Illya sent the red box down the chute and went immediately to the main office, seeking out Waverly.
"I've brought the gun, sir," he announced with no greeting.
Waverly was already gathering papers. "Yes, I know," he said, looking up. "Shall we go have a look, then?"
"I want to go back," Illya said.
"Whatever for?" Waverly stopped.
"Well, Napolean," Illya said, surprised that it wasn't obvious.
"Oh, that," Waverly raised an eyebrow. "That's not your job, Mr. Kuryakin. Aren't you curious about the gun you brought in?"
If by 'curious about' you mean 'hate,'" he thought. "Of course, I would be ordinarily," Illya said. "But not..." he clenched his jaw for a moment. "But not today. Certainly there are other people that are completely competent."
Waverly regarded his Section Two #2 with understanding hidden behind an expressionless face. "Suit yourself, Mr. Kuryakin," he finally said.
Illya nodded quickly. "I told them to refuel the plane so it would be ready to take off when I got back," he said, momentarily giving Waverly a quarter-smile as a thank-you. He rushed out of the room, leaving Waverly to shake his head over what softy he'd become.
The plane took off without incident. Illya was fine for the first bit of the flight; using a topographical map and a county-level road map, he was able to work out where exactly he needed to go once he got on the ground. The car, also, was arranged for – he got the pilot to call ahead about that.
He'd also brought a newspaper and a couple of journal articles to read, but he couldn't read them. He'd start reading, but his mind would wander – or, rather, would rush right ahead to what was waiting for him just southwest of the ghost town. He'd pry his thoughts off his partner and fix them firmly on the text in front of him, only to have them rush right back before he reached the end of the sentence. When the plane finally landed, it was nearly sunset, and he'd read three quarters of a page. The battle was worth it, though, because all the pilot saw when they landed was the after-effects of a long, hard, concentrated stare.
He didn't have an interaction with the pilot or ground crew hanging over his head when he drove off in the car, though. What he did have was a solitary drive through vast stretches of desert, rimmed by towering, barren mountains that made him feel deeply his human insignificance; brisk, invigorating wind blowing through his uncovered hair; and above it all a glorious orange and pink and purple sunset, that seemed both to draw him on into the future and to rub his face in the fact that Napolean wouldn't be in it.
He clenched his jaw, and, to distract himself, checked the gas gauge again. Fortunately the men at the airport had actually filled the tank fully this time, and he wouldn't need to stop at that little station on the way in. Perhaps he would need to on the way out. But then, he wouldn't want anyone to see him driving around with an obviously dead body. He was in the same jeep as before, and there would be no way to hide the body – unless he pulled all those things out of the back and piled them in the front – why had they given him the same load in the back? He didn't need to disguise his reason for being there anymore. He guessed he'd move the things, and put Napolean on the floor in the back. It was an ignominious way to travel, but Napolean wouldn't have cared. As long as no girls could see him, at least – Napolean did care how he appeared when there were girls around. No more of that, old friend, Illya thought, and then sniffed hard. Thinking about dealing with the body gave him a terrible clench in the stomach – he checked the gas gauge again. The distraction didn't work: gas, fine; stomach, not fine. He tried taking a deep breath and realized that his throat was suddenly very, very sore. Could he be coming down with something? He wished he'd brought water – he glanced to his side to the front passenger seat and suddenly noticed that it was quite dark – he realized he'd been looking into what his headlights could pick up for a long time. And he hadn't brought a light. So he'd find Napolean in the dark. No problem; there was a moon. Was there a moon? He checked. Yes, it had been a beautiful day – one could see for miles. On the way in, on the way out, when they'd killed Napolean – he clenched his jaw again, harder. His throat did ache, so badly. And his stomach hurt. Fine time to come down with something.
It was a little easier to think once he got near the ghost town, because he had to paying attention so as to not miss the turnoff. The road was very badly laid out, too; it was basically just a sandy strip clear of Joshua trees and cacti. There was a bluff on his left, though, and that was correct. He had to follow the bottom of this bluff for .8 miles, according to the maps he'd memorized on the plane. That would take him to where – to the edge of THRUSH's gun range.
He kept as close an eye as possible on the odometer, and stopped the car right when it went .8 past the mile. He thought of using the headlights for the search, but thought better of it quickly. They would be clumsy, and if Napolean was up on the rocks at all, they would be useless. He turned the headlights off and waited in the jeep while his eyes adjusted to the moonlight.
He could see so many stars. There were no man-made lights of any kind visible; the whole dome of the sky was peppered with stars, from the mountain's silhouette in front of him to the one behind. The stars were faded out a little around the glowing moon, though.
And he found that he could see the ground pretty well in the moonlight. Napolean was nowhere in sight.
Illya found a way up onto the first rock in front of him. It was a bit of a scramble; the top of the rock was about ten feet off the ground. It was a fairly large rock, about thirty yards across, and flat, and bathed in moonlight. And about twenty yards to his right, near the rock's edge, flat on his back, was a man.
"Oh, Napolean," Illya whispered, feeling himself wilt. He'd been going to find Napolean so single-mindedly that he'd forgotten how much he dreaded finding him. He tried to wipe his eyes clear – and his nose – but soon gave it up. There was no one there to see him, anyway. He tried to get a deep breath, and then walked closer and squatted beside Napolean.
"I'm so sorry, Napolean," he just barely said, touching his partner's shirtsleeve. After a moment, he took hold of the body by the right arm in order to raise it into a sitting position, so he could get it over one shoulder, and carry it that way. But the body had other ideas. The head snapped up, and both arms grabbed him – Illya cried out and scrambled back, letting the body drop. The head knocked hard against the ground.
"Ow! Oh, ow!" the body exclaimed, and it's hands went to it's head, Illya watching with wide eyes. "That's the same spot!"
"Napolean?" Illya wondered shakily, still from a distance.
"Illya," Napolean said, looking up at him. "I fell asleep."
Illya rushed for him, stopping short of bear-hugging him only because he was hurt. He took Napolean by the arms and helped him sit up. "Napolean," he gasped, "are you alright?" He kept his hold on Napolean's arms.
Dazed, Napolean missed the question. "I shouldn't have fallen asleep. I can see how that would be confusing. I was going to sit on the ledge and jump down when I saw your car, and wave, and call your name. I guess I was tired."
"How are you alright? I saw you fall."
Napolean nodded a little. "It was more of a slide than a fall," he said. "But I hit my head at the bottom – was knocked out, I think. I haven't been sitting here the whole time, though. I went into town; I stopped the bomb..."
"Bomb? What bomb?"
Napolean considered. "The gun. It was a bomb. Never mind; it didn't go off. And then I called in on a good line, finally, and they said you'd just got off the plane and left in the car and they couldn't contact you any more. So Waverly said I should come here and wait for you because you'd be here to get me anyway. My head hurts." He leaned forward into Illya's shoulder, and Illya put an arm around his back. He kept talking, though his voice was a bit muffled and Illya had to concentrate to hear. "Abby called someone to come get her – I think she would have waited with me but she's really bothered by the idea of snakes. It's okay – you'll meet her later. I made her promise to come to New York." He paused. "Sorry I fell asleep, Illya."
Illya grinned. "No, it's – I should have known," he said.
"Hmm?"
"You didn't look like you'd fallen. You looked like you'd stretched out to look at the stars."
"I had," Napolean agreed. "They're fantastic, aren't they?" He looked up at them, and so did Illya. "We don't ever see them like this in New York, or most places." Gingerly, he laid back down on the rock, still gazing at them. "Honestly, I'd take New York over this every time – but they are nice," he said. "And the sky's so clear. Just think, you can see for light-years."
"I don't think that's how that works," Illya said, joining Napolean on the ground. "But, yes, it is very clear. It has been all day."
They rested in the stillness for several minutes.
"Makes you feel just – tiny – doesn't it," asked Napolean, "looking at how big the universe is?"
Illya nodded.
"Considerably less so than it did ten minutes ago, though," he said, and then, softly, "thank God you're alright, Napolean."
"You don't believe in God," Napolean suggested.
"Even so," Illya said, staring straight up. He heard Napolean turn his head to look at him for a moment.
They were silent again, watching the starts, and Illya felt a very welcome cool breeze dance across his face.
"Look, there's a satellite," Napolean said, needlessly pointing at it. "Hope it's not THRUSH's."
Illya chuckled. "It's probably one of ours," he said.
"'Ours' as in UNCLE's, or 'ours' as in Russia's?" Napolean asked.
"Does it matter?"
"Maybe a little." Illya could hear him fidgeting with his fingers.
"Illya," Napolean said after a few moments, "I thought for a while that headquarters was gone. It was..." He didn't finish the sentence.
"...awful," Illya supplied.
"Yeah." There was a long silence.
"So, the gun was actually a bomb?" Illya asked, and he got Napolean to tell him all that had happened while he wasn't there.
"What about you?" Napolean asked when he was finished.
"Oh, there's not much to tell," Illya said. "I drove, and I flew, and then I came back." He sighed. "This one wasn't fun for either of us."
Another satellite was tracing its way across the sky, and Illya sat up. "Well," he said, "no matter who is out in the darkness watching us, it's probably time to be moving. We still have a lot to do tonight."
"Like what?" Napolean wondered.
"Well, we need to drive to the city," Illya began. "This is all rather glorious," he motioned overhead, "but I'm not sleeping out here. Not on a rock, especially, and not without water. And I don't know about you, but I'm hungry."
Napolean shrugged and nodded, and started to pick himself up.
"I should find a phone and call in a report to leave for Waverly in the morning. And then, of course, you need to consult a doctor. At this time of night, that will need to be in a hospital's emergency room."
"That can wait until we get home," Napolean said.
"No, my friend," Illya was firm. "Depending on the severity of the injury, flying and perhaps even sleeping may be dangerous, and you will not do either until you've had a doctor's opinion, at least." He offered Napolean both his hands. "Do you need help?"
The hospital kept Napolean until eight the next morning. He was concussed but not dangerously so, and though there was a bit of external bleeding, there was none internally, so Napolean was given a green light to travel. They'd let Illya bring him food, but they hadn't let Napolean sleep at all, and, as Illya hadn't ended up sleeping more than an hour or so either, they opted to get some sleep before returning to headquarters.
There hadn't been much choice at two in the morning the night before when Illya had optimistically looked for a room; he'd had to choose between a double room at a very nice hotel or separate rooms at a relatively terrible one, and he picked the nice one. Six hours later, they were both too tired to care.
Illya plopped down, eyes closed, on the corner of the bed nearest the door the moment they got inside. He opened his eyes to glance at his watch, and shut them again. "I've only been awake 26 hours," he said, "and even had a brief nap. Why am I so tired?"
Napolean, finished closing the window shades to block out the sun, peered into the bathroom. "I want a shower before bed – do you need anything first?"
Illya shook his head without opening his eyes, and flopped backwards. "Go right ahead," he mumbled.
When Napolean came out of the shower, Illya hadn't moved. Napolean smirked, and slapped him on the knee. "Hey, IK," he said. "You fell asleep with your shoes on."
Illya sniffed, turned onto one side, and pulled his feet, shoes and all, up onto the bed, and Napolean could get nothing more out of him after that.
Napolean grinned, shaking his head. Illya was still filthy – but at least it was only his clothes now. When they'd gone into the ER, into the light for the first time, he'd been so surprised that he'd said something: it had looked like Illya had streaked his face and hands with mud. Illya had washed right away in a men's room at the hospital, but his clothes were still so dirty that the bed's comforter was turning a shade of dusty brown around where he lay. Napolean made a mental note to leave a big tip in the morning – which would be the evening, actually.
He undid Illya's shoelaces and slipped the shoes off, and his partner didn't stir a bit. Napolean put the shoes next to the door on a piece of newspaper.
He was pretty sure he knew why Illya was feeling so worn at only the 26 hour mark. It had been an unusually high-stakes day. He'd had a few tense moments of his own and he was ready to sleep the day through.
The last thing he did before he climbed into the other bed and turned out the light was to peel up the other half of the comforter Illya was lying on and wrap it over his exhausted friend.