To all my fantastic readers: I just wanted to say that you have all been so rewarding to write for. This has been by first MFU story and I was really worried about characterization and whether or not people would enjoy it. But you have all been so honest and kind in your feedback, I just needed to say thank you.

Okay, public service announcement aside, here's the next chapter!


The passing of time is a terribly unique thing. Seconds stretch into minutes; minutes, hours; and hours expand into days. Days link together quite unobtrusively, without seam or ridge, without even layers. One day simply becomes the next, with only the tick from an old clock as a cheer of welcome. Time never hastens and never waits. It marches steadily on with or without permission. No one can influence it or hinder it. It can be measured but not contained. It can control events. It drags them further away, or draws them closer to their point of occurrence. And somehow, time managed to take an event that was a matter of weeks away, and shrink it into a matter of hours away.

Today was the day.

Lying awake in his bed, Illya couldn't even tell how many hours of sleep he actually acquired during the night. By the dull throbbing in his head, Illya assumed it wasn't an abundance of rest. He stayed in bed a while longer, waiting until he could feel the heat from the sun rays as they peered through his window and warmed his chest. Once he knew it was officially morning, Illya breathed deeply in and then slung his legs over the side of his bed. He groaned sleepily and stretched his tired muscles. His right hand went instinctively to the nightstand and he grasped hold of the faithful cane. After finding his bathrobe, Illya lazily made his way out of his bedroom.

As soon as he had entered his living quarters, Illya's ears detected the sound of heavy breathing, but he was not alarmed. For almost a week now, the Russian's sofa had become the temporary residence of Napoleon Solo. Somehow, Napoleon had gotten it into his head that Illya was in danger of causing some harm to himself. It was, of course, madness. Despite the circumstances, Illya still managed to keep a level head on his shoulders. He would be a fool to do something so drastic, particularly before he had the chance to see the doctor and find out if any of this was permanent. But none of that occurred to Napoleon. He felt Illya had to be under supervision for some reason.

Admittedly, Illya wasn't too welcoming a host when Napoleon first announced his stay. But over the past few days, Illya would be a cad if he didn't recognize that the company had been pleasant. He actually had someone to talk to all day. He had companionship, and that was a treasure indeed. He wouldn't admit that Napoleon's motives for staying were founded, but at least the total experience wasn't half bad. Illya might have gone insane if he had spent the last few days of waiting by himself. But now, the wait was over. Today would decide it all.

"Wake up, Napoleon," Illya called.

Napoleon took one long breath and opened his eyes. Lifting his head off of the armrest of the couch, he looked around the room, blinking his eyes and encouraging his vision to focus. He looked at his wristwatch and then sighed, letting his head fall back onto the armrest. He smacked his lips together tiredly. "Mornin' pardner," he said, in a dramatized cowboy accent.

Illya didn't even crack a smile. It was too early to be amused. He turned and started tapping his way towards the kitchen. "Good morning," he greeted unenthusiastically.

Napoleon rose from the couch and scratched his itchy head. "So…" he yawned, slowly following his partner into the kitchen. "This is it, huh?" he observed cautiously.

"No, this is breakfast," Illya replied, silently counting through the many boxes of cereals on the counter before settling on his choice. Feeling around his cabinetry, Illya located a bowl and spoon, setting both items on the table before opening the refrigerator to retrieve the milk.

Napoleon leaned against the doorframe of the kitchen entrance, watching his partner's rehearsed movements with mild interest. "So how do you feel?" the dark-haired agent asked, careful not to sound too concerned over his friend.

Illya hesitated as he opened the carton of milk. His entire vocabulary, both of English and of Russian, began to feed hundreds of words to him, each accurate in describing the way he felt. He was excited, worried, nervous, intimidated, relieved, tired…scared. Above everything else though, he was ready. He was just ready to know. All of this time, not knowing…it was enough to drive him mad…almost. Whether for better or worse, he just wanted to get this doctor's visit over with. He just wanted to know.

But the stoic Russian was tired of sharing his feelings. He was tired of talking about things that couldn't be relieved through conversation. Hence, the only reply Illya gave was, "How'd you sleep?"

Luckily, Napoleon was good at taking hints. And he knew that, on this day, Illya had a right to be pensive. Napoleon didn't want to be the caring, but antagonistic friend today. Today, his role was just to be Illya's support; his encourager, his comforter and his friend.

Pushing himself from against the wall, Napoleon answered his partner's question. "Very poorly, thank you for asking," he said, beginning to make a breakfast of his own. "You want to know the first thing we're doing tomorrow morning?"

Illya remained quiet as he poured the milk into his cereal, holding his finger over the lip of the bowl so that he could feel the rise of the milk and hence avoid an overflow.

Napoleon went on, "I am taking you to the furniture store and I am personally paying for you to get a new couch, preferably one that doesn't feel like it's made from asphalt."

"It's a perfectly good sofa, Napoleon. It suits my purposes just fine. Besides, it was a bargain. I bought it for a very good price at one of those things you American's seem to like so much. What's it called…a lawn sale."

"The term is 'yard sale', and the reason it was so cheap is because it's the most uncomfortable piece of furniture ever designed. I think, after we get you a new one, we should take that cinderblock and donate it to the interrogation room at headquarters. It might help to break some of the more stubborn THRUSH agents."

Illya cracked a smile. He quietly turned his attention to his bowl of cereal and let his mind wander as he ate. He only had about half a dozen spoonfuls though before he felt his bowl being dragged away from him.

"Here," Napoleon said, "eat this." He slid a plate of warm toast in front of his partner.

Illya heard the sound of jam being scraped across the rough surface of the toast. "What are you going to eat?" he asked.

Napoleon set the jellied toast back onto the plate. "It just so happens, I was craving Wheaties this morning," he answered, taking Illya's remaining cereal and sliding it to his side of the table.

Then the two agents silently ate their breakfast in peace.


"Are we there, or is this another red light?" Illya asked after the car crept to a slow stop.

"Nope," Napoleon answered, putting the car in park. "We're here."

Illya took a deep breath and tried not to let it sound shaky as he exhaled. "Good," he said quietly.

Neither agent moved. They didn't really know why they were waiting, but for some reason, they both remained silent in their seats. Cars zoomed by and the world of New York City continued to spin around them at an accelerated pace, but the partners within the vehicle simply sat and waited.

"Illya," Napoleon said quietly. Eyebrows low, his eyes stared at the dashboard, watching the sun glint off of the dusty surface. There was so much he wanted to say, so much he needed to communicate to his friend; but he could find absolutely no words with which to express it all. "Illya," he began again, "Whatever happens…"

"I know, Napoleon…. You don't have to say it."

Napoleon sighed. He reached out and placed his hand on his partner's shoulder, squeezing it gently.

Illya's right hand came up and covered his friend's, giving it a few soft pats. He gulped once. "Yeah," his voice was just a whisper, but the meaning behind that simple word was as loud as thunder. Then, removing his hand and squaring his shoulders slightly, Illya pulled out from under Napoleon's grasp, politely shaking off the contact. "Well," he said, forcing confidence into his voice. He felt around until he grasped hold of the door handle. "Shall we do this?"

Napoleon could practically see Illya's 'brave face' as it slipped into position. Napoleon's was a little slower coming. "We shall," he answered, opening his own door and climbing out. Soon, with hand on shoulder, the partners were descending the steps leading into Del Floria's tailor shop.


Author's Note: I originally wrote this adjoined to the following chapter, but by the time I was through with that chapter, it was far too long. So I had to split them and this was the only good place for a chapter split. That said, I realize nothing important really happens in this chapter, but I hope you were able to enjoy it anyway. The next chapter will be up soon!