Crying Shame

by Miss Direction MFU

You've asked why I put up with it, why I let Solo sail through our assignments, flirting with any attractive woman he comes across, and keeping himself fresh as a flower while I get slapped around, tied up and dropped into vats of whatever disgusting stuff Thrush has on hand. That is a very good question. I suppose it goes back to when we first worked together.

You've said my partner runs roughshod over me and I can see why you might think so. He has been cavalier at times, bordering on careless occasionally. I don't disagree that I end up with the more unpleasant parts of our assignments, while Napoleon lands in clover. It's true, I'm always among the waitstaff or the cleaning crew while he hobnobs with the aristocrats and debutantes. Napoleon is never the one disguised as a barefoot vagrant.

And as you've pointed out, he calls me by a wide range of pet names, occasionally insulting, or at least belittling. For the most part, I choose to think of them as benign, even perhaps affectionate. I'll admit there have been a few little epithets that felt somewhat unfair, in as much as my part of the affair left me in rather poor condition: tired, dirty, hungry and bruised.

The abuse I often encounter has been the subject of a few conversations between Napoleon and myself. His theory is that I antagonize my captors. For most of my life, I've had to fight above my weight. Sometimes weight wins out. I've contemplated the issue far too often from a hospital bed.

Now, as for Napoleon leaving me in the lurch while he romances pretty women, that's more exaggeration than truth. There are times when one of us has to offer a diversion while the other searches file cabinets, or sets off explosives or scales the wall to get into the secret laboratory. It's just more often than not, I'm the one doing the searching, demolishing, or climbing and Napoleon is the distraction. And more often than not, the one to be distracted is a pretty woman.

You've asked why I put up with it, why I let Solo sail through our assignments, flirting with any attractive woman he comes across, and keeping himself fresh as a flower while I get slapped around, tied up and dropped into vats of whatever disgusting stuff Thrush has on hand. That is a very good question. Again, often pondered from the medical unit.

I suppose it all goes back to when we first worked together.

Technically, it was our second assignment. The first was a milk run, a walk in the park job that had gone off without a hitch. The second one was supposed to be only a small bit more complicated than the first. It turned out to be anything but.

We weren't officially partners yet, These assignments were more of a test to see how we got along together, whether our styles meshed and our strengths were complimentary. I suppose I was the tricky part of the partnership equation, being the Soviet wild card.

Alexander Waverly was the power behind my integration into U.N.C.L.E. New York, and while he had the final word on everything in that realm, I most definitely did not receive wide approval. There were still factions that could make my position very difficult.

There are stories about my reception back in those days. It was the 1950s, with the Second World War very much in recent memory. The cold war was very chilly, indeed. I'd spent time in London and Berlin before coming to New York, and had been the outsider. But both of those cities had more cosmopolitan attitudes than those in the United States. Americans are a law unto themselves. A nation of cowboys.

I want to put the tales of my encountering violence within the organization to rest. I was not beaten by my fellow agents, nor did they shoot or stab me. I will admit to a few bruises at their hands but the circumstances were more "overzealous sparring during hand to hand combat drills" than "jumped and pummeled in the alley." And if those drills made me tougher and faster in the field, then I should probably be grateful for those bruises.

In truth, I administered more bruises than I received.

My appearance was probably not what they expected. I was all of 26 and looked much younger, a source of much frustration for me. An innocuous appearance can definitely be an advantage in our line of work. It's useful to be considered harmless by one's enemies. It's not necessarily a plus when you're dealing with peers who are also young and jockeying for position.

Napoleon, to his credit, always treated me as an ally, an equal. He might tease me about the length of my hair or my penchant for black turtlenecks, but he never commented on my size or my youthful appearance. We weren't friends in the beginning, but I preferred to be considered a trusted colleague than a chum.

So we set off on our second assignment, traveling to the Detroit area. We'd received intel that certain chemicals had been shipped to a factory where automobile accessories were manufactured. These chemicals were more pharmaceutical in nature than would typically belong in an industrial factory. U.N.C.L.E.'s intelligence analysts were very thorough, picking up on the most obscure details where things didn't add up.

Not only were these chemicals not industrial, they were common in some of Thrush's hallucinogenic and truth serum concoctions.

While still in New York, we'd conferred with the Detroit office, lining them up as a source of backup if needed. They gave us some valuable insight into the area and Thrush's efforts to expand in the Great Lakes region.

The two of us flew into Detroit airport and checked into a rather down on the heels motel. Napoleon often stays in luxurious suites in the best hotels as part of his high-flying cover identities. My accommodations are usually far more basic. I'm happy to have a bed without bugs and at least tepid water in the shower. Perhaps I am fortunate that I haven't had the opportunity to grow used to the finer things.

This room was adequate: two beds, a table with two chairs and a modest sized television on the dresser. The furniture was a little scratched, the bedspreads a little shabby, but it was clean and there was a decent stack of towels in the bathroom.

We sat at the chipped formica table and spread out the blueprints of the factory building. Our research department had pored over city records outlining changes to the structure going back ten years. They'd marked a probable location for a scientific lab based on plumbing and wiring updates.

While Napoleon made sure our false credentials were in order, I inventoried the various explosive devices hidden in my clothing and shoes. I was well prepared to obliterate whatever was necessary. Actually, I was looking forward to it.

We headed to the factory, posing as federal auditors sent to review their purchase history. We wore appropriate clothing as civil servants. I smiled to myself that the dapper Napoleon Solo had to leave his tailored suits in New York and wear an off the rack, slightly worn ensemble chosen from the U.N.C.L.E. wardrobe department. My own suit was deemed appropriate by Agnetta, the wardrobe mistress.

We arrived at the factory and presented our very official looking documents and were granted access to the records we requested. Marjorie, the woman who was assigned as our guide and minder was a little past the point of ingenue status, but not quite old enough to be described as a spinster. She led us to a conference room where boxes of file folders had been placed on the table.

Napoleon chatted her up, using his considerable talent for distraction while I delved into the records. I dug through purchase orders and shipping manifests, listening as Napoleon charmed and dissembled and generally gave her more attention in an hour than she probably received in a year.

After an hour or so, I had seen enough to confirm that things were going on here that we needed to stop. Napoleon had asked Marjorie if she could scare up some coffee for us, which set her all a flutter.

"You found something?" Napoleon asked as the door shut behind her.

"There is definitely something afoot here. I'm going to search for the lab."

"I'll keep Marjorie busy," Napoleon said. As previously mentioned, keeping ladies busy has always been his purview.

Marjorie came back with two cups of coffee on a tray along with sugar packets, a small milk carton and a couple of packages of shortbread biscuits. Her cheeks were pink and her eyes shining. She was totally enraptured.

"Please, can you direct me to the lavatory?" I asked. Marjorie was all too happy to comply. She had no interest in a scruffy young auditor, not with debonair Napoleon to thrill her.

"Down the hall to the left, turn right and you can't miss it."

I set out, confident that Marjorie would be fully occupied with Napoleon's clever chatter. I had memorized the blueprints and was pretty sure in which direction a lab facility might be located. Registering the smell of burnt coffee, I passed an empty breakroom. What looked like a lab coat was hanging from a chair. "D. Baker, Lab Assistant" was on the badge clipped to the front pocket. How fortuitous, I thought, as I pulled it on.

In the middle of the afternoon, the halls were quiet. The factory part of the building was probably a hive of activity. This area was taken up by business offices where people were likely busy at their desks.

I passed few employees as I made my way. I made sure I appeared busy and a little annoyed, an attitude that had worked well for me in the past when infiltrating a place of business. People never looked particularly happy at work.

The research team's notes on the blueprints had been quite accurate, and I located the laboratory exactly where they had predicted. My luck continued, as it was empty. This lab was clearly pharmacology related. I searched the shelves and cabinets, noting the chemicals that our intelligence analysts had been concerned about. I was just about to set some explosives around the room when I felt a hard blow to the back of my head and fireworks exploded before my eyes.

Waking was slow and painful, as my head pounded. I tried to open my eyes, but the light was blindingly bright. Deciding that was a terrible idea, I shut them again. I could tell that I was seated, and that my arms and legs were immobilized. My luck had deserted me. In truth, I don't think I've ever had much. Napoleon has always been the fortunate one.

"Ah, back in the land of the living, I see." I forced my eyes open to see two pudgy, middle-aged bald men with glasses perched on their noses. I blinked and the two men resolved into one. Ah, double vision, my least favorite symptom of concussion. "I must say, I couldn't believe my eyes when I found a human guinea pig had been delivered right into my hands."

The man had a bland, rather benign face. It was only the intense blue eyes behind the glasses that gave a glimpse to the truth about him. He was deranged, and there were two of him again.

"I took a wrong turn on my way to the men's," I said, straining against the bands of leather that held my arms and legs tight to the chair. "I will be missed if I'm not back soon."

"You were wearing one of our lab coats, but you are clearly not Don Baker. He's much bigger, you see. As far as I'm concerned, an intruder in my lab is fair game. I must say, I've never seen such a young U.N.C.L.E. agent."

"Not U.N.C.L.E. I'm a Thrush intern," I lied. "Central sent me to help you."

"Well, my young friend, I'm Dr. Emmett Vossberg, and you are going to be an enormous help with an important experiment."

Glancing down, I noted both the lab coat and my suit jacket had been removed and tossed on a nearby lab stool. My weapon and holster lay on the counter. My shirt sleeve had been rolled up, exposing much of my arm. Drenching a cotton ball in alcohol, he applied it to the crook of my elbow.

"I wouldn't want you to get an infection from my little project," he said. Vossberg inserted a needle into a vial and drew up the contents into the syringe. He tapped at it with his finger and plunged the needle into the vein in my arm. The contents of the syringe felt cold as it entered my body.

"I'm not going to tell you what this will do to you," Vossberg said with an impish grin. "It might skew the results if you know what to expect. Besides, it's so much more amusing for me to keep it a secret."

In truth, I didn't feel anything beyond the blinding headache. I hoped Napoleon would come soon. If Marjorie had been younger or prettier, I'd have worried that he would lose track of the time I'd been gone and become distracted while he was distracting Marjorie.

Vossberg pressed two fingers along my jaw. "Heartbeat is a little fast," he said. "But you've had an eventful afternoon. How do you feel?"

"As if someone tried to knock my head off my shoulders." Behind Vossberg, I saw movement through the frosted glass in the door. I kept my expression blank. The door opened so quietly, Vossberg didn't notice.

"Step away from him." Napoleon had finally come to rescue me and he'd brought a second Napoleon. He gestured with his weapon in the direction he wanted Vossberg to move. His gaze turned to me, "Are you all right?"

"All right, so far. He injected me with something."

"What was it?" Napoleon demanded. "What did you give him?"

Vossberg laughed and held up his hands. "I injected him with the key to Thrush's dominance of U.N.C.L.E. and the world."

"It was in that vial," I said, nodding with my head in the general direction. I immediately regretted that action as the room spun around me.

Napoleon pocketed the vial, which still had a few ccs of clear liquid in it. "Free him," he ordered Vossberg. The doctor hesitated. "I'd rather bring you with us, but I'm happy enough to shoot you right now."

Vossberg unstrapped my arms and legs, springing back quickly, which wasn't a bad idea on his part. If I'd felt better, I'd have punched him. As it was, I stood shakily, grabbing the counter to stay vertical. Using the straps from the chair, I secured Vossberg's hands behind his back. I found a roll of surgical tape and some gauze pads in a drawer and used them to gag the doctor.

With the room spinning, I replaced my holster and gun. Rooting around in my jacket, I dug out the plastic explosives and placed them strategically around the lab. The double vision complicated this. The detonators were on a timer giving us five minutes to exit the building.

The bombs would cause major destruction in the room, essentially hollowing it out, but would not be enough to bring down the building, though it would cause structural damage. We would trigger the fire alarms on our way out the door. The confusion would be a good cover for our escape.

Napoleon grabbed Vossberg and pushed him out the door and down the hall. I struggled to keep up, as I kept listing to the right and grazing along the wall. "You okay?" Napoleon said over his shoulder.

"Don't worry about me," I said as we started down the stairway. Vossberg struggled against his bonds, to no avail. I had made the straps as tight as I could; I hoped his hands were growing numb from lack of circulation. When we got to the first floor, I pulled the fire alarm before we pushed through an emergency door. The ringing made my head hurt even more as we ran to the car.

"You're bleeding," Napoleon said as I opened the trunk of the car. My hand came away sticky when I felt the back of my head.

"He hit me with something," I said as Napoleon man-handled Vossberg into the trunk. The doctor tried to scream through the gag as Napoleon slammed the lid.

The alarm continued to ring and people streamed out of the building as we drove off. I checked my watch as we turned on to the street. "Five, four, three, two…," I counted. A satisfyingly loud boom marked the "one."

Napoleon drove to Detroit headquarters while I tried not to vomit from increased dizziness in a moving vehicle. "Close your eyes," he suggested. That seemed to help and I kept them shut until the car came to a stop in a parking garage.

Agents streamed out of a door and hauled Vossberg out of the trunk and into the building. Napoleon came around to my side of the car. "He needs to get to medical," he said to one of the agents before he turned to me. "Can you make it on your own?"

I leveled a look at him that would have been more impressive if I hadn't blacked out immediately after. I was saved from hitting the pavement by Napoleon grabbing me around the waist. He pulled my arm over his shoulder and with the help of the other agent, got me down to the medical department.

Napoleon filled them in on my bashed head and the unknown substance with which I'd been injected. He left me to medical's tender mercies and went off to interrogate Vossberg. I envied him. I had a great many questions for the good doctor and would have liked to exert some pressure to get answers.

I was poked and prodded and X-rayed and drained of what felt like a liter of blood. It took four stitches to close the cut on the back of my head where I'd been hit. I waited for whatever effects the injection had to offer, but headache and dizziness were all I felt. And annoyance. I felt considerably annoyed at the prospect of being stuck in a hospital bed.

They gave me aspirin for the headache since they were unsure what had been injected into me. I agreed to stretch out on a cot in the examination room, but refused to surrender my clothes and be put to bed.

Napoleon found me asleep on the cot, with shoes off and my suit jacket draped over me. "Dr. Bevans wants you to stay tonight," he said as he tapped my foot to wake me. "It's not a bad idea. You have a concussion."

"Did you get anything out of Vossberg?" I asked, groaning awake.

"He's a smug little monster. Wouldn't give up anything on the drug he gave you. I think the best thing would be to let the Detroit agents have a go at him. They look a lot more intimidating than either of us. And you have a concussion."

"As you've said." I pushed myself to a sitting position and began to put on my shoes. "I don't want to stay here. Ideally, I'd prefer my own bed, but I'll settle for what is very likely a lumpy mattress back at the motel."

Dr. Bevans stood in the doorway, with arms akimbo, as if planning to block my exit. "Mr. Kuryakin, you have a grade 3 concussion and I strongly advise you to remain here tonight. You need to be monitored to make sure you don't slip into a coma."

"I'll take care of him. Tell me what I need to do," Napoleon said. I was more than a little surprised that he would be willing to do this. As I mentioned, this was only our second time working together.

Bevans gave him a list of instructions: No reading. No television. No caffeine. Lots of rest. And Napoleon would need to wake me every few hours and if I couldn't be roused, he needed to call an ambulance immediately. And air travel would be a bad idea.

"Thank you," I said when we were in the car. "I hate being in medical."

"I hate it, myself. But I need you to be honest with me about your condition. Nothing withheld, all right?"

"Agreed." As hard as it was for me to divulge personal details, I meant it. Napoleon was going out on a branch for me and deserved honesty.

The motel was a single story "L" shaped structure with the office at the short end. Napoleon pulled up right in front of our unit. I was grateful that there were only a few steps so I could get through the door under my own power. We had left our bags inside the door. I grabbed mine and hefted it onto one of the beds.

Something was happening inside me that I couldn't identify or even describe. Thoughts flitted in and out of my mind, too brief and unformed to comprehend. It was like one of the slideshows we watch during assignment briefings, but flashing by much too quickly.

"I'm going to take a shower," I said as I withdrew my dopp kit and pajamas from the luggage. "I want to wash the blood out of my hair."

"Do you feel steady enough? I don't want you falling down in there." Napoleon watched my movements carefully.

"I'll be fine."

I closed the door and turned on the water, shifting the lever to as hot as possible. Even after I'd stripped out of my clothes, it was still only warm. Under the stream, I bowed my head to rinse the blood out of my hair. I had to lean against the cold tile as I poured some shampoo out of the tiny bottle and rubbed it into my hair. The cut on my head stung when the shampoo touched it.

Unwrapping the miniature bar of soap, I very nearly lost my balance and needed to steady myself with a hand on the tiles. I let the water run over my head as I dragged a washcloth over my skin. Standing under the stream of water, it felt as if long healed over wounds were being torn open.

There's been a lot of speculation about my childhood. Yes, I grew up in one of the most war torn places during the worst conflagration thus far in human history. You've probably heard all manner of stories about my early life. The truth is probably somewhere between the best and worst versions. Let's just say that there was deprivation and loss and pain and hunger. War is, as they say, hell.

As I stood there, something inside me seemed to cleave apart. Sounds escaped my mouth, coming from so deep that they were physically painful. I hardly recognized the sound as human; it was more like that of a creature.

I couldn't breathe. A tidal wave of sadness washed over me, knocking me down and under the waves. My legs gave way and I dropped into the tub. And the sobs continued to be torn out of me.

I registered that Napoleon was knocking on the door, calling my name, but I could not move. I could not escape the searing burn of every memory: of every night when hunger gnawed at me, every blow that rained down on my body, every loss that threatened to crush my spirit.

I'd survived so much, and managed to fold all of that pain into tight bundles and stow them away. Now they all billowed out, suffocating me.

"What's wrong? Are you in pain?" Napoleon came through the door and turned off the water. I was unable to speak, the sobs wrenching out from my core. I sat shivering, my knees drawn up to my chest, arms protectively covering my head. Napoleon draped one of the thin, scratchy towels over me. "Are you able to stand?"

I allowed him to help me up and out of the tub. I offered no resistance as he used the towel to dry my skin. He dressed me in my pajamas, rather like a hospital orderly, business-like and efficient. I have no idea what his thoughts were as he watched his usually stoic workmate howl uncontrollably.

I wept for hours. I sobbed so aggressively at times that I vomited. In the early morning hours, I fell into an agitated slumber. Napoleon told me later that even in sleep, I released shuddering breaths, mumbling in Russian. It was a blessing for both of us that he didn't understand what I was saying. One of us burdened with that was enough.

I woke in the morning to hear Napoleon's report to Mr. Waverly via his communicator. He was on the sidewalk outside our room, framed in the open doorway, speaking in a low voice. I caught enough to know he was massaging the truth.

"He had a rough night, sir, what with the concussion," Napoleon said.

Waverly's reply sounded distant. "I've spoken with the head of the Detroit office and he said they're still analyzing the contents of the vial and Mr. Kuryakin's blood work. Apparently, Dr. Vossberg still refuses to speak. Has Mr. Kuryakin had effects from the injection?"

"Illya experienced some extremely deep sadness, sir. I don't know how much was the drug and how much was due to the head injury. Dr. Bevans said that it's a possibility that strong emotions could be related to concussion."

I wondered if Bevans had said that. I'd been concussed before and it had never left me a blubbering mess. I admired Napoleon for his ability to speak the truth and yet say so little.

"Perhaps it's best that you both return to New York as soon as possible."

"Yes, sir. Dr. Bevans said Illya shouldn't travel by air. I'm looking into renting a car and driving us home."

"Very well. Proceed as you think best."

Napoleon walked back into the room, closing the door behind him. He seemed exhausted. I glanced over to see his bed had barely been disturbed. "How's the head?" he asked, coming to sit on the end of his bed facing me.

"Still throbbing," I answered. "I'm sorry about last night. I'm sure you didn't get any sleep."

"You had no control over that."

"I must have been pretty loud," I said. "I'm surprised no one pounded on our door."

"I think the units on either side of us were empty. How do you feel?"

"You know that saying that everyone feels better after a good cry? That is completely untrue."

I was exhausted beyond belief and every muscle in my body hurt. I felt clammy with sweat, the sheets a twisted tangle beneath me.

"I understand now what Vossberg meant when he said the drug was the key to Thrush's dominance. It would definitely stop an army in its tracks. You did a great job blowing up the lab, and we have Vossberg in custody. I hope that's the end of it."

"Vossberg is locked up, but we don't have any guarantee that he didn't pass his research on to anyone or that others weren't working on it in parallel."

"Think positively.'

"The only thing I am positive about is that I need another shower," I said as I rose feebly from the bed. "I promise, there won't be a repeat of last night."

"Just don't fall down in there," he said.

I managed not to pass out in the shower and I didn't fall apart again. The sadness was no longer a tsunami, but it was not gone. It had evolved into a quiet, dark ripple that teased the edges of my mind. I did not linger in the bathroom, not wanting to risk another powerful surge. I emerged barefoot, dressed in trousers and shirt, gingerly toweling my hair dry.

"Let's get some food," Napoleon said. "I'm starving."

I finished dressing and we walked to the diner across from the motel. I had no appetite for the first time in recent memory. Maybe it was the headache that still plagued me. Maybe it was the ache in my gut from sobbing. I ordered a sandwich I really didn't want. Napoleon watched me with concerned eyes as I put it down after a few bites and picked at some potato chips.

"I'll be fine," I said. "My stomach is a little tender."

We went back to the motel after lunch. The maid had cleaned the room, and my bed now had fresh sheets.

"Why don't you rest for a while," Napoleon said. "I called the car rental place and unfortunately, I have to go back there and arrange to drive this one to New York."

When he'd left, I kicked off my shoes and lay down on the bed. I usually kept my weapon close by when I slept, but I realized I hadn't seen it since we'd returned to the motel the night before.

I searched the bedroom, then the bathroom. I went through my suitcase and found nothing. The only place left to search was Napoleon's bag, which is where I finally found my gun. It was in his toiletry bag, under his wooden handled hairbrush with the boar bristles and his very expensive after shave lotion.

I hefted the weapon in my hand, feeling its weight. It was one of the tools I used in my work, much like a carpenter uses a hammer and saw. But now I looked at the gun as a means to escape the sadness that had overwhelmed me.

Suicide was not something I had ever pondered. My instinct for self-preservation was far too strong for that. But the concept nagged at me, whispering that I would never have to feel that powerful sadness again. I pushed the gun with my finger to spin it slowly in a circle on the table.

I reviewed the reasons in favor of putting a bullet in my head: I could finally quiet the terrible memories. I would never have to live through another night in hell. And I totted up the reasons against: it would be an insult to the younger version of me who had fought so hard to survive. And more powerfully, I couldn't bear the thought of Napoleon finding me slumped over the table, my brains and blood spilled before me.

I was still looking at my gun when Napoleon returned from his errand. He stood there, silently watching me.

"I was afraid I'd have to fill out a stack of paperwork for the loss of my weapon," I said. "Thank goodness I found it."

Napoleon sat down opposite me. "I'd never seen anyone in that condition. I was worried about you, about what you might do. I thought it best to keep your gun away from you."

I nodded. In his place I would have done the same thing. "Fair enough," I said.

"Do you need me to hang onto it?" he asked.

I thought about it for a long while. "Maybe." I pushed it across the table until it was before him.

"Promise that if you get that urge, you'll talk to me. I mean it." He took the gun, removing the magazine from it. I didn't watch as he stowed both parts again in his bag.

"I wouldn't do that to you," I said. And I meant it. He'd done me a kindness, taking care of me so I didn't have to stay in medical.

We decided to spend the rest of the afternoon and evening resting, as the trip the next day would be very long. Napoleon would be doing all of the driving as Dr. Bevans had added driving to my list of forbidden activities. We walked again to the diner for our supper. I managed to eat some of a pot roast dinner, though only because I didn't want Napoleon to worry about me.

Since I wasn't supposed to focus on the television screen, I listened with my eyes closed as Napoleon watched a nature documentary on big cats. The plummy British narration was oddly relaxing, and I fell asleep early.

We both slept uneventfully, waking rested when the phone rang with our wake up call. We packed the car and returned to the diner. I ordered scrambled eggs, bacon, hash brown potatoes, toast and a side order of pancakes. As I ate it with great pleasure, Napoleon grinned.

"That's more like it," he said.

I had some residual double vision, and needed to keep my eyes closed as we drove. Napoleon's watched the road before us. Conversation was oddly easier under those conditions.

"I have no idea what you went through when you were young. But clearly it came to the surface in what happened to you the other night," he said. "If it matters, I'm sorry you had to live through that."

"When I was at the Sorbonne I knew a woman. She'd been a teenager at the start of the war when her family was rounded up and sent to the camps. At the end of the war, she was in Bergen-Belsen. When the camp was liberated, she weighed no more than a small child, the only member of her family to survive." I smiled, thinking of Eva, picturing her quick grin and her chestnut curls.

"Her experiences made mine look like one of those comedies on television. I asked her how she got up every morning and put one foot in front of the other. 'It's all I know how to do,' she said." I shook my head. "I guess, that's all I know how to do as well."

"If you ever want to talk, I'm here," Napoleon said.

I opened my eyes and looked at him. "Thank you."

I knew we would never talk, at least not about that. I had no interest in living through it again. I'd lived through it twice now: once as a child, and again in that night of pain. I couldn't bear living it a third time by talking about it. But knowing Napoleon was there, willing, was a comfort.

To the best of my knowledge, he never told anyone about my experience that night. He didn't report the incident with my gun. Napoleon documented my sadness and depression in his report as temporary symptoms of the drug I'd been given, but without all the painful details. He managed to be both honest and protective of my privacy. Indeed, a difficult needle to thread.

Mental illness was a shadowy affair back in the 1950s. The stigma of it ruined careers and prevented security clearances. If the details of my breakdown or contemplation of suicide had been known, I would very likely have been removed as a Section Two operative.

The most important thing, though, was that as much as Napoleon teases me, all the sobriquets, all the wisecracks, he's never made jokes about that night. He took care of me and kept me safe. He protected my professional reputation at a time when a breakdown would not have been understood.

That kind of loyalty is beyond price. And Napoleon has demonstrated that loyalty so many times over the years.

Note: I've been enjoying such wonderful discussions on a couple of LJ blogs-section7mfu and uncle_du_jour and they have really got me thinking about some of the fanfic tropes common in this fandom. Those discussions really inspired this story and I'm grateful to all the folks who participate in those two blogs.