Chapter Six: Future

Disclaimer: I do not own Illya, Napoleon or any part of the UNCLE universe: I just borrowed them for a bit.

Thornton threw some photos down in front of them. Napoleon could see the tiny horizontal marks running above each knuckle on Illya's hands. Under a magnifying glass, they looked red and angry. No doubt but they had been freshly inflicted.

"It's little comfort, but this must have been the work of brilliance. Lander was pinpoint with his surgery. He must have sliced through the tendons like a knife through butter." Thornton shook his head. "Without anesthetic, dear Christ."

"What can be done for Mr. Kuryakin?" Waverly asked.

Thornton swallowed. He had been dreading that question. "I've got the top men in the country flying in tomorrow. McCormick's a good man and Delamare specializes in work with bomb victims. I have every confidence."

Waverly cleared his throat. "And what is the prognosis?"

The chief medic studied the floor for a moment then decided to bite the bullet. He looked the U.N.C.L.E. chief straight in the eyes and said, "If these two can't help Illya, I don't know who can. Severed tendons can be repaired but there can be nerve damage and untold complications. It's possible that he'll never recover the full use of his hands." Taking Waverly's curt nod as dismissal, he left.

Napoleon realized he had been holding his breath. Now, he let it out slowly. He glanced over at his boss who was digesting the information. Waverly seemed to be coming to some sort of decision.

"Mr. Solo, you will brief Mr. Carruthers on your current assignment and instruct him to follow up the lead on the warehouse. I expect you to make contact with the Countess tomorrow."

"Sir, what about Illya?"

"You heard the good doctor. The experts are arriving. We'll know more when they've carried out their examination."

Napoleon rarely stood in open opposition to his superior because he respected him too much but this was one of those times.

"Mr. Waverly, this is Illya we're talking about. He's my partner and my friend and this-this—" he searched for the words, "horrific, barbaric experience he's been through…he needs all the support he can get. I don't want to leave him on his own at the moment."

"Mr. Solo," Waverly's tone was quiet reason but Napoleon heard the steel in his voice, "you will remember that you are an U.N.C.L.E. agent and that you have a duty to perform. I expect you to carry out that duty. There is nothing you can do to help Mr. Kuryakin but there is a great deal you can do to help U.N.C.L.E. Do I make myself clear?"

Napoleon looked mutinous but knew that short of disobeying Waverly's direct order he had little option but to do as he was told. He did however have one burning question that he badly needed an answer to. "Sir, if the doctors can't help Illya, what will become of him?"

Waverly leaned back in his chair, his eyes hooded. "Mr. Kuryakin has endeavored to do his best by us: we will endeavor to do our very best by Mr. Kuryakin."

No answer at all, Napoleon thought grimly. He nodded, turned on his heel and left, heading straight for the medical section.

He was asleep when he arrived. Napoleon looked down at him and his lips twisted into a thin, set line as he thought about what his partner had been through.

Illya stirred and came instantly awake as he saw Napoleon. They regarded one another for a moment then Napoleon broke the silence. "Waverly's sending me out tomorrow."

"Makes sense. There's nothing you could do here anyway."

"He wants Carruthers to follow up the warehouse lead."

"Makes more sense. Leads can only go cold."

"Illya—"

"Don't, Napoleon," Illya warned and Napoleon knew he didn't want to hear pity or sympathy.

He glanced at the IV feed. "Have you eaten anything solid since you came back?"

Illya bristled. "I have no desire to be fed like a child by some well-meaning nurse."

"How about by an understanding partner?"

Illya wavered then capitulated. "I could eat a horse," he confessed.

"Let's settle for steak."

Over the T-bone and the beer, they were finally able to talk freely.

"Nervous?"

Illya chewed on the meat, considering. "Wouldn't you be?"

"I'd be terrified," Napoleon said quietly.

Frank blue eyes met serious dark ones.

"I've been running through the various outcomes. Most of them are…unwelcome."

"Best case?"

"They repair my hands and I carry on."

"Worst case?"

Illya hesitated. "I am detrained and sent home."

Napoleon looked at him sharply. "They wouldn't do that."

Illya shrugged. "It would be cheaper for Mother Russia to look after me than U.N.C.L.E.. If no one knew I couldn't use my hands, a good exchange could be made. They would guess I had been detrained but they'd hope I could be persuaded to remember."

"Waverly wouldn't do it," he insisted stubbornly.

"Napoleon, you are ever the sentimentalist. It would be a logical thing to do."

"I wouldn't let them."

Illya was silent, then smiled for the first time since he had been rescued. "I don't believe you would, my friend. Now go and get some rest…chasing Countesses is an exhausting business."