"Napoleon!" Illya sits bolt-upright and tries to catch his breath, heart hammering.

It's the same nightmare he's had every night since that day with Byrne.

The one where he's in the compound in Belgium, and he can smell the smoke and hear the crackle of the flame and everything is dark except for the bright white snow that squeaks softly under his boots and the orange glow coming through the high, narrow window of the small outbuilding. He knows he should be hurrying, but he dreads what is waiting for him and so he walks with heavy feet, his breath coming out in puffs. As he approaches the building, snow begins to fall, but the flakes are mixed with ash and they scorch his cheeks and neck and the backs of his hands. The closer he gets, the more he wants to run in the other direction as fast as he can and not look back, and as he arrives the feeling is so strong that it makes his chest ache. He reaches up to open the door, and his hand is shaking. As he wraps it around the handle, it's so hot that he can hear the skin of his hand sizzle, though he barely feels it. He takes a breath, and then opens the door.

The single-roomed building is filled with fire, and in the middle of it, bound and gagged, is Napoleon. There's blood matting his curls, and it's clear from the cuts and bruises on his face, the obviously broken nose and cheekbone, that he's been beaten. Tortured. He looks up at Illya, his blue eyes wide and pleading. Illya tries to move forward, but it's like his feet have been cemented to the floor and he's helpless. Helpless as the flames move closer to the American, closer and closer until they're licking at him, filling the space with the stench of burning flesh.

Napoleon jerks in pain and begins to struggle, screaming against the gag in his mouth. And his eyes stay glued on Illya, full of fear and pain as the flames engulf him and Illya, he tries and he tries to reach him, to save him. And when that doesn't work, he tries to speak, to offer some sort of comfort. But his vocal cords are paralysed, and nothing comes out as much as he tries. He prays for the smoke to suffocate him, or the heat to take him, but he remains untouched. All he can do is watch as his partner is reduced to ash. It's only then that he's able to move, though he's still rooted in place. He looks down at his hand, to the thing he's holding. The thing he's been holding all along. The last thing he sees before he wakes up.

A blackened match.

"Chyort voz'mi!" he swears, driving a fist into his mattress. He shoves the blankets away and swings his legs over onto the floor. "Zhizn' ebet meya…"

He stands and starts to pace in an effort to calm himself, but as he does all he can see is his booted foot landing in snow and that damned room and the smell and the sound of Napoleon screaming, of that fucking Irishman's laugh…

The yell rips from him before he knows it's happening and his vision goes black. When he comes back to himself, his good hand is wrist-deep in the wall. He extracts it slowly, watching as little bits of plaster fall to the ground. His knuckles are bloodied and already swelling.

Illya's heart is still pounding and hands still trembling when he storms out of his room.

xxx

A shout and loud bang rouse Gaby from her sleep and she sits up and turns on the lamp next to her.

"Illya?" she calls. She hops out of bed and slides her feet into her slippers before padding out into the hall. She's not sure what happened, but she's already feeling guilty. They've barely talked since the mission. He's tried, but she's been angry, and stubborn, and so wrapped up in her own pain that she hasn't been able to understand his. "Kuryakin?"

The door to his room is slightly ajar, and Gaby pushes it open before reaching in to flick on the light. His bed is unmade (she's never seen it unmade unless he was in it) and there's a hole in the wall and he's nowhere to be seen. Her chest tightens with worry and she flips the switch off before stepping back into the hall.

It's then that she sees it-a crack of light, coming from a few doors down.

Napoleon's room.

She creeps forward until she gets to the door. She raps the wood twice with a knuckle before she opens it.

"Illya?" she says quietly, peering into the room.

The Russian is sitting on the end of Napoleon's bed, straight and stiff, staring at the wall. Gaby leans against the doorframe.

He doesn't move, doesn't even blink.

"I, um. I wanted to apologize for my behavior during the mission. I should have been more in control…" She sighs. That's not why she's here. She knows it. He knows it.

"I heard you shout," she says. "Earlier I thought I heard you call his name."

And then she waits, knowing that he'll speak when he's ready. When he finally does, his voice is soft and hollow.

"He wanted to be buried in the town where he was born. Burlington, New York. He has not been there since before the war. But he wanted to go back. I could always tell when he grew tired during stakeout or research because he would start to talk about the...the leaves. How beautiful they were in autumn and how they made trees look like they were on fire." He falls silent again.

"I didn't know that," Gaby says. A small part of her is jealous that she'd never been offered this glimpse into the American, but she knows the bond between him and Illya is different. Was different. There's more that she wants to say, to ask, but she doesn't; she gets the sense that Illya isn't finished yet.

He finally turns to her, moving for the first time, and Gaby is struck by how tired he looks. Dark circles give a sunken appearance to his sullen eyes, his skin is pale, and the nicks and bruises from the explosion don't look as though they're healing the way they should be.

"Are you alright?" she asks quietly.

"I killed him," he whispers. His expression is one of anguish.

A lump forms in her throat and she steps into the room. "Illya…"

"No!" he cries, and the sorrow in his voice breaks Gaby's heart to pieces. "Gaby, I did. I did. I left him, bleeding and cold and those bastards took him and hurt him and burned him. He died alone and then they burned him."

She crosses the remaining space between them and sits next to Illya. Her feet dangle above the ground. She looks up at him. "There's nothing you could have done differently."

"I could have carried him!"

"And what about the boy?"

"He could have walked."

"For kilometers? In the snow? They would have caught up to you, Illya."

"At least he would not have been alone!" His shoulders slump and he hangs his head with a sigh. "I could have done something. I could have thought of something."

For a moment, she thinks he might cry, but he doesn't, just stares blankly at the floor.

"Look at me," she says gently. He obeys with visible reluctance, lifting his head and turning to her, though he still avoids her gaze. She puts a hand on his face, careful of the still-healing injuries there. "Hey."

He looks up with wide eyes.

"Feeling it is the only way to get better."

"I don't want to feel it."

"Me neither. But we've seen what happens when we try not to, Illya. It's dangerous and destructive. Just look at our last mission."

Illya lets out a loud breath through his nose that Gaby recognizes as the rough equivalent of a laugh and envelops Gaby's hand with his.

"I hate it when you are right," he says. "But I...I do not even know where to start. I fear that it will...overtake me. That I will lose myself in it. It feels like there is...knife in me. Here." He removes his hand from Gaby's and touches his chest. "And when I think about him, is like someone moves it. Twists it. But if I avoid it, knife just sits there. Painful, but easier to ignore."

Gaby moves her hand down and lifts one corner of her mouth. "If you don't remove the knife, you'll never heal."

"If I do, I may bleed out."

She doesn't answer. She hates it when he's right, too. As much as she's trying to seem otherwise, she's as lost and scared of the process as he is. They both sit there for awhile in silence. Much to Gaby's surprise, it's Illya that eventually breaks it.

"We will have to figure it out together, hm?"

"We will. But first, sleep." She slides forward until her slippered feet are on the floor. Illya doesn't move. She looks back at him. "Are you going to bed?"

"I…" He looks down, suddenly bashful. "I think I may sleep here tonight. It…" He clears his throat, and Gaby thinks she sees his cheeks grow pink. "The room smells like him."

She hadn't noticed it before, but the Russian is right. It smells just like him, a mixture of his cologne and shoe polish and coffee. The tears well up unexpectedly, and they fall before she can stop them.

"You want to stay with me?"

She sniffs and nods before wiping at the tears with the sleeve of her pajamas. Illya stands, and together they pull down the blankets. Gaby climbs in, and Illya joins her a moment later, after turning off the light and closing the door. They lay on their backs, side by side.

The pillows smell like Napoleon's hair gel.

It doesn't take long for the agents to drift off, and both sleep better than they have in many nights.

xxx