If That's What It Takes

by GM

Napoleon and Illya are both willing to make the ultimate sacrifice for their respective partner at Christmastime

Napoleon and Illya are both willing to make the ultimate sacrifice for their respective partner at Christmastime

IF THAT'S WHAT IT TAKES

Sometimes you put walls up not to keep people out, but to see who cares enough to break them down.

Socrates

Christmas 1971

The stars were sharply visible in the cold, clear sky that hovered as a close canopy over the entire world. Their world. As far as he could see, the blanket of twinkling orbs amid the silent and dark heaven spanned from horizon to horizon. Only the center rise before them interrupted the scene to create a contrast. Storm clouds from the recent snow had dissipated and left the clear, bright night sky behind.

"I kind of like the tranquility," Napoleon Solo softly breathed out. "Interesting change of pace." Condensed breath billowed white. "Can't say I appreciate the cold. Brrr." He glanced to his left. "You're quiet tonight."

"Wary," his companion intoned suspiciously.

Solo smiled at the laconic comment. Through night vision glasses, he studied the objective. "There are still lights on in several rooms. We need to wait - ah - yes, right on time. The guard is moving toward the lobby and flipping off the lights in the labs. Just a few more minutes."

Now interested, Kuryakin turned from his study of the constellations. Then crouched up on his feet and confiscated the binoculars from his partner. "At last. This snow is chill and wet."

Napoleon tugged at Illya's thermal, white jumpsuit, a match of his own gear. "These are better than a ski jacket." He prodded with obvious amusement in his tone, "Since when are you so worried about temperature?"

"Comfort," came the curt reply. "The snow is damp and cold."

"Cold? This coming from a Russian?"

"It is entirely your fault. You have corrupted me to your decadent Western ways. I am too accustomed to luxury now."

"Ahh, my diabolical intent has succeeded! You admit it!" he quietly boasted in triumph.

"Not in front of witnesses."

Enjoying the usual, time-killing repartee he wondered, "I've been meaning to ask. So, what are you getting me for Christmas?"

"What makes you think I would buy you anything?"

"I have corrupted you to decadence! You just said so."

"Not in front of witnesses."

"Hmm. Then you're knitting me a muffler? I could use it tonight."

"I do not knit."

"And I thought you were multi-talented."

"I am. And you do not need more self-indulgent, expensive trappings."

Solo returned to staring through the binoculars. "You can open me an expense account at my favorite tailor shop. Savile Row."

"Hmm. And what are you buying me for Christmas? Only three shopping days left."

"How about a new watch? It's after midnight, tovarich. Two days left."

The conversation with his currently taciturn and acerbic partner was typical. Many hours of their career were spent in inactivity just as tonight. Waiting. Observing. Timing their entrance or exit upon the stage of peril, danger and action. Years of such extended moments had bonded them in levels beyond the understanding of most. Despite the banter they were far from relaxed. Nerves poised on the brink of imminent exploits into life-and-death.

Tonight, with the approaching holiday and frosty weather, Solo was feeling sentimental. He usually strove for Christmas to be something more than just another day at the office. For years, he had plotted little surprises for Kuryakin - forcing the Russian to celebrate a Yuletide banned in his native country. Illya had gotten into the swing of things early in their partnership, but still had a lot to learn.

Napoleon was sensing moody reticence from his friend this Season. Maybe more? An irritation? Illya constantly complained holidays were the capitalistic frills of Western life. Especially Solo's expensive and spendthrift tastes for women and revelry. Well, that was usual. At this time of year Solo poured on the charm and emptied his wallet enjoying Yule. That included dragging his partner along for the festivities. Begrudgingly, Illya played along with the game. Not tonight. Definitely something amiss.

"So you want to talk about it?"

"About what?"

Solo chuckled. "Whatever's bothering you?"

"No."

Thinking it was the Russian's way of just being obstinate Solo was determined to knock the blond into a better attitude. If neither of them were split off on opposite sides of the world on assignment, Napoleon would orchestrate something quiet and personal and spend at least part of the Thanksgiving or Christmas day socializing with his friend in an understated celebration of the Season.

Solo really wondered, now beginning to get irritated at the nettling attacks on the holidays. He liked Christmas with its sentimental ideas about brotherhood and peace on earth, scrumptious food and corny music. Idealized, untouchable, fictional images, perhaps. Yet there was something of value at the mawkishness. Over the years he had made great inroads to seducing Kuryakin into the Western idea of gift giving and holidays.

He wondered at the reversal and guessed it was something temporary and not an attempt by the Russian to return to his roots. He hoped. Entrenched within the Cold War Solo always worried about lllya's future status as a member of UNCLE. Kuryakin had not lived in Russia for years. First in England for University and UNCLE, then New York. Officially, the Soviet and a handful of other agents were on loan from the USSR and retained native passports. In the back of his mind, Napoleon's anxiety lingered that the Iron Curtain would close completely; recalling the world relations of the super-power nations would crumble and recall all citizens – Illya.

Was that troubling his friend? Illya had assured him that would not happen. Still, it was a concern that never vanished completely.

Only one way to find out the problem. Direct frontal assault. He would persecute his friend for the next two days, then comply with Illya's wishes. For the Twenty-fifth, as he tried every year, he thought he would surprise Illya with something simple and non-capitalistic. Except for the present, of course. He still hadn't had time to shop for that, but he was confident of finding something good. He had two days, after all!

What else? Ahh. Not much contemplation required. His own fears had given him some sleepless nights. Like bookends, that same troubling threat would burden Illya.

"Hmm. Well, does your reticence and prickly attitude have anything to do with Waverly's threats?"

"I do not wish to discuss it."

That would be a yes, Napoleon concluded. The last few months had been sprinkled with mostly successes in the field. A few failures. And numerous lectures about how the top UNCLE team of Solo and Kuryakin stretched too far from the established bounds of mission acceptability.

In plain vernacular – the recent failures attributed to one or the other of the pair choosing to protect/save/cover their colleague. Those lectures were coming their way more often with more adamant threats that the partnership would end.

Good reason for his maudlin leanings tonight. In turn, Illya was moody. Without verbalizing, they knew they were both afraid. Of course any mission could be their last. Theirs was a perilous profession. The dangling Sword of Damocles – threats of splitting the duo – loomed as dire as any tangible weapon. Not good mind-sets for a precarious mission! He forced himself to set them on a more optimistic plane.

"Well, what do you want for Christmas?"

"You could not afford it."

Solo frowned. Not like the Russian to think of something expensive. "Anything within reason, Illya. Just don't expect me to cook."

"You cook? That would not be a present."

"Come on, partner. Tell me what's on your wish list."

"Very well. Peace and quiet."

"What?"

"Not your chattering about traditions, or parties, or double dates. I want quiet. I would like to spend the day at introspection. Alone."

"Brooding."

"Your words."

If Kuryakin had meant it, Solo would have felt slighted. He knew better, though. His friend was trying to deal with the menace of dissolution. Give in to the sullen attitude? Allow his friend to fret? No! Neither of them needed that now. He must right the mood before they engaged in the potentially lethal mission.

Try to cheer him? Ignore the obvious? Counter with false cheer? Yes. For now. This wasn't the time for a heart-to-heart. After this assignment. They would probably be stuck in yet another airport. They would have plenty of time for Napoleon to charm his friend from the doldrums.

"Come on, Illya. I know that redhead in Transport wants you –"

"No double dates. No parties, Napoleon! Solitude! That is my request!"

"Boring."

"He who travels fastest travels alone."

"Oh, no. When you start to quote Socrates I know you are in one of your abstruse Russian moods."

Annoyed, Kuryakin offered a steady glare. "You must stop this, Napoleon."

"Stop what?" he was truly baffled!

"Ignoring the obvious! When we return to New York Waverly will announce the end of the partnership –"

"Not his exact –"

"You know it will be so!" flung back the sharp retort. "Accept it! Let us prepare for the inevitable!"

Irritated, Solo was not going to give in to the morose inevitability. He could not admit defeat over something so essential in his life! Ending the partnership. It had happened before. And the powers-that-be always brought them back together to risk their lives for the planet because the two of them were that good! Success trumped established regulations every time.

So his friend's device of coping was to emotionally separate now? Preemptive strike.

Clean surgical break. So much more tidy than succumbing to expressive sentiment! Well, Napoleon would not go along with that defeatist path!

"Isn't that cutting off the nose to spite the face?"

Kuryakin groaned and muttered something about bizarre Americanisms.

"I know you read the classics, Illya, but I didn't think that included Dickens. He's so sentimental," Solo smiled, knowing he had caught his friend in a verbal trap.

"Dickens was a socialist ahead of his time."

"Bah humbug. You missed his whole point. And Christmas', too."

"You are no more a traditionalist than I! Why torment yourself with such syrupy trappings! Yuletide is just another day. We are spies. We kill and lie and deceive for our bread. I refuse to buy into your nostalgia for something you yourself do not believe, Napoleon! No matter how hard you -"

"Not buy into it?" Napoleon scoffed with a chuckle. "I didn't see you giving me back any presents since we've been partners, tovarich."

Kuryakin turned away. His tone bitter. "I have given you my wishes for this year. No presents. No party. I wish to go to work, go home and spend a quiet evening enjoying good music and some vintage wine. If I am not at some obscure point in the world being shot at -

"All right! Waterloo!" Napoleon surrendered. For now. After their mission he would have all day to grind down the immovable Russian walls. "Pax?"

Kuryakin grunted.

"We'll talk about it with nice hot toddies when we're finished. I'll even treat."

"Hmm," Illya pondered in speculation. "That will not compensate, but it is a start. Just as long -"

"I know. I'll grant your Chri – uh – your wish this year. If you want solitary confinement then you'll have it! Whatever it takes."

A grunt of acceptance sealed the deal.

Smiling, Solo felt he had won back some ground in the territorial combat for disputed terrain.

Their attention was snagged by the activity at the building. "Ah," Kuryakin sighed with satisfaction as he watched the building darken. "All lights out except lobby."

"Almost showtime."

"You noticed the fence is not electrified, yes?"

"I noticed."

Half of the lobby lights blinked off, indicating the guard had retreated to the security room and was finished with rounds for a bit.

He gave Solo's shoulder a shove. "Time."

Together they sprinted over the rise and across the wet grass. It took only moments to cut through the security fence and then race on to the building. Both agents were wary, expecting anything since this was supposed to be a routine and simple assignment. For that reason, they were especially on edge. In their profession, things rarely turned out simple or easy or as expected.

Toneer Laboratories, a privately owned pharmaceutical company in the quiet suburbs of Nebraska, was an unlikely target of UNCLE. Information - for a steep price - had come their way that Toneer was doing a sideline business. Instead of just manufacturing low-grade painkillers for the US government, they were selling illegal drugs on the side. The contraband was packed in with Army supplies, shipped on the government's tab to places around the world. Then picked up by agents waiting in such bases as Guam, Philippines, Japan, Laos and Vietnam. The informant said next to export was a batch of secretly invented bio-toxins to Thailand.

UNCLE had been tasked by a joint commission from said nations to investigate. The agents were to confirm or deny the allegations by finding - or not finding - proof. If the toxins existed, they were to confiscate them and bring them safely back to UNCLE HQ. Then a sweep team would come in and take care of arrests and closures of the plant. As the point team, everything hinged on what Kuryakin and Solo found.

At the wall outside of the labs Kuryakin set up a scanner against the plaster building. "I am picking up intense electronic energy," he almost smiled. "They have sophisticated security lacing the walls and windows. They wish to detect anyone who might want to get into their factory. Protecting much more than aspirin, I think."

The lights on his box flashed red.

Solo reached into his black backpack. "I've brought just the thing."

Retrieving another box that looked like a meter gauge, he set that next to the box Illya had supplied. The meter-like device hummed quietly, then buzzed, and Illya's box flashed green. Quickly, the agents sprayed a fine mist of special acid onto the edge of the window and the glass popped out into their hands.

Using a monitor about the size of a lighter, Solo scanned the floor. "All clear," he pronounced and leaped inside.

Tensed, Illya waited for a few seconds. Satisfied they had not triggered any hidden alarms; he threw his and his partner's backpacks inside and lithely followed.

Already knowing where the supposedly deadly toxins were stored, the agents flanked the large, locked vault. Again, Kuryakin went to work on the door with an electronic scrambler. Once inside the walk-in safe, he scanned for correct tags on sealed shelves.

"I'm not finding suspiciously labeled containers."

"Do I need to buy you reading glasses for Christmas?" Solo checked his watch. "I hope we don't have to examine every vial in here."

With a thoughtful shake of his head, the Russian theorized he should be able to find what they were looking for without drastic and time-consuming measures. Although the informant did not give a specific name or formula for the toxins they were searching for, Illya's knowledge of chemicals and science should clue him into an appropriate title.

"These are labeled with code-names. Rather fanciful I might add. THOR. JUPITER. We will be looking for something – colorful - I should think."

Solo glanced again at the time, and then scanned labels on the high-tech safety shelves.

"Are these pressure alarm plates?

"Mmm. Possibly." He used his scanning box. "No reading. It should be safe."

"Should be?"

"Ahh." Kuryakin reported, "DOOMSDAY."

Solo released a chilled sigh. "Not too clever these chemists."

"Treacherous. The nations requiting our aid were correct to be suspicious. You realize this means we are in the center of a death trap."

As he again used a scanner to manipulate the lock for that specific shelf, Illya pulled out a tray containing two vials. DOOMSDAY and EDEN.

"One toxin, one antigen," he decided. "Neat."

"That's it?" Solo wondered.

"Perhaps one is enough," was the Russian's grave rejoinder.

He cautiously lifted the front vial out of its receptacle. There was a CLICK and a HISS and Illya gasped, then coughed. "Tripped a trigger!" The drawer closed.

Illya plunged the toxin into a secured pouch in his backpack.

Automatically, Solo seized his shoulders and pulled him back.

"Get away, Napoleon!" he rasped. His eyes were tightly shut and his breathing heavy. "Booby trap. Gas!"

When his hand came out it was red and glistening with hives. "Laced - trigger with DOOMSDAY - toxin!" he hissed.

Ignoring the warnings, Solo made a grab for the remaining vial in the closed drawer, but Kuryakin shouldered him away. "Contagious." He kicked the backpack toward his partner. "Gloves. Get lab bag. Seal -" he coughed - "Seal pack in sterile bag. Get out. Don't touch –" he coughed again, sinking to the floor in a choking fit.

Rushing into the main lab, Napoleon seized the sterile suits and containers from the backpacks. He donned long gloves and a facemask and returned to the vault.

"Leave!" Illya commanded angrily.

"The antidote!"

"Can't open drawer again - until you leave!"

A noise behind them alerted Solo. The trap must have signaled the sentry. Removing the glove on his right hand, he reached the mouth of the vault in time to see an armed guard. Shooting two sleep darts into the man, Napoleon checked to make sure he was unconscious, then secured the lab doors. Then he raced back to his partner, pulling his friend up to a sitting position.

"Leave!"

Replacing the protective glove, Solo wasted no time breaking into the drawer again. "That would be bad form if I left you here sick and helpless." He removed the antigen. "Dosage?"

"Save yourself!" Illya argued adamantly, growing weak, now leaning against the sealed shelves of the safe. "Use it on you! You're already exposed! Forget about me! Take the vials and go! Go."

As Solo closed the seal, he noticed the glove on his right hand was torn. Only then did he feel the heat and itch on his skin. Infected.

Heart racing, he ripped off the glove, relieved to see no hives, but a reddish tint. So he was not as dire as Illya! Good, that gave him a little time. He glanced at his slumped friend on the floor. The red rash was not spreading more and Kuryakin's breathing seemed eased. Contact infection? It had to be direct physical contact to spread the infection? He was only guessing.

Shaking, he found clean gloves and slipped them on, then went back to the vault. No more antidote. Trying to ignore the tightness in his chest and the heat emanating through his system, he convinced himself it was nerves, not illness. He still had too much to do.

Solo grasped onto Illya's arm, quickly shoved up a sleeve on the Russian's jacket.

"No." Kuryakin ineffectively, weakly pushing away the hand. "No . . . "

"I'll do whatever it takes to save you. How much? Illya! Amount?"

Checking the container, Solo reported there were two CCs. Kuryakin authorized the whole dose, but on Solo, not himself.

Illya glanced at the vial. "Can't see. Blurred." He tried to pull away, but Solo's grip held firm. "Save - you -"

"Consider this my Christmas present, Illya. Have a good life."

Mostly unconscious, Illya did not flinch when the ampoule was stabbed into his arm. Quickly, Napoleon massaged the area to speed the dose into the infected system of his partner. Next, he obeyed the instructions on the sterile procedures and retrieved a sealed bag to contain the toxin.

Certain it was as protected as possible; he wrapped Illya in an isolation suit. This was the best he could do. Imperative he get Kuryakin to a hospital, he knelt on the floor for a moment and caught his breath. He could search the lab and try to find more antigen. That would waste valuable time. He had no idea if Illya's dose was correct or if it was going to save him.

Taking the agent to a regular hospital, though, would blow their cover and reveal the entire mission. Plus endanger civilians.

Only in the back of his mind did he acknowledge that this was all irrelevant to him. The hot burning was traveling along the underside of his skin through his hand and arm. Under the confining gloves, he felt the prickling sweat of illness. How long would he last? Long enough to finish this, he hoped.

Exiting the way they had entered, he struggled to carry his partner across the frosted lawn and back to their car. Winded, boiling up, he fumbled to find his communicator once they were in the car.

"Open Channel D."

A pleasant female voice he didn't recognize responded. "Yes, Mr. Solo."

"Emergency evac. Nearest secure medical facility."

"That would be a military extraction –"

"Nevermind, just do it! Location Alpha. Now! Wear environmental suits. Contagion alert red."

"Copy, Mr. Solo," she replied crisply.

He laid his head against the back of the seat and kept a hold on Kuryakin. Illya was still breathing, still okay. Solo was searing with fever, hands shaking. He found it difficult to focus anymore.

This was the end. He had pressed his luck and run out finally. Not surprised, he was not even afraid. What he felt aside from the burning physical symptoms that were blinding him to everything else, was regret. The last frantic seconds in the lab had been the finish. What Illya would take away from their partnership? Was it enough? It did not seem so. There were, however, years of memories before this to lean on.

Rescue teams were not going to get here in time to save him. Napoleon did not know if he could be saved at all. However, Illya had a good chance. It was worth it. Cold, hot, shivering, he huddled close to Kuryakin, wrapping his arms around the still figure. He told his partner whatever it took to save him that was what he would do. In addition, he always kept his promises. Illya would remember that about him. Moreover, be mad as hell that Napoleon had disregarded his last wishes.

"Sorry, tovarich. I have no honor for your final request. I had to save you. Purely selfish to the end."

He had kept HIS last vow. Give his friend whatever it took. It was worth it.

Before reaching complete awareness, Kuryakin drifted toward consciousness with the knowledge he was in a hospital. The subliminal scents and sounds and the feel of the all-too-familiar territory was certain. Then the aches and pains grew into the forefront of awareness: headache, weakness, residual warmth of skin from fever, muscle soreness. As if recovering from a serious bought of an influenza.

With that, recognition came the gradual recall of his last conscious moments. The mission: lab, break-in, toxin . . . . Trap! Leak – vial . . . . He lived? Yes, he was certainly alive – the soreness relayed that fact unmistakably! Antidote! The antigen had saved his life.

How? He had not expected that! He had prepared himself for death – mortem -

smert'! No matter the language he had been certain he was finished! Crumpled on the laboratory floor, gripped in Napoleon's arms . . . . yes – he gave the antigen to his partner. The life-saving fluid – FOR Solo! How was he still alive?

Napoleon! Of course, there would be his stubborn friend to thank! He recalled demanding Napoleon to leave and take the antidote himself! Naturally, Solo did not follow the directive. How had he saved them? The inimitable Solo luck again!

Curious how this latest miracle in beating the odds was fabricated, Kuryakin was irritated. Slightly. Another senseless risk his partner made on his behalf. Napoleon really was so difficult to live with sometimes.

He felt the presence of someone next to him. Ah! Napoleon hovering. Certainly the American expected to be lauded with glory, no doubt. He would not get off so easily this time! Yes, Illya owed his friend – again – but a reward would not be instant. No reason to inflate the Solo ego too quickly.

"My head hurts," he began. "And everywhere else. This is be your fault."

One tremendous benefit of his loyal collaborator – always someone to hear his complaints. Kuryakin had never had anyone who listened to his gripes, grievances, moans or grumbles before. His friend fulfilled his duty, counted upon for a remark, either uplifting or snide. Part of their banter. Which, in itself, was amazingly comforting. A shining definition of partnership – a sharing of all experiences good and not so good.

"Your silence is confession itself."

No witty rejoinder. No sympathy. Nothing. Why was not Napoleon engaging in their usual game of wits? It was expected their sardonic dialog. Coping mechanism for just such an occasion! Skin-of-the-teeth escape from demise! Desperate life-and-death moments! If his hazy memory were correct it seemed he would die in his partner's arms! Was Napoleon too wrapped up in the pathos of the dramatic peril? There would be abundant bragging and teasing right surely!

Early in their partnership Solo had set the cool, urbane tone. His innate optimism and confidence that he – they - could survive – thrive – through any precarious threat! Where was the nonchalant repartee now?

The dour Russian was sinking into a tart mood. Napoleon NOT following what were Illya's last wishes using the antidote! Serious offence, moi brat! What good is a melodramatic death if final words mean so little? Moreover, he still ached abominably!

"If you expect my gratitude you will have a very long wait, my friend."

A disapproving "Humph!"

No – NOT Napoleon!

Already in a cantankerous mood when Illya opened his eyes, the sight of the small room did not cheer him. What startled him was the white-coated doctor standing next to the bed checking his IV.

"Excuse me," she gruffly snapped. Young, nice-looking Army officer in fatigues. Her blue eyes were sharpened weapons glaring at him. "I'm just doing my duty. No thanks are necessary, sir."

Groaning, he grimaced. "My apologies, Lieutenant. I thought you were – uh – someone else."

Her glacial expression barely altered. "I am the only day physician in the contamination wing."

Looking around, Kuryakin did indeed see the glass partition and sealed double doors indicating he was in a quarantine area. Of course, this was probably a Strategic Air Command base. Equipped with all the latest to combat any kind of attack in this Cold War era. Including bio-weapons. He had been treated by the best! That could be the only explanation of his survival. Napoleon had taken the single vial of antidote. These Army physicians then had saved his life!

He checked his hands, noting there was barely evidence of the red rash he remembered from the lab.

"Is my condition contagious?"

"Negative. You remain in isolation as a precautionary measure."

Her tone was clipped, icy, and uninterested saying more than necessary. The price of his sharp tongue. This was all Napoleon's fault.

"Are the doctor who has been treating me?"

"Negative. Dr. Rice is our bio-specialist."

"May I speak with him? Please?" he added in his most sincere and contrite tone. This was Napoleon's fault!

"I'll call him."

"Apologies for my comment. It was meant for my friend. Is he allowed in the observation room?"

She finished her duties and the confusion on her expression wiped away her irritation. "Friend?"

"Mr. Solo. He has probably pestered you relentlessly. Dark hair, brown eyes, he thinks most women find him devastatingly charming." Her continued perplexity allowed filtered concern to trickle into his mind. "He makes a pest of himself . . . ." Her stare – guilty?- now worried him. "He is not waiting for me?"

Had Napoleon been called back to HQ? Were they in trouble with Waverly? Again? Well, they had succeeded with the mission. A bit sloppy, yes. Contaminated and requiring military assistance – tangles of red tape. Still, Waverly should have no argument with winning . . . .

Even through the memory of fevered panic, the last moments in the lab came back in sharp display in his thoughts. Now he remembered . . . Napoleon had administered the only antidote to him!

"I must speak to my friend," he demanded urgently. "He got out, yes?"

"I really can't –"

"Find out, now, please! This is most important!"

"I'll need to get your doctor."

She rushed out before he could stop her. Something was not right; he knew that on a level deeper than his conscious mind. He stared out the glass at the empty observation room. Napoleon should be there. That he was absent, that the last moments shared were in dire peril brought back the familiar dread that he lived with on nearly every mission. A fear he had harbored since some indefinable moment when he knew there was a life more important than his own – a reason to risk everything.

A different white-coated officer entered and Illya repeated his demand. The doctor seemed tense and addressed a diagnosis for Kuryakin. The antidote had been delivered in time to save him, but he was under observation just to be safe. Illya tersely repeated his demand to see Solo. The physician took a moment before speaking. It seemed a lifetime before the explanation he dreaded came.

"Mr. Solo is in another isolation room. You were both infected with a lethal toxin and unconscious upon arrival."

His mouth was dry. "Napoleon . . . infected . . .," he whispered, questioning, disbelieving. Yes, he had known that . . . denied the deadly truth . . .

"How is he?"

"We've been treating him with standard antidotes the best we could, but nothing cured the bio-weapon. We managed to slow the advance. We have the toxin you brought with you. It's in a containment laboratory."

The bio-weapon. The reason for this dire predicament. Closed away in a lock-down facility. Good. No more danger. Far too late!

Cold with trepidation, Illya hoarsely reminded, "Standard antidote? What about the specific?" DOOMSDAY had been the dramatic label on the vial. EDEN the lifesaver. "The antidote did not work on him?"

The officer, confused, responded that the antigen HAD worked. It was in Kuryakin's system. It saved his life.

"The antidote for Mr. Solo?"

"There was none in his system."

MY system! NOT Napoleon's! Condemnations filled his mind! Anger and betrayal and wrath! Napoleon! How could you! He pushed aside the livid emotions. He concentrated on retaining his icy mask of objectivity.

"Your laboratory has the toxin! Develop an antidote!"

Scoffing, the officer began the trail of doubts on that possibility. The chemists were working, but the amount of experimentation made it impossible. A team would need to study this new and fatal weapon. Then determine an anti-serum. There was not enough time left for the dying agent.

Unacceptable! Kuryakin would not listen to any more negatives. "You said he is in another room. He is alive."

"Induced coma. The toxin is basically burning him up inside. We have tried everything we have in our supplies. He won't last much longer."

He could not tolerate that!

"I won't believe it." Napoleon would not accept the defeatism! The team of Solo and Kuryakin did the impossible before breakfast! NO! He could not surrender!

Illya sat up. "I want to see him. Now."

The doctor gave a nod and removed the IV feed. "You'll have to remain in the observation area. Your condition is still too precarious to allow you in -"

"Precarious!" he shouted, pushing past the man. "I am alive because of him!"

Weak, his body ravaged from the effects of the toxin, he did not manage to move the physician far. In fact, the doctor had to assist his unsteady gait and escorted him to the next-door observation room. There he deposited the recovering agent onto a chair.

Illya was grateful for the support. His body shook as he stared into the isolation room. Glared unblinkingly at the still figure on the single bed surrounded by instruments and monitors. Napoleon's skin mostly blotched red. Where there was no rash he looked as pale as the sheets. A machine breathed for him.

Until this instant, Illya had not believed the physician. He knew the verdict was wrong. Misdiagnosed the severity of Solo's condition. Nevertheless, seeing his inert friend, his faith eroded. Perhaps there was no hope. There had been only one antidote tube. Napoleon had injected the serum into him, leaving nothing to spare.

'I'll do whatever it takes to save you.'

The haunting words beat at his brain like a hammer. He was recalling it all. Each ridiculous word he had flung out! Every negative refusal to be inclusive. All the efforts to push away the person he did not want to lose – preparing himself for such finality. An end of the partnership – which he dreaded. He did not expect the end of Napoleon's life!

Solo had done whatever it took. Suicidal heroics. Selfless generosity. Stupidity! he shouted in his mind. How could you do this? Illya raged, pounding his fist on the chair, knowing the answer before the words formed in his thoughts. Unsteadily coming to his feet, he leaned on the glass and watched the chest gently pump up and down in a visible show of air moving through Solo's lungs.

They had discussed this on several occasions. When they had seen other agents disabled – too damaged to be a useful person. They promised each other they would never let this happen. It was better to die. Was it better? No. As he felt his own breathing catch watching the machine pump oxygen, he almost encouraged it to continue. Do not stop! Keep him alive!

Now, on the brink of knowing this was the finish, Illya could not face that this was the end. He was not ready to let go, not ready to say good-bye.

"Consider this my Christmas present, Illya. Have a good life."

"I did not want you to do this," he quietly lashed out bitterly. "I did not ask for this, moi brat. My brother. How could you?" he accused, suddenly slamming a fist into the glass. "I hate you for this." The last whispered words nearly caught in his choked throat and he swallowed down a cry. "I don't hate you," he unsteadily confessed. "I just want you to live."

Leaning his forehead against the glass, he stared at the rhythmic movement of the chest. Lost in the blur of emotions and timeless anxiety, he stayed there until he felt his knees go weak.

Staggering over to the chair, he kept watch, trying not to think of anything but the moment. Not the memories that threatened to barrage his thoughts. Not the future that would be robbed of the genial association of the past. The upcoming moment of destiny when even this meager thread of life would be removed and only death awaiting both of them; physical death for one, emotional for the survivor. He cushioned himself with the present – the knowledge that for now – his friend still lived.

The doctor entered the observation room and Kuryakin interrogated him again. Solo's condition was weakening. There was little time left. Asking to see the chart, Illya had to read it over several times. There was an idea coursing through his brain and he could not quite grasp it. Something about antidotes. Nothing worked.

'I'll do whatever it takes to save you.'

"I have the antidote." Why didn't he think of this before!

"You were given an antidote, yes."

"Yes! You could analyze my blood and find the composition."

"Theoretical at best –"

"It IS possible!"

"I doubt there is time –"

Illya grabbed him by the arm. "Then we need to hurry. Where is the lab?"

Reluctantly, the officer took him to the secure laboratory. Disgusted with the too young too slow technicians on duty, Illya hovered over their shoulders and instructed them. The lab was near the quality of UNCLE, fortunately. Working on the tests himself, Illya sped up the process slightly. It also gave him something to do to keep his mind off his friend.

Early in the morning of December Twenty-fourth, they discovered enough of the properties to work up a marginally close antidote. Without delay, he ordered it administered to Solo. When he accompanied the doctor into the isolation room, he held his breath as the liquid coursed through the IV tube. There was no immediate reaction, and that disappointed him. Still, he hoped – believed – it would work. It had to work.

When the others left, Kuryakin touched his friend's cheek with a gloved hand. He could feel the heat through the contamination suit. A lance of fear shot through his heart. He was too late. He had failed. How could he live with that? His friend deliberately sacrificed his own life! How could you, Napoleon? The rant was rhetorical. It was the only thing Solo would do in such circumstances.

"Why did I ever become friends with a hero?" Kuryakin whispered. Hypocritically, he knew he would have done the same thing without thought if he had the chance to save his friend. HE had even tried, he remembered, insisted Solo take the antidote. However, the American had not - had given it to him instead. "Why couldn't you have done what I asked, just this once?" Because either one of them would do whatever it took to save the other. It was their game. The mark of their partnership. None of that would be a comfort to him after this. The emptiness was already pressing on his heart. "You are so selfish. If you were really my friend, you would not leave me alone!"

The bitter anger was startling even to Illya, and he was ashamed of the rancor bubbling out from some nasty, hidden grotto of fear and disillusionment in his heart. How could he hate someone he loved as a brother? How could he consider this act of valor an act of selfishness? Because the looming trepidation of being without the only person he considered his family terrified him. He could face torture and bullets and any manner of devilish evil. He could not handle this loss.

It was his fortress – this chasm of desperate solitude that he pretended to prize. Only one person breached the walls. Friend, compatriot, associate – one to share, complain to, talk to, thus multiplying the lone into duo.

Sometimes you put walls up not to keep people out, but to see who cares enough to brake them down - Socrates

Illya did not equate isolation with emptiness until standing here in this cold and sterile bastion. Then the words he had spoken in slight irritation - words that he could not take back - could not recall from falling on the ears of his friend - came back to haunt him.

"What do you want for Christmas?"

"You could not afford it."

"Anything within reason, Illya."

"Very well. Peace and quiet. Not your chattering about traditions, or parties, or double dates. I want quiet. I would like to spend the day in introspection. Alone."

"I want you to have a fun Christmas. If this is our last holiday together for a while let's celebrate! Whatever it takes. My treat this year. What do you want? Whatever it takes."

"To be left alone at Christmas. . . . Then give me what I ask."

"Moi prosbasvayu jeezn." Aware he had slipped into Russian pleading; Illya took a deep breath and repeated in English, "My wish is your life, Napoleon. Please." There was, of course, no response from the recumbent patient. "You said you would do whatever it took to save me," he whispered urgently. "Whatever it takes," he brokenly whispered. "Then save me now, Napoleon. From something I fear more than my own death. Only you can do it. You have to save me."

Silence. What if this was the last and the silence became permanent? How could he ever bear it? Instead of anger, the deliberate sacrifice depressed him with the wintry reality of death's nearness.

"Napoleon, you told me you wanted me to live. It is YOU who must live now! You asked me what I wanted for Christmas. Forget what I said. I do not want quiet or loneliness. I want you to live. That is my present and you must grant it." Silence. "I want your irritating intrusions and constant attempts to cheer me and continual interference in my life. Please."

In his gloved hands, he took hold of Solo's hand and pressed it, feeling the heat of the virus through the protective material. He was not giving up. This was his only chance to turn this around and save his friend. Words of desperation and essentials crowded into his thoughts, but all he could manage was mentally repeat his plea that this had to work. It could not end here.

The doctor came in to check the monitors. Illya paced, struggling to find something to say - demands, pleas, observations. Only sadness clutched at him and there were no profound words, only desperation clouding his being.

Slight improvement, the physician claimed. The Russian felt like shouting with joy, but the dark reality of the dire illness prevented any outward reaction. He gave a curt nod. Solo was at least holding his own. Still not cured. Still not improved.

Advised to leave for his own recuperation; eat, rest. Illya refused and was soon left alone again. His place was here, his soul told him. If these were the final moments for his friend, he could at least be here beside Napoleon. In life, he had been the cause of his friend's demise – no - damage. At least – whatever happened next - he could prove his loyalty.

The incongruity of heavenly voices and music - singing about angels - struck Illya with a pang of offensiveness. His friend was entirely too close to the realm of crossing over to beyond this life. How could the medical staff on the other side of the isolation room celebrate? Midnight. Christmas morning. Cups of eggnog and cheer, present exchanges and hugs. Radio music proclaiming 'Angels We Have Heard On High' while here in his cocoon of anxiety he heard only the quiet hum of equipment.

Merry Christmas they kept repeating. A very unhappy reminder of his churlishness in the last moments spent with his friend. He had asked for peace and quiet. A sarcastic dig that he wanted to be left alone. He may yet have his wish granted, and it twisted in his heart like a burning blade to feel a glimmer of the emptiness that could await for his remaining future.

"Merry Christmas," he bitterly sighed at the cheerful personnel that were oblivious of his suffering.

The morning of Christmas. Dressed in fatigues, Illya felt stiff and too warm in the standard issue military clothing. even in the cold room. Perhaps it was nerves. He stopped pacing and paused to touch Solo's arm. It was comforting to feel his friend's skin now chill. During the dark hours of Christmas Eve the antidote had reversed some physical effects of the toxin. The fever was cooled and the skin rash nearly dissipated, but there was still no certainty Napoleon would recover. Now, however, Illya felt real hope.

Pacing again, lost in morose reverie, when he stopped and stared at his friend. What had caught at the corner of his eye? There - Napoleon's hand twitched! Racing over, Kuryakin placed a hand on his friend's.

"Napoleon?"

Had he dreamed the movement? The face was still. The body motionless. Out in the hall, someone laughed too loudly, too discordant for is mood. He glanced up, scowling at the intrusion. Turning back, a small gasp escaped his lips when he noted Solo's eyes blinking.

"Napoleon!" The eyelids seemed to lose the battle to open. "Napoleon, wake up!" He shook the still shoulder.

Slowly, the lids fluttered.

"Napoleon. Time to wake up." He gently patted Solo's cheek. "It is Christmas. You must wake up now. Santa will be unhappy if you continue to sleep."

It was all nonsense. He did not know what to say, short of pleading or shouting or revealing the agonizing impatience he felt. So he relied on typical, inane prattle to calm his nerves and connect with his partner.

"Christmas morning! Wake up!"

Solo groaned and Illya shook his shoulder. "Come, Napoleon. You know how impatient I am. Wake up."

Eyelids opened and the dull brown eyes reflected confusion. Solo's brow furrowed. "Angels - singing?"

In spite of his worry Illya would have laughed if not for the knot of emotion already stuck in his throat. In moments like this they would joke. They would tease, insult and sarcastically and stoically not admit how deeply the scars - seen and unseen - ran. He could not bring himself to do anything frivolous now.

"Angels?"

Solo slowly shook his head. "You singing with angels?"

The raw confusion jolted Illya's instincts and retrieved them from buried slumber under grief. Gone was his anger and resentment over Solo's heroics. And fading were the numb tendrils of fear that had gripped him for so long.

"No heavenly angels," he lightly responded, his heart lifting. The voices in the hall sang of 'Joy to the World' and he felt his own sense of elation surge, knowing the crisis was behind them. "Hardly what you should expect. No angels this time, my friend. You are recovering."

The agent slowly nodded his understanding.

"Napoleon, how are you feeling?"

Trite words. After waiting so long in the agonizing silence, he fumbled for something intelligent to say. Flashing trepidation of persistent side effects shot through his mind. Forget about the clever remarks. He just needed to know his partner was returning to normal.

Another slow nod indicated an affirmative. "Sore. You . . . right?" he whispered. "You -sick . . ."

"Not anymore."

"Cured?"

Pique flared and died in a heartbeat. "Yes," Kuryakin told him, crossly shaking his head.

A censure of ire died quickly. What could be said that his friend did not already know? Ilya did not want to live in place of Napoleon. His partner felt the same -obviously – always.

A lopsided grin tiredly came and went. "Good."

"No thanks to you. When will you ever listen, Napoleon? The antidote was for you."

A grin tugged at the corner of his lips. "Nice of you to share. Thanks."

"Actually, while you were napping," in a coma, he shivered. Ignoring the darkness within he forced himself to continue the nonsense. They worked this way. Reveal the true feelings only in desperation. Otherwise, irony and sarcasm became their shields. Wavering between tender emotion and anger, Kuryakin fell back on sardonic dryness. "While you napped I invented a cure and saved your life. Possibly the world. That remains to be seen."

"Clever Russian."

Leaning against the bed, the castigation was low and gentle. "You are a lot of trouble, Mr. Solo." Far kinder than the rage hours ago. Tempered by a Christmas miracle that his only wish had been granted. "As you will recall you gave me the only antidote. Requiring me to rapidly invent a brilliant and effective new serum."

The smile was too smug. "I - pushed – brilliant - expect nothing less, tovarich."

While he rolled his eyes Illya could not contain the pleasure that his world had been instantly righted. The banter-shield was reasserted. Words spoken in fear the night before wisped aside by their reaffirmed connection. Verbal presentation which remained surface-shallow to obscure true emotions.

Momentarily, Solo tried to focus on the scene beyond the glass. "Christmas?" he whispered in a barely audible croak.

"Yes. Merry Christmas," he smiled, feeling a little bubbly and too emotional. He just received his fervent wish for this holiday – for forever - and could not be happier.

Weakly, Napoleon motioned that he conveyed the same sentiment to Kuryakin. Attempting to speak, he gestured for Illya to lean close. Kuryakin bent low until his ear was touching Solo's chin.

"No - present . . . " was the hoarse message.

Patting Solo's arm, Illya kept his head down to conceal the numbing moisture pooling in his eyes. "My present is already delivered," he thickly assured. "Spasibah, moi tovareesh."

Solo nodded, offering a knowing smile. His limited Russian was able to translate the familiar words - grateful comments Illya had made before in their insane and dangerous partnership.

"Thank you, my friend," Kuryakin commented in English, just to be sure the message was received clearly.

The only meaningful gift was in his possession. His partner's life.

Merry Christmas