes to see Bastien standing over him.

"Ah. Hello," the American says with a sheepish grin. "I decided to pop out for a bit of fresh air and got so comfortable I must have...dozed off."

Bastien is glaring at him, though Napoleon can see the concern beneath it.

"I'm really fine," Napoleon says, and Bastien's frown melts.

"Come," he sighs, reaching to help him up. "Let's get you inside."

Napoleon looks at the outstretched hand and briefly contemplates turning it down, but a pang in his side makes him reconsider and he takes it. He tries very hard to stand without indicating the pain he's in and he fails miserably, hand tightening against the wound as a grunt escapes him.

"You opened the wound." It's not a question.

Napoleon grimaces. "I did," he answers through grit teeth, hoping Bastien will somehow pick up on the half-assed attempt at an apology.

"I told you, did I not? I told you, just this morning when I took off the bandages!" Bastien says as he maneuvers himself and Napoleon back into the cabin.

"Told me what?"

"That you are still healing and you're not to overwork yourself."

"I did no such thing!"

"So you just picked up my axe and dropped it in the snow for fun?"

Napoleon bites his lower lip and then offers up a grin of the shit-eating variety. "Yes I did. It was very fun."

"And the three freshly cut logs?"

"It was more than three!" Napoleon replies, too quickly to recognize the trap.

Bastien snorts. "You Americans. Full of shit. I was just out there and I saw. There were three of them. And very uneven. Now sit down. Shirts off."

Napoleon scowls at him but complies. The usual sympathy isn't visible in the man's face, and in its place is a look that says, I told you so.

Napoleon lets out a long groan as he gets to the last layer, a white undershirt. It's stained with blood, which has dried and adhered to the wound. He looks up at Bastien, who's already leaning forward and whose expression has shifted to one of worry.

"Betonkopf," he murmurs.

"I don't know that o-ah!" Napoleon's sentence is cut off by a cry as Bastien pushes the shirt up, pulling the crusted blood away from the wound. He can feel a warm trickle of fresh red liquid a second later.

"It means cement head!" Bastien says. "You would say idiot."

"Got it," Napoleon gasps as he catches his breath.

"Arms up," Bastien commands, uncharacteristically terse. Napoleon raises his arms obediently, doing a very good job of not letting it show on his face how much it hurts. Bastien pulls the shirt over Napoleon's head and throws it to the side. "It looks like the bleeding has nearly stopped. I'll have to clean it. And bandage it, again. Even though I thought we were done with that!"

"Yeah, yeah," Napoleon grumbles, sitting back in the chair as Bastien sets to work.

"You are unusually lucky, Herr Solo." Bastien remarks. "You could have hurt yourself with the ax, or opened your wound worse than you did and bled out, or frozen to death in the snow! What were you thinking?"

"Uh…You really wanna know the answer to that?"

"I really do." His usual delicacy is all but gone, and Napoleon has to clench his teeth to keep from making noise every time Bastien comes into contact with the wound. "But after I am done. I would like to have a conversation with you while I'm sitting in the other chair instead of crouched on the floor with your blood on my fingers."

"Fair enough."

Bastien finishes quickly after that, then straightens. "I'll be back, and then you are going to tell me how someone who has read Tolstoy in three languages can be so stupid." He disappears into his room, then returns with a clean shirt in one hand and a bottle of brandy in the other. "Here."

He tosses the shirt at Napoleon, who less catches it and more grabs at it as it hits him in the face. He pulls it on as Bastien sits in the chair next to him and takes a swig of brandy.

"Can I get a drink of that?" Napoleon asks.

Bastien snorts. "No. Alcohol thins the blood, and I think you've already lost enough of that today." He takes another drink, then sets the bottle on the little table between his chair and Napoleon's and looks at him expectantly.

Napoleon isn't sure he wants to answer honestly, if at all, but there's something about Bastien that he trusts, and so he speaks, though the words don't come out as easily as they usually do.

"I...I had a nightmare. About my, uh...co-worker. My, my friend, really."

"Illya," Bastien says, and Napoleon looks up sharply, suddenly on high alert.

"How did-how do you know that name?"

"You said it in your sleep, the night I found you," Bastien explains.

Napoleon feels his face and ears turning red and he tries not to look as flustered as he feels. "I, uh-he-we, it's...uh."

Bastien just smiles, firmly back to his warm and cuddly self. "Don't worry," he says. "Go on, if you want. If you prefer not to, I understand."

Napoleon is good at most things, but he's the first to admit that vulnerability is far from his strong suit. Sarcasm and deflection are far more his speed. He tries to convince himself that it's because he's strong and funny and suave, and that the hard stuff rolls off him like water off a duck's back. Deep down, however, he knows it's a defense mechanism. But it's the only way he knows how to live, and he hates it.

So, just this once, in a cabin in the middle of the damned woods sitting by the fire with a kind stranger and a bullet wound in his side, he decides to let his guard down, all the way.

"I was stuck," he says, and the rest follows. The words tumble out, haltingly at first and then steady and sure. "I was living well. I had a steady career, nice suits, nicer cars, even nicer women. But it didn't make me happy, not really. It was just...stuff. Distractions to try and make myself forget that I was...at the end of a very long leash. I was resigned to that being my existence until I was able to earn back my freedom or die trying. And then these...very annoying people came into my life. This posh, smug Brit and this…" He finds a corner of his mouth beginning to lift. "This tiny little spitfire of a German mechanic and...And this big, stupid Russian who wears entirely too many turtlenecks."

"Russian? That must be…"

"Illya," Napoleon confirms. "My partner. At my new job, I mean."

"The job that left you shot in the woods?"

Napoleon opens his mouth and moves it wordlessly a second before letting out a breath. "Now that I can't talk about. Highly classified and all that. You can't say a word about this to anyone."

"My lips are sealed," Bastien says, then takes a long drink of brandy.

"Good. The dream I had last night, the nightmare. I dreamt that I made it back to...to work. To Illya. But when I got there, he…" The emotions he'd felt when he'd jerked awake last night come rushing back.

"He didn't remember you?" Bastien guesses.

"Worse than that. He didn't care."

"And you fear that Illya-the real Illya-may feel this way also."

Napoleon nods. "I didn't want to think about it and Tolstoy wasn't doing the trick."

"I see," Bastien says. "That's why you decided to go cut my wood."

"Yes."

"Hm. You are an interesting man, Herr Solo. All of this talk and you're more of a mystery than ever. Still a betonkopf though."

"You're a bit of a mystery yourself, big man," Napoleon says.

"Oh?"

"You still haven't told me why you're helping me."

Bastien sighs and looks down at his hands. "I have seen enough people-felt enough people-die to last a thousand lifetimes. I am not going to watch another person die, Solo. I don't care who they are."

Napoleon gets the sense that there's more to it than Bastien is letting on, and he's determined to get to the bottom of it, sometime. But for now he says, "Might I make myself a cup of coffee? Surely that isn't too strenuous an activity."

"No coffee. It is a stimulant. You can have herbal tea. There's chamomile, peppermint, ginger, rosehip...Probably more that I am forgetting. I'll build the fire in the stove. You can do the rest."

"Yes, warden," Napoleon grumbles leaning his head back.

If he hears Bastien swearing at him under his breath, he doesn't mention it.

xxx