It was just a small hole in the wall restaurant on 7th street, an Italian place that Napoleon frequented with dates. But this time he had taken his new partner there, it was cool and rainy out and a hot steamy pasta dish would just hit the spot. Once seated at a table for two with a candle between them and their dripping coats hanging on a coat rack by the door, Napoleon looked over at his Russiancompanion. Illya wore a black turtleneck with a sports coat and slacks, his icy blue eyes surveyed their surroundings like a hawk looking for prey.
"Don't worry, this is a good place, Giovanni is a good man, he wouldn't let THURSH in. He knows the type, he used to work with Mr. Waverly," Napoleon informed. He himself wore a cream sweater and gray slacks, they were off that evening and trying to relax.
"It is reassuring that he used to work for us because a good man can by swayed by many vices, but I have never heard of one our agents changing sides," Illya said.
"I haven't either. But I would rather leave work at Del Floria's and talk about something else. Like the alfredo or the lasagna, two of my favorite dishes here, and the wine is some of the best you'll find in all of New York," Napoleon smiled.
"Ah! Mr. Solo! It is good to see you again! And this must be your new partner, Mr. Kuryakin, it's nice to meet you, Mr. Solo told me he was going to bring you by," Giovanni said, coming over to their table. He was a middle aged man with a mustache and curly graying hair, he had warm brown eyes and a welcoming smile.
"Hello. It is nice to meet you as well," Illya said.
"Gi, I'll have the lasagna and a salad," Napoleon said.
"Yes. And for you, Mr. Kuryakin?" Giovanni asked.
"I'll have a salad, the lasagna and the alfredo," Illya said.
"You want them...both?" Giovanni asked, surprised.
"Yes," Illya answered, face emotionless.
"Illya loves food, he eats a lot," Napoleon said with a smile. This was just about the only thing he knew about Illya, he loved food and he loved cocktails.
"Him? Where does he put it?" Giovanni asked, looking at Illya's slight figure.
"I manage," Illya replied.
Giovanni walked away shocked and put their orders in and went to get Napoleon's usual bottle of wine.
"I believe I stunned him," Illya said.
"Oh? You think you've stunned him now, wait until he sees you eat all of that," Napoleon said.
"I like food. I believe you would say, so what?" Illya asked.
They got their wine and Napoleon poured it for them. "You're so skinny, you eat so much, it shocks people," he said.
Illya shrugged and tasted his wine.
Napoleon started talking about a mission he once took to Rome, he avoided talking about Donny, he always did, no matter who he was talking to. Mr. Waverly encouraged him more than once to talk to a doctor in U.N.C.L.E's psychiatric department about his grief but he refused and even canceled an appointment made for him once. He tried to get Illya to comment, to act interested, to talk, but he never did, he only drank and listened.
When the food arrived Illya began eating and rarely looked, Napoleon ate slowly, thinking of Donny, feeling miles away...
Napoleon woke with a start, once again it took him a few minutes to know where he was, he shook all over, his mouth felt dry as a bone. Being dehydrated he couldn't think straight, he had been dreaming but it seemed to still be with him, Illya was floating around the room, a ghost from Napoleon's mind.
"Illya?" he called aloud.
But the ghost image of Illya only stared at him before walking out the closed door, Napoleon wanted to follow him, but trying to get out of bed resulted in him rolling out of bed into the floor.
Wendy came in not long thereafter, hearing the 'thud' of Napoleon rolling off the bed. "Mr. Solo, are you trying to escape?" she smiled.
"Wouldn't think of it," Napoleon muttered.
"You wouldn't be ready to talk would you? Your time is running out you know," Wendy said.
Napoleon's breathing was somewhat labored and he shook all over as Wendy helped him get back in bed. He smiled weakly. "I will never talk, my dear," he said.
"What a fool! You can live! What is this information? Is it worth your life?" Wendy asked, disgusted.
"Is it worth the lives of all the people that live in those countries? Yes, yes it is, and for those people I will not tell," Napoleon said. He felt in agony but he tried to keep his voice even and his face unflinching as he talked to her.
"And you will die for them?" Wendy asked, with a scoffing tone.
"Yes," Napoleon said confidently.
"Then you are a fool. You sound like you mean that, but you've not been through the worst of it yet. Wait until tomorrow about this time, you'll be in such pain that you won't be able to bear it, then you'll talk," Wendy said, it was her turn to sound confident.
"I wouldn't count my chickens before they hatch Wendy, dear," Napoleon said.
Wendy gave him a smug look and walked out, leaving him alone again.
Napoleon stared up at the bed's canopey, head feeling foggy, he had never felt so alone in all his life, he was dying, he could feel it, Wendy and Ming hadn't lied about that. This was one of Napoleon's greatest fears, not so much dying, for dying at this point would be sweet release, but dying alone was something he had always hoped wouldn't fall upon him. He knew he would probably die in the field, by a bullet, or a knife, or torture, of course he had never thought he would die of a toxic sickness by the hand of THURSH. And die alone. If only he had some strength, if he did he would try to get out, he would try to capture Wendy and Ming, but he couldn't. He couldn't do anything. He closed his eyes and waited.