Act 3

That took a lot longer than I expected.

He was trapped below the deck of the Henry Allen. The ship lurched and heaved and he could hear water crashing through decking all around. The ship was sinking fast. He had to find Ray.

He called Ray's name, frantic. He kicked open doors and raced down stairs, but there was no answer but the sound of steel groaning under the weight of the ocean, breaking down into pieces and being swallowed.

A familiar door loomed, larger than any door he'd ever seen. Ray was behind it, he knew. He threw himself against the door, pounding and tugging with all his might. His fingers were torn and bloody when the door finally, finally flew open.

The room was full of water, clear icy blue and terribly cold. He could see Ray clearly, one hand handcuffed to the floor, floating, his eyes open and aware. Ray's free hand stretched out, pleading for Fraser to save him, help him, and unlock his cuffs. To give him air and warm his body. To teach him how to swim. He could see Ray's mouth move, shaping the syllables of Fraser's name. Fraser dove at the wall of water, desperate to get to Ray.

And the water was as solid as iron.

Fraser bounced off of the crystalline blue wall, rebounding backwards with vicious momentum. Stunned, he lay there for a moment, shaking his head. Then he scrambled to his feet and threw himself at the clear blue prison, beating on the solid water and screaming Ray's name.

Ray was growing panicky, twisting and turning in the liquid that surrounded him. His pinioned hand leaked traces of red into the ocean as the steel circlet bit into his wrist. Bubbles sprayed from his mouth, carrying his cries upwards, away from Fraser. Fraser grappled frantically with the slick wet barrier; he couldn't get a grip on it.

Ray was slowing down, starting to go limp. Fraser felt like his heart would stop the exact moment that Ray's did. He redoubled his efforts, feeling tears of frustration roll down his face and mix with the salt spray on his lips.

And then a slim blond form swam into view. Illya Kuryakin slid through the water, sleek and beautiful as a predator. He took hold of Ray's pinched white face and pressed his lips to Ray's. Buddy breathing. Standard procedure. That was what one was supposed to do. Basic Mountie training. Fraser could see Ray's chest expand and felt relief. Relief, however, inextricably intertwined with an entirely new sense of terror. He slumped in the doorway, pressing his hands and face to the wall of water as if it were a glass window he couldn't break.

Illya took his mouth from Ray's and the two smiled at each other. Then they turned and looked at Fraser, identical looks of triumph on their faces, ice-blonde and dirty-blonde hair waving and tangling together in the press of surrounding current.

Both pairs of blue eyes began to glow...

Fraser woke with a start. He was in a small room, white and sterile like the room Ray was in. His tunic and pants lay over a chair. He had stumbled into the room, stripped, and taken a hot shower. He'd thought then that he would cry, but everything still remained frozen just under his breastbone. He touched his sternum. He could feel grief lumped there, pulling at his ribs with every breath.

After the shower he'd collapsed naked on the bed and passed out. He had no idea how long he'd been asleep, but he was acutely aware of the opposing needs of both his stomach and his bladder.

Finding a small restroom, he took care of the first, most pressing need. Upon his exit he spied a tray, miraculously provided, which held a bowl of soup and a ham sandwich. After pulling on his pants, but leaving the tunic where it was for the moment, Fraser carried the tray with him - careful not to spill the soup - and went to check on Ray.

The machine light was green. Ray was still with him. Fraser sat and watched Ray breathe. He ate his sandwich and soup. He found a pitcher of water on the nearby table and drank three glasses. He laid his head on Ray's chest for a moment, just to hear his heartbeat. Finally he sighed, leaned in, and kissed Ray on his soft, slack mouth.

Then Benton Fraser, Sergeant in the Royal Canadian Mounted Police, went hunting. He was determined to find out everything he could about the strange and enigmatic Russian man who promised salvation and whose cold eyes glowed in the dark.

Fraser walked quickly down the long white hallway. He tested door after door; all were locked. He found a fork in the hallway and took a few steps down each corridor, sniffing the air cautiously. One smelled more strongly of Illya than the other, so he followed Illya's scent. He hoped to find a workroom or an office, or even Illya's room, provided Illya was elsewhere, of course. He needed information and he needed it quickly.

He tried every door he passed, and one finally opened under his hand. He looked around, checking for his 'host', then slipped into the small room.

There had to be something here he could use.

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"That took a lot longer than I expected."

The man was exhausted, tovarisch. He needed the sleep. Don't be too hard on him.

Yes, Illya, I have to agree. He's devoted, but he's only human.

Illya sniffed. "I would have found the room six hours ago."

Yes, Illya.The beloved voices sighed in unison. We know.

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Fraser located a small lamp and switched it on, then closed the door completely. He couldn't locate a locking mechanism, so he ignored the risk and surveyed the room. It appeared to be identical to the one he had slept in, a small bed, a desk, and a bedside table. He sat down at the desk and looked at the two objects arranged carefully on the dark brown polished wood of the desktop.

They were two photographs, both framed, standing at opposite corners. One was clearly a picture of Illya Kuryakin, rumpled and naked, modesty barely preserved under the edge of a dark blue sheet. He had obviously just come awake, and his whole face reflected a deep passion and love for the photographer. Blond hair fell into one eye, making him look mischievous and elfin.

Fraser looked at that picture but didn't touch it. Not yet. He would pick it up in a minute, but he felt oddly reticent to intrude on his host's privacy, even on an avowed reconnaissance mission. He looked at the other picture, picking it up after only a momentary hesitation. This one was a more complex image; it required careful study.

The other picture was, of all things, a surveillance photo. A man and a woman were being watched through a telephoto lens. Fraser calculated the camera angle and concluded that the picture had most probably been taken from a rooftop while the subjects were on the balcony of an adjoining building. The female subject was blond and dressed in a low-cut evening gown, probably manufactured in the late 1960s'. Her back was to the photographer, her attention on the man in front of her. The male subject was swarthy and suave, dark hair perfectly curved. He wore a tuxedo with casual ease, one hand in his pocket, the other holding a glass. Fraser looked closely; it appeared to be a champagne flute, at least half full.

The gentleman held himself at a perfect angle, by all appearances devoting his attention to the woman he was flirting with. But his eyes stared directly into the camera, a curve to his lips that lit his entire face. With dancing eyes he turned the picture into private joke, one captured by a spy over a great distance. It became a carefully disguised flirtation with the hidden camera instead of the blatant seduction of the obvious girl that the rest of the world was witnessing. The dark man held his glass loosely — only from the eye of the camera could one see that it was tilted upwards in a private salute.

The picture frame felt fractionally heavier than it should given the relative weight of both frame and photograph. Fraser turned the photo over and undid the frame's backing. Behind the picture was a flat card, with a picture of the man in the surveillance photo. The card identified the man as Napoleon Solo, Number One, Section Two. The logo and the agency identification on the card were of the U.N.C.L.E.

Fraser's eyes widened. Why did Illya Kuryakin have a surveillance picture of an enforcement agent from the United Network Command for Law and Enforcement? And an oddly intimate one, at that? This was a decidedly strange addition to the puzzle.

Fraser recalled that the intelligence agency in question was once one of the best international law enforcement entities in the world. Politics had eroded its potency, and the Cold War had ended it completely, but U.N.C.L.E. was still a legend within the myriad global intelligence communities. He tried to remember the different departments, having only skimmed one dossier on the organization in his youth, back at the Depot.

Section Two was 'Enforcement and Operations', if he remembered correctly.

Spies.

Agents of change.

The men and women who risked everything to preserve law and order.

Fraser looked at the picture again. This 'Napoleon Solo' had been the number one enforcement agent, the Chief Enforcement Agent, in fact, provided Fraser was remembering the rank system correctly, of a nearly unparalleled multi-national intelligence agency.

He flipped the photo over. Spiky black handwriting admonished, "Do your bloody job, Napasha." It was signed "IK."

Fraser grabbed the other picture, the lovely and laughing Illya photo, and undid the backing of that picture as well. Another U.N.C.L.E. identification badge fell out. This one identified the stern blond picture as Illya Kuryakin, Number Two, Section Two.

Fraser frowned. This didn't make sense. Illya Kuryakin was an extremely high ranking U.N.C.L.E. agent? He couldn't possibly be. That organization hadn't even existed for the last twenty years. Kuryakin was no older than Fraser himself, younger even, certainly no more than thirty-six.

Fraser flipped over the picture of Illya. Strong, almost unintelligible handwriting proclaimed, "I'd rather do you, tovarisch. N."

Fraser stared at the two photos, then looked around the desk for more clues. He found a thin typewritten note dated November 21, 1969.

Dear Mr. Kuryakin.

While I understand your impulse to resign, given the revelation of your truly intimate relationship with Mr. Solo, I cannot let you two go without some effort on my part to change your minds. Even thought I cannot, in all honesty, believe that such an action would not be required, were this information to be leaked to the rest of our organization. However, both you and Mr. Solo are among the finest agents I've had the pleasure of commanding. To lose both my Chief Enforcement Agent and his equally skilled partner, my Number Two, would be a blow to both the integrity and efficacy of our cause.

I would also, I dare to say, count it as a personal loss.

Please, Mr. Kuryakin, take some time to think this over. You and Mr. Solo, while ultimately expendable as we all are, are well-nigh irreplaceable.

Sincerely,

Alexander Waverly

Section One, Number One

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When Fraser made his way back to the infirmary, Illya was standing over Ray, glowing red device once more in hand.

Fraser watched him for a moment, mind whirling. He was piecing together a story that was, quite frankly, incredible.

"You didn't resign because of your relationship," he said slowly, the story beginning to take shape in his mind.

Illya did not look up. "No. We didn't."

"You resigned because of..." Fraser didn't even know how to phrase it. 'The strange aliens in your head,' sounded so....Raylike.

"Trev'van and Shir. Yes."

"Why?" Fraser asked. "Why volunteer to fight someone else's war?"

Illya stopped working on Ray. He stood for a moment, looking off into the middle distance, his eyes very far away. Finally he put the red device gently down on the table and looked at Fraser, meeting his anguished stare with resolve and no little sadness. "Do you believe in the concept of universal justice, Sergeant Fraser?"

Fraser blinked. "Yes, as a matter of fact, Mr. Kuryakin. I do."

Illya smiled, a pensive and melancholy look washing over his features. "Then believe me when I say that, though the battleground changed, the war remained the same."

Fraser shook his head, helplessly.

"I don't understand."

Illya pursed his lips, shook his head. "It is not important right now. We will talk of this later, da?" He looked down at Ray. "He has an important decision to make. We must introduce him to Shir so that they may decide on each other, or not."

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Ray swam back up, leaving the warmth and searching for Fraser. He could hear voices, one rich and familiar, the other cool and accented. Those guys were still talking? Jeez. He still didn't feel entirely up to taking Fraser on, but maybe if he simply lay here for a while he could figure out what was going on between these two.

Kuryakin was saying, "Do you believe in the concept of universal justice, Sergeant Fraser?"

Fraser sounded cautious but less mad than he had before. "Yes, as a matter of fact, Mr. Kuryakin. I do."

"Then believe me when I say that, though the battleground changed, the war remained the same."

Helplessly, "I don't understand."

"It is not important right now. We will talk of this later, da? He has an important decision to make. We must introduce him to Shir so that they may decide on each other, or not."

"Wait!" Fraser sounded sharp and a little bit desperate. "How can any of this be true? You should be almost seventy years old. What happened to Napoleon Solo? I don't understand."

There was a sharp inhale at the unfamiliar name. Ray started pulling all the new information into the mix. Chalk up one for whacko sci-fi guy. He seemed to have stopped Fraser's little red engine.

"Trev'van told you that the symbiote lengthens the average human lifespan. Trev'van and I joined over thirty years ago, and I've scarcely aged. And that is just the beginning. A joined human is virtually immune to disease, and our wounds heal faster. We need almost no sleep, and we can survive situations that would kill most non-joined humans. Also we are quite a bit stronger, as you've experienced first-hand."

"Yes, I remember." Slow, a hint of...shame? What did this guy do to Fraser? Hey....

"Although I must apologize..."

Illya made a little impatient noise. Okay. Ray felt himself subsiding. Kuryakin hadn't hurt Ben. Whatever had gone down, Fraser was all right.

Fraser was talking again. Surprise. Were these guys ever going to get the chick in here?

"With all of these benefits, why did you try to hide this from us? Why not bring up the possibility immediately?"

Ray would have rolled his eyes if he could. How could Fraser not understand this? Did he hit his head or something?

With difficulty Ray managed to murmur, "Permanent."

Both men looked at him.

"Mr. Kowalski is perfectly correct, Sergeant Fraser." Kuryakin said. "Joining with a symbiote is permanent. In most instances, only the death of one or the other can separate them, although the symbiote can flee in extreme circumstances to another host. Generally, however, this only happens when death is threatened." Illya directed his next question at Fraser. "This choice changes Ray's life entirely. It also changes yours. What are you willing to do to stay with him?"

There was a moment of silence then a low, "Was that what happened with Napoleon Solo?"

Who? Ray was starting to lose the thread of this conversation, not to mention a familiar, heavy feeling was starting to creep up.

"In a way, yes. But not the way you're thinking. Napoleon joined with Shir first, actually in somewhat equally desperate circumstances. We continued working for U.N.C.L.E. for about a year after that. The two had gotten separated and it took us about that much time to track down Trev'van's former host. She was incarcerated on a distant planet. We resigned from U.N.C.L.E. specifically to find her. For reasons that don't need exploring at this juncture, I ultimately chose to join with Trev'van."

Mentally, Ray rolled his eyes. It was official. He was going to die. These two were going to keep talking and talking and talking....

He's needed to talk about this for a while, Ray.

Does he have to do it right now? Ray tried to say to the man who had somehow just appeared, and was standing over him. Oddly enough, the guy seemed to hear him. He grinned crookedly, with a warm flash of white teeth.

Illya always did have a strange sense of timing.

Even more oddly, this conversation didn't seem all that odd to Ray at this moment. The dying thing probably had something to do with it. Also the fact that the guy looked a lot like Ben, dark and perfect. He was wearing an impeccable gray suit and tie and his hair did that swoop thing that perfect hair somehow managed to do.

Thank you.

"I do not regret it," Illya was saying in the background, his softly accented voice a strange counterpoint to Ray's conversation with Über-Ben.

Call me Napoleon.

"Ray will have a greater purpose if this goes forward. Can you understand that?"

Fraser was silent for a minute. Then, lowering his voice, he said. "All of those things are true. But they are not the reason you didn't offer this solution."

Ray bitterly appealed to his new friend Napoleon.

So how do I get them to stop talking about me and get around to joining me with the blue chick?

A perfect dark eyebrow arched.

Blue chick?

You know, Trev's girlfriend.

Ah. Shir. Well. You will be devastated to know that she is, in fact, not blue.

Do not 'ah' me. Only Ben gets to 'ah' me. And I hate it when he does that.

The well-dressed guy glanced over at Illya again, then leaned over to look Ray in the eye.

I'm going to help you. He said. I'll give you strength. Just do exactly what I say.

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"I can't say that I understand this...situation...or even that I yet believe...your assertions...but I do feel strongly that..."

Illya watched Fraser lean forward to point out yet another reason why not only was this a terrible idea, but it was definitely one that they should give some serious thought to. His heart was racing. If this stranger took Shir, where would Napoleon go? Would his ghost stay with the symbiote? All his memories were in there with Shir.

Ahem.

Illya whipped around, but Napoleon was nowhere to be seen. He interrupted the increasingly long-winded rant from the Mountie in front of him.

"Napasha?" he said. He went closer to Ray, peering suspiciously around the prone figure. He edged forward to look into Ray's eyes, searching.

And a slender arm shot out and grasped him by the front of his shirt.

He found himself staring into wide eyes, the most peculiar shade of blue/gray he'd ever seen. They seemed to have some kind of gold flecks...

"Shut up, Illya Nickovetch Kuryakin. Shut up, Benton Fraser. Both of you, just shut up, shut up...shut up. Just. Shut. Up. "

Oh dear.

The patient was not at all happy.

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With energy pouring through him from his unknown accomplice, Ray finally felt like he could kick some heads and get to the 'saving his life' part of the evening. He shook the girly blond Russian guy. Then did it again, 'cause it felt really good.

"You both suck. Do you realize that I'm freakin' dying here? Can you get off your drama queen asses and maybe, oh, I don't know, save my freakin' life?"

"Ray..."

"No, Ben. N. O. You do NOT get to apologize. You do NOT get to wallow. Do you know what you get to do? You and Illya freaking Kuryakin get to put that freaking snake - snake? Snake? What snake?" Ray let go of Illya abruptly and looked around, eyes wide. "You didn't say nothin' about a fucking snake."

You would prefer to die?

Ray banged his head against the bed for a moment. "You suck too." He complained bitterly.

"It is your choice." Illya snapped.

Ray wrinkled his nose and quivered all over for a moment. He seemed to go into a mini-convulsion, thrashing around and beating his fists against the bed. He tried to get up, and all energy seemed to leave him between one breath and the next.

Once again, Mr. Kowalski, the question remains — do you choose death, or the...snake, as you so aptly described her?

Ray panted for another moment, then snapped "Right. Fine. Whatever." He turned and looked directly at Illya. "Get the freaking snake."

Illya turned and crossed to the other end of the huge white room.

"I don't think you've thought this through completely, Ray...." Fraser began worriedly.

"Well, considering I'm freaking DYING, Frase, that's not really an issue here." Ray looked at Illya, who was bringing over the container with a wriggling...yi.

Wow. Napoleon really did mean 'snake', didn't he?

It swirled sinuously in the container of clear fluid, its long body propelling it through the liquid. Raised fin-like things made it seem almost more fishlike, but the triangular mouth was unlike anything Ray had ever seen before.

Ray could feel hysteria creeping back up, but it was do or....

It was time to make the fucking choice.

"Ok. Right. Snake. Check. Witnesses? You guys get to witness. The two of you. OK? And maybe this guy talking to me. That should be good, right? Is that acceptable to all parties? Good. Great. Greatness. Let's do this thing."

Ray eyed the wriggling thing for a moment.

You can feel free to close your eyes.

Really?

Just...don't tell Illya. Napoleon's voice lowered conspiratorially. But I did.

Coolness. Ray shut his eyes tight. Now what?

Now...you just open your mouth.

That is sick. That is so fucking sick. You REALLY suck.

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Fraser watched with sick fascination - and no little dread - as the symbiote oozed into Ray's mouth, Ray emitting a variety of high-pitched noises the whole time. A moment later Ray's entire body went limp.

Fraser panicked. "Ray?"

Ray's eyes opened again...

And they started to glow.

Fraser stopped breathing.

"That took you all long enough." A tart rumble came out of Ray's mouth. Although it was Ray's vocal apparatus, the voice had a decidedly feminine timbre and a strangely metallic resonance. "I'm going to have to shut down all non-essential physical systems for a few hours while I repair his vital organs and clear the necrotic tissue out. We need time. Please go away."

Fraser forced the words out of still lips.

"Where...where is Ray?"

Ray's head dipped slightly and he looked at Fraser. Suddenly his blue eyes were familiar again, and his voice, though thin, was Ray's nasal Chicago twang.

"M still here, Ben." Ray sounded exhausted but real. "I gotta go 'way for a minute, though, m'kay? Shir's gotta fix all the broken shit in here." He paused for a second, breathing a bit easier already. His hand fluttered, fingers reaching. Fraser grabbed it and leaned in to give him a fierce kiss. When he released Ray's mouth, they were both shaking.

Ray licked his lips and pinned Fraser with a tired glare. "And when I come back...you and me? We're going to have us a little talk about all that damned talking, you hear me? Next time I'm near death, I expect you to be Action Mountie, you get that?"

"Understood, Ray." Fraser could feel tears tracking down his face, even as he smiled. For the first time since waking up in this place the tight knot under his ribs seemed to ease.

Ray closed his eyes. His lips curved up.

"Freak."