TITLE:  The Locust Affair

AUTHOR: Lady Ra

E-MAIL ADDRESS: ladyra11@yahoo.com

RATING: Probably R/NC-17 to be on the safe side.  On second thought, definitely NC-17 <g>

PAIRING: IK/NS

DISCLAIMER: It all belongs to whoever the heck owns Man From Uncle now.  And that's not me. 

SUMMARY:  THRUSH is trying to create a super bug.  Yes, this is a preposterous THRUSH plot.  Were there any other kind?

NOTES:  Contains a character from The Project Strigas Affair, cuz I think there was just a bit of a slash moment between Mike Donfield (played by a very young and major cutie pie William Shatner) and Illya, when Mike thought he was dead.  I thought it might be fun to play with that.  But please note pairing above.  Worry not.

FEEDBACK: Absolutely.

THANKS: To Morr, my partner in crime! And thanks to Deb and Lee the T for beta assistance. 

 

 

The Locust Affair

 

Illya and Napoleon surveyed what was left of the lab.  All except one of the THRUSH personnel were dead or had managed to get away.  The one remaining live agent was still out cold from the sleep dart Napoleon had shot into his posterior.  Napoleon prodded him with his toe while Illya attempted to make some sense out of the few files that hadn't been taken or destroyed.  He scowled.  "We should have gotten here faster.  They had too much time to eliminate anything of value."

 

Illya shot his partner a quelling glance.  "A thousand apologies.  I'll drop a note to THRUSH Central, asking them to leave their research satraps less heavily guarded in the future.  I'm sure they'll be willing to oblige."

 

Napoleon just grinned.  He prodded the downed THRUSH agent again.  "Maybe when this little bird wakes up he'll be anxious to sing." 

 

Choosing not to respond, Illya continued his search.  He opened drawers, checking both within and beneath for any secreted information.  The last drawer stubbornly refused to open.  He yanked on it to no avail.  He pulled out his gun.

 

Napoleon snorted.  "I hardly think that drawer deserves an untimely death."

 

Illya rolled his eyes and hammered on the drawer, using the butt of his gun, trying to loosen it.

 

"Tsk tsk.  The Gunnery Chief isn't going to be happy about that."

 

"Perhaps you could stop heckling me and actually assist in the searching, Napoleon."

 

"What?" Napoleon asked, appalled.  "And have you end up yelling at me for disturbing something essential?  No thank you.  I'll just sit here and keep our inert friend company until he deigns to rejoin the land of the living."

 

"He may not know anything."  After a few seconds of looking as if he might actually shoot the drawer, Illya holstered his gun and started on another search.

 

"He's got a lab coat on.  He's got to know something."

 

"Not necessarily.  He may be a lab assistant, or a courier of sorts."

 

Napoleon gestured toward the drawer.  "Would you just attend to your problem and let me attend to mine?  I was perfectly happy dreaming my little dream of the glorious untapped knowledge lying at my feet."

 

Illya wandered across the lab out of Napoleon's sight, and Napoleon heard the sound of something being snapped off.  He looked up as Illya returned into his line of sight slapping something against the palm of his hand.  The Russian walked back to the desk and crouched underneath it.

 

Napoleon tipped his chair back, using his feet to keep the chair balanced.  "What's that?"

 

"The airfoil variable volume adjuster for the fume hood.  I think I can use it as a screwdriver."

 

"Good thinking.  I would have mentioned it but I knew you'd figure it out sooner or later."  Napoleon grinned again at the scowl that elicited and let the chair drop back down on four legs.  He watched as Illya started dismantling the desk.  "What's so important about that drawer anyway?"

 

"It's stuck."

 

"I can see that.  I'm not blind."

 

Illya shot him a look that clearly spoke otherwise.  "If it was stuck when they were trying to get away, they might have left something important behind."

 

"So, why take the desk apart?  Just use a torch and cut into the drawer.  There must be a torch in a lab this large."

 

"I don't know what's in here, Napoleon.  It could be explosives in which case a torch might be a bad idea, wouldn't you agree?" 

 

Napoleon sighed and then frowned as he watched Illya bite back a grin.  Illya loved coming up with incontrovertible arguments; he knew it bothered Napoleon.  This time was no different.  "Fine, suit yourself."

 

"Thank you.  I will." 

 

Napoleon could see that it was not the best of screwdriver replacements as Illya winced when it dug into his palm, but it was apparently effective.  After a few screws, the entire drawer assembly came loose and Illya shifted it out from under the desk.  Sitting down, he began to work on the screws that would disassemble the individual drawers. 

 

Illya glanced up at Napoleon just as he was toeing the agent again.  Illya rolled his eyes.  "Those sleep darts have been thoroughly researched, you know.  He will sleep the requisite 48 minutes, regardless of how many times you jab him with your foot."

 

Napoleon looked at his watch.  It had been 37 minutes.  "Statistically speaking, to come up with an average recovery time, there must have been subjects who woke up faster."

 

"And slower."

 

"You are just determined to be a party pooper, aren't you?"

 

"A party pooper?"  Illya turned to Napoleon, a puzzled look on his face.  "A party pooper?" 

 

Napoleon grinned in triumph.  He loved catching Illya off guard with American slang.  It didn't happen very often; Illya had an excellent command of the English language.  "Yes, someone who tries to ruin a good time for everyone else.  Party pooper.  You, in this case."

 

Illya silently voiced the phrase again, as Napoleon watched, still grinning.  Finally, Illya just shook his head and got back to work.  Ten minutes passed.  Illya checked his watch.  "Apparently your friend there is not one of the faster subjects."  He was almost down to the final drawer and was surrounded by flat pieces of wood and multiple screws. 

 

Another few minutes went by.  Napoleon noticed that Illya was now staring down at the contents of the final disassembled drawer, which seemed to be a locked metal box.  "You need a lock pick?"

 

Illya shook his head.  "Have one."  He began to unbuckle his belt.  Napoleon nodded, remembering that his friend often kept one there for occasions such as this.  Illya could be a regular hardware store on occasion, despite the fact that he'd been caught sans screwdriver.

 

Napoleon looked down and saw his problem was starting to stir.  He pointed his gun at the agent, looking forward to providing a less than friendly welcoming.  "Wakey, wakey."

 

Napoleon flashed a conspiratorial grin at Illya but was surprised to see a look of alarm cross his partner's face.  Before he could ascertain what the cause was, Illya barreled into him, knocking him off his chair, rolling him away from the man on the floor.

 

Napoleon stared down at the younger agent who was now currently lying beneath him.  "Illya, what the hell are you doing?"

 

Illya pointed, and Napoleon followed the finger until they could both see the small amount of gas escaping from the man's mouth.  "Cyanide.  He must have had it in a tooth."  Illya punctuated the remark with a tap against his own teeth with an index finger.  "I saw him clench his jaw."  They both watched, a bit unnerved, as the man started to convulse.  Illya rolled off Napoleon.

 

Napoleon grimaced.  "Cyanide?  Why would a lab flunky--" Napoleon saw Illya flash him a narrow-eyed glare, and he amended his question.  "Why would a worker in a lab, even a THRUSH lab, have cyanide gas in one of his teeth?  That's a privilege usually reserved for THRUSH agents."

 

Illya glanced over at the small metal box he had found.  "Maybe because he had no choice in the matter.  Someone at THRUSH central could have placed it and then implanted a hypnotic suggestion to set it off if captured."

 

"They wouldn't have done that unless he was working on something really, really important."

 

Illya stood, and held out a hand to assist Napoleon up.  "I've got a bad feeling about this." 

 

"You and me both, partner, you and me both."

 

Illya gave the now very dead agent on the floor a wide berth and picked up the metal container. 

 

Napoleon's eyes swept the lab.  "We need a full team to go over this lab with a fine toothed comb to make sure we haven't missed anything."

 

Illya nodded.  "I'll take this back to my lab, like the good little flunky I am, and open it under more controlled circumstances."

 

Napoleon sent a mock sneer at his partner.  "I suggest you wear a gas mask." 

 

 

*****

Sitting in Waverly's office, Napoleon frowned at the glass container he held in his hand.  "It looks like a grasshopper.  What is THRUSH doing with grasshoppers?"

 

Illya shook his head.  "Not a grasshopper.  A Schistocerca gregaria, a desert locust."

 

Napoleon let out a long suffering sigh.  "Fine, then.  A locust.  My question remains.  What is THRUSH doing with a locust?  By the way, is locust singular and plural?  Locusts?  Loci?"

 

There was a harrumph from the head of the table.  Napoleon put the glass container down.  "Sorry, Sir.  What was so important about this bug that they brainwashed one of their scientists into committing suicide rather than talk?"

 

"Napoleon, I'm surprised at you.  Don't you know your Bible verses?"

 

"I'm sure you're planning on enlightening me," Napoleon said with an annoyed glare.

 

Illya's voice grew soft.  "'By morning the wind brought the locusts; they invaded all of Egypt and settled down in every part of the country in huge numbers.  Never had there been such a plague of locusts, and there never will be again.  They covered the ground until it was black.  They devoured everything growing in the fields and the fruit on the trees.  Nothing green remained in all the land of Egypt.'  Exodus, chapter 10."

 

Napoleon couldn't stop the shiver that went down his back at the vision the soft voice spoke of.  He kept his voice purposefully light.  "Do you know the entire Bible by heart?"

 

A quick glance, and then Illya's eyes went back to the file in front of him.  "There was nothing else to read."

 

Napoleon pursed his lips as he considered his partner.  Illya hadn't said much but Napoleon could figure out the rest.  In the labor camps.  There hadn't been anything else to read in the labor camps.  Where Illya had spent far too many years.  Him and that photographic memory of his.  He ran his hand down the lower half of his face.  "That's talking about the wrath of God, Illya, a devastation of biblical proportions."

 

A wry smile formed on Illya's face.  "Sounds like THRUSH presumption, doesn't it, to try a remake of one of the plagues of Egypt?"

 

"Are you saying that THRUSH plans to loose locusts on some unsuspecting cropland somewhere?  Destroy some country's economy?"

 

Mr. Waverly tapped his pipe to empty it.  "Yes, that is exactly what Mr. Kuryakin is saying.  After piecing together all of the evidence left in the lab, coupled with the contents of the metal box Mr. Kuryakin found, it is clear that this is their plan.  But not just any country.  This country.  A massive strike against America's farmlands."

 

Napoleon's eyes grew wide and then they darkened.  "So how do we stop it?" 

 

"That is your assignment.  You and Mr. Kuryakin.  You must stop this nefarious plan now, before it comes to fruition."

 

Napoleon's eyes rested on his partner.  "Any ideas, Illya?"

 

"Yes.  I was thinking that what we need is an expert in the field of bug extermination."

 

"Mike Donfield," Napoleon guessed.

 

"Yes, Mike Donfield.  It is also convenient that he already knows who we are, and he knows about UNCLE." 

 

Napoleon nodded.  "And we know he's a pretty cool character under pressure."  He glanced at Mr. Waverly.  "I assume you've kept track of him?"  Waverly seemed to keep track of everyone, on the off chance they might come in handy sometime. 

 

"Yes.  I've given the number to Mr. Kuryakin."

 

Illya glanced up at Napoleon.  "We're meeting him in thirty minutes."

 

Napoleon made as if to stand but at the look in Waverly's eyes, he sat back down.  Waverly fixed them both with a determined stare under his bushy brows.  "I do not need to impress upon you gentlemen the importance of this mission.  If enough of America's crops are destroyed it will throw this country into a depression, making it dependent on outside sources to feed its own citizens."

 

Napoleon scowled.  "Making us a sitting duck for THRUSH to move in and throw this country into complete anarchy."

 

"Exactly.  THRUSH must not be successful."

 

This time Napoleon and Illya both stood, the dismissal clear in Waverly's voice.  Napoleon gave him a grim smile.  "You can count on us, Sir."

 

"I am.  We all are."

 

Exchanging a quick look with his partner, Illya picked up his file, gestured for Napoleon to pick up the entombed locust, and left the room, Napoleon directly behind him.

 

 

*****

Exactly thirty minutes later, the two agents were standing outside of a very respectable apartment building in the lower eastside.  Illya looked at the slip of paper in his hand.  "This is it."

 

Napoleon gestured for Illya to lead the way.  Following behind, he noted the appalling lack of security.  When Illya stopped in front of the indicated door, Napoleon rapped sharply.

 

In a few moments, he could hear footsteps, a brief pause as the peephole was used, and then the door was flung open.  Mike grinned at them both.  "Napoleon.  Illya.  Come on in." 

 

Napoleon glanced around, instinctively looking for danger and for a secondary exit, and noted Illya doing the same.  Mike was watching them both.  With a grin, Mike held his arms out to his side.  "Need to search me, too?  Want to see my ID?"

 

Illya actually looked like he was considering it.  Napoleon intervened.  "Not necessary, Mike.  I think we can trust you."  Although, Napoleon thought, something about the place was off. 

 

"Well, that's a relief.  Can I get you a drink?"  He walked to the refrigerator and threw the door open.  "Soda?  Lemonade?" 

 

Lemonade was agreed upon, and after drinks were poured they all settled around the small kitchen table, Illya directly across from Mike.  Illya put on his glasses, settling the file in front of him.  Mike looked at the two agents, his eyes alight with curiosity.  "So, Illya didn't say much on the phone, what's this about?"

 

Napoleon finally figured out what was bothering him about the apartment.  It was missing a woman's touch.  "Where's Mrs. Donfield today?"

 

Mike let out a sigh.  "She--well--she left me."

 

Napoleon's eyes widened.  "Why?  How could you let that delicious woman escape your clutches?"  Not that Napoleon had any desire to be in a committed relationship, let alone marriage, but the woman had certainly been beautiful.

 

Mike looked at his lemonade as if he wished it were something stronger.  "Irreconcilable differences."  He let out a strained laugh.  Napoleon felt for the man.

 

Illya opened the file.  "We need your help."

 

Mike put down his glass, looking at Illya.  "I'm your man.  Whatever you--" The second part of his sentence got lost as Illya took off his glasses and lifted his gaze.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


 

 

 

Napoleon frowned as Mike seemed to just sit there, gaping at his partner.  "Mike?"

 

Mike gave Illya a lopsided smile.  "You have the most astonishing blue eyes.  Has anyone ever told you that?"

 

Napoleon watched, amazed, as Illya actually blushed.  He didn't think he'd ever seen Illya blush.  He glanced at Mike, and saw that Mike was delighted with the reaction, and that he couldn't seem to keep his eyes off of Illya.  That bothered Napoleon.  He wasn't sure why, but it bothered him. 

 

And Mike's compliment bothered him.  He'd been around Illya's blue eyes a lot longer than Mike had.  Not to mention that it was an odd thing for one man to say to another, no matter how blue Illya's eyes were.  Realizing he'd gotten a bit off track with his thoughts, Napoleon glanced at Illya and decided to make it his fault.  "Illya, the mission?"

 

Illya cleared his throat, and looked down at the papers in front of him.  "Right.  We have information that THRUSH is trying to recreate the eighth plague."

 

"Locusts?" Mike asked.

 

It irritated Napoleon that Mike knew that.  "Yes, locusts.  We need your help in determining what sort of facility they'd need to breed them, to store them, and how we can kill them."

 

Mike leaned forward in his chair.  "What do you know?  Anything?"

 

Illya shook his head, scowling.  "Not enough.  We know they plan to attack America's farmlands.  We've determined that it will be one of these areas."  He pulled out a map, and noted the three areas covered in blue.  "The Southeast, the Midwest, or California."

 

Mike whistled.  "Any one of those will increase the price of tomatoes."  He tapped Florida.  "Or orange juice."

 

Out of his pocket, Illya pulled the glass cube they'd taken from the lab.  "We know they plan to use these."

 

Mike considered the bug for a moment.  "Schistocerca gregaria.  Nasty piece of business when these decide to swarm."  He rested the glass square on his open palm.

 

Napoleon tapped the glass with his finger.  "Wrath of God?"

 

"That about sums it up.  A single swarm can cover almost 500 square miles, and contain millions and millions of locusts.  They can strip a field bare in hours."

 

Napoleon scrunched his face up.  "So, by the time we find out about an attack and get there with some defense, the damage will be done?"

 

Mike nodded.  "There's a reason they still call it a plague of locusts.  When a swarm attacks it can destroy every bit of vegetation in its path.  There have been attacks all over the world by members of the Orthoptera group," he held up the bug, "to which this baby belongs.  Africa, the Middle East, Asia, India, Mexico, even the United States.  In the 1870's the Rocky Mountain area was inundated with a close cousin."

 

"How do you destroy them?"

 

"There's no good way.  There's a lot of research going on, but other than a few pesticides and a new fungus theory, there's nothing that will destroy a swarm once it gets going.  You need to stop them before they hatch, or when they're still hoppers.  Once they can fly, they're out of control.  Their procreation cycle is very short.  From eggs to egg-laying adult is less than three months."

 

Illya exchanged a worried glance with Napoleon.  "Let us hope that THRUSH has just started this project."

 

Napoleon nodded.  "So, how do you destroy the eggs, or the hoppers?"

 

Illya answered that one.  "Burning.  Burning works best."  He glanced up at Mike.  "Right?"

 

Mike nodded.  "Right.  It's better than pesticides, especially the pesticides they currently have because they're already proving to be fairly unhealthy for everything else in the food chain, including humans."

 

Napoleon glanced at Illya.  "I understand why he knows that, but why do you know that?"

 

"I read it once."

 

Napoleon liked to play this game.  Illya's sources never failed to amuse him.  "Where exactly?"

 

"In a book."

 

"What sort of book?"

 

Illya scowled at Napoleon.  "Does it matter?"

 

"It might.  There might be more information we can glean from this book of yours."

 

"I doubt it.  It was a book on ancient Chinese agriculture." 

 

"And why, Illya, were you reading a book on ancient Chinese agriculture?" Napoleon probed, enjoying himself.

 

"It was the only book in Chinese the used book store had, and I was trying to learn how to read it."

 

Napoleon barked out a laugh.  "You were learning to read Chinese with a book on Chinese agriculture?"

 

"I told you, it was the only book they had."

 

Mike was staring at Illya in amazement.  "You can read Chinese?"

 

Illya nodded and tried to move on by making a vague gesture at the papers in front of him.  Napoleon was not done teasing his brilliant partner.  "Oh, he can read and speak close to a dozen languages, can't you, tovarisch?"

 

"Napoleon, can we get back to the mission, please?"

 

That sobered Napoleon up.  "Of course."  He had to get in one last dig.  "Anything else in this book of yours that might be useful in combating locusts?"

 

Illya rolled his eyes, and there was a touch of defiance in his voice.  "Just that the author felt that nighttime was best, and stressed that there be moonlight."

 

Napoleon grinned.  "Moonlight."  He tapped his index finger against his lips and nodded.  "We'll need an almanac then."

 

Illya swatted him on the arm, ill-naturedly.

 

Napoleon glanced at Mike, wanting to share the joke, but Mike was busy watching Illya, a delighted smile on his face. 

 

"You speak 12 languages?"  The look of admiration on Mike's face was almost fawning.

 

Illya cleared his throat.  "Could we get back to the locusts, please?"

 

Mike sat forward.  "Did you know that in Kansas, in 1877, they passed The Grasshopper Army Act?  It required all able-bodied males between the ages of 12 to 65 to assemble for the purpose of fighting locusts whenever ordered to do so by town officials.  You could be fined three dollars a day if you refused."

 

Napoleon was sure that Illya would have something equally inane to contribute, and he wasn't disappointed as Illya joined right in.  "Did you know that Mexico printed a locust stamp which everyone was forced to buy as additional postage anytime they wanted to mail anything, to help raise money to kill locusts?"

 

Mike grinned, clearly enjoying the information exchange.  "Did you know that Missouri and Minnesota had Locust bounties?  They paid money for bushels of eggs and nymphs, and for a while, locust eggs were actually used as currency."

 

Napoleon rapped on the table.  He was feeling left out.  "How do you both know all this stuff?  Don't your heads hurt with all this useless information rattling around in there?  If we're going to talk trivia could we pick a different topic?"

 

Mike stood up and retrieved the lemonade pitcher from the refrigerator. "Sure, pick a topic, any topic."

 

Napoleon went with his favorite.  "How about women?"

 

Illya held out his glass and shared a look with Mike.  "Napoleon is an expert on women."

 

Mike shivered.  "You can have them."  He finished filling Illya's glass, added a bit to Napoleon's and then placed the pitcher on the counter.  Sitting back down, he caught Illya's eye.  "I'm through with women."

 

Napoleon was about to thoroughly harangue Mike for his blasphemous words when he caught the look Mike was giving Illya, and there was a flash of something in Mike's eyes as he looked that rose the hairs on the back of Napoleon's neck.  He glanced at Illya and watched him fumble with his papers, blushing again, looking--Napoleon searched for a word--looking flustered.  Flustered?  Illya flustered?  The only thing that flustered Illya was when a pretty woman tried to corner him.  Napoleon looked at Mike suspiciously.

 

Then, he shook off his ridiculous thoughts and got back to the business at hand.  "What would they need to breed these things?  What should we be looking for?"

 

Mike thought for a moment.  "Generally, it's lack of water that triggers an explosion of growth.  If they were dependent on the real thing I'd say they'd be more inclined to stick with the Midwest because it's been pretty dry lately.  But I suppose an artificial environment could be built that would achieve the same thing.  With enough money, that is.  Does THRUSH have lots of money?"

 

Napoleon nodded glumly.  "Lots and lots of money."

 

Illya was looking at the map.  "Could they seed the area with eggs?  Or--what did you call them--hoppers, would they need to be hoppers?"

 

"If they want to do immediate damage over a widespread area, and fast, they'd need at least hoppers, but hoppers can't travel far, so they'd have to lay them out everywhere."

 

"The only way they could do that would be by air, and an air strike of that magnitude would get picked up by radar.  That can't be what they're planning."  Illya thought hard, playing with his lower lip.

 

Napoleon caught Mike staring at Illya again.  He frowned.  "Mike."  He had to call his name again.  "Mike."

 

Mike slowly dragged his eyes away from Illya to look at Napoleon.  "What?"

 

"How much space would they need to keep all those bugs?"

 

Mike looked at the map and shook his head.  "I think they'd need a bunch of places, big places.  Places near to where the crops are."

 

Napoleon pursed his lips.  "So they could just open the door and shoo them out?"

 

"Yeah.  I mean, how could they transport them?  Eggs sure, even hoppers, but the fully grown winged locust, millions of them?"  Mike shook his head again.  "They'd need a thousand cargo planes, or a truck convoy miles long, and it's not like you can exactly herd them onto a vehicle."

 

Napoleon pulled out his communicator.  He made the necessary adjustments and a woman's voice came on.  "Yes, Napoleon."  She almost purred.

 

"Ah, Lisa.  Just the woman I was wishing for."

 

There was a short sultry laugh.  Illya rolled his eyes and glanced at Mike, who winked at him.

 

Napoleon saw it.  He saw the wink. It wasn't so much the wink that bothered him, it was the smile Illya gave Mike.  Illya never smiled at him when he winked.  All he ever got was a scowl.

 

"Napoleon, are you there?"

 

Napoleon put his attention back on the communicator.  "Yes, Lisa.  I need you to arrange for reconnaissance planes to take a continuous sequence of pictures over the hot spots indicated on the map numbered--" He snapped his fingers in Illya's direction.

 

Illya looked at the bottom right of the map.  "125 Tango Foxtrot."

 

"Map numbered 125 Tango Foxtrot, as soon as humanly possible."

 

"I'll get right on that, Napoleon.  Anything else?"

 

Illya reached for the communicator.  "This is Illya.  Have the main computers run a search for any new large buildings or factories built within the last year that lie within the boundaries or along the outskirts of those hot spots."  He began to hand the communicator back to Napoleon but then changed his mind and spoke into it again.  "Have them search for any buildings that have been enlarged as well.  They'll need to check against old reconnaissance photos."

 

He almost handed it back again, but then changed his mind one more time.  Napoleon rolled his eyes.  "You do have your own, you know," he complained.

 

Illya scowled at him and told Lisa to hang on.  "Mike, what would THRUSH use to breed locusts?  Would they be able to purchase that many eggs?  What supplies would they need?"

 

"The only reason anyone would breed locusts is to use them as live food for turtles and large lizards.  All you need is a dry atmosphere and your typical bug grub.  Bran, calcium, a few minerals.  You could also use stuff like cornflakes.  But I still don't know where they'd buy enough eggs to do this sort of damage."  He tapped the map.  "There aren't that many lizards in the world to feed."

 

Illya shook his head, scowling.  "This operation is too huge, even for THRUSH.  The timing alone would be a nightmare, attempting to have all those locusts available at a certain time, and then getting them to the crops and releasing them.  There's got to be something we're missing."

 

"Hello?  Illya, Napoleon?"  A woman's voice called out, startling Illya.  He almost dropped the communicator.

 

Napoleon stood, snatching the communicator out of Illya's hand.  "Sorry, Lisa.  When Illya has something to say he'll call you back, on his own communicator.  Just be a dear and take care of those requests."

 

"Already done.  I took care of it while I was waiting."

 

"You, Lisa, are a dream."

 

There was a small giggle, then a sigh.  "Does all this activity mean you're going to cancel our date for tonight?"

 

Napoleon put a hand over his heart.  "You cut me to the quick.  Far be it from me to disappoint a lady."  There was a brief pause as Napoleon reconsidered.  "When will those reconnaissance pictures be available?"

 

"The ones from the east coast won't be available until 8:00 am at the earliest."

 

"Then, lovely lady, I shall be at your home at 8:00 this evening."

 

"All right.  See you then."  She was purring again.

 

Napoleon closed down his communicator and let out a satisfied sigh.  He looked up to see Illya watching Mike as Mike was giving the glass-encased locust a thorough scrutiny.  He moved over to the table.  "What is it?"

 

Mike shook his head.  "I don't know.  Something about this critter just doesn't look right."  He held it out to Illya.  "Did you put it in this glass?"

 

"No.  I found it that way."

 

Napoleon grimaced as he looked at the bug.  "What doesn't look right?"  He squinted his eyes at the thing.  "How can you tell?"

 

Mike brought it closer and shrugged.  "I just know something's not right, but I'm not sure what it is.  I need to go to my lab and dissect it."  He glanced at the two agents.  "Can I do that?"

 

Illya looked at the main piece of evidence sitting in Mike's palm.  "If you think it necessary."

 

Napoleon nodded, supporting Mike's plan.  "We need all the information we can get our hands on."  He leaned forward and plucked the cube from Mike's hand.  "Is it the critter you thought it was?  That Schizo thing?"

 

Mike grinned.  "Schistocerca gregoria.  You know how it got its name?"  At the two negative head shakes, he continued.  "It has two phases, almost a split personality.  In one phase, it's reclusive and solitary, does everything it can to avoid coming in contact with another of its kind.  But it has an alter ego, when the locust population starts growing, where it becomes more social, more tolerant of others, or gregarious.  Schistocerca gregoria."

 

Napoleon grinned at Illya, a twinkle in his eye.  "That first phase sort of reminds me of someone.  Think you have an alter ego, too?"

 

"Not if it means I have to become more tolerant of you."

 

Napoleon snorted.  "Well, it sounds like you'll be using your mad scientist alter ego tonight."  He scrunched his face up.  "Do you, ah, need my help?"  He hoped the answer was no.

 

Illya gave Napoleon a wry smile.  "Far be it from me to force you to disappoint a lady."

 

"I can cancel.  I will if you need my help."  He meant it.  A mission always came first.

 

Illya shook his head.  "I think in this case, I will be assisting him."  His head cocked toward Mike.  "Will I be sufficient assistance?"

 

Mike smiled slowly.  "Yes, I think you'll be just what I need."

 

Napoleon frowned.

 

Mike wasn't done.  "Seeing as Napoleon is planning on a little relaxation tonight, maybe when we're done we can go get a drink and listen to some jazz.  There's a little club around the corner from my lab."

 

Illya's eyes lit up.  Napoleon frowned again.  He waited for Illya to say no.  Illya always said no whenever he was invited anywhere, unless Napoleon was the one inviting him. 

 

But, Napoleon didn't hear a no.  What he heard, instead, was Mike acting as if what he'd heard was a yes.  "Great, then let's get going.  We've got a bug to dissect, a world to save, and we have to do it fast enough to get a good table and an even better martini."

 

The idea of a martini appealed to Napoleon, but a lovely woman waited.  He stood.  "Nice to know you have your priorities straight."  He poked Illya in the shoulder.  "Call me if you find anything important."  He looked at his watch, trying to figure out if he had time to go home before he had to leave to pick up Lisa.  He decided he did, if he left right away.  "By the way, where is this musical club of yours in case my evening ends early?"  He couldn't imagine it would, but one never knew.

 

Mike seemed to hesitate.  "It's just a hole in the wall."

 

"What's the name?"

 

Another hesitation.  "Donovan's."

 

Napoleon pursed his lips.  "Never heard of it."

 

"Yeah, well, like I said, it's just a hole in the wall.  But they have good jazz."

 

Napoleon didn't like that Mike wasn't telling him where the club was.  It was as if he didn't want Napoleon to join them.  And Illya wasn't exactly forcing the information out of him. 

 

Illya started gathering up the file.  "I don't know if we'll get there tonight.  We might be in the lab for a while.  Just call me on my communicator if you need to check in."

 

That worked for Napoleon.  Once Illya got in a lab, it usually took a stick of dynamite to get him out.  He shrugged into his coat.  "Well, play nice, boys."  As he left, he caught Illya's startled glance and Mike's grin.  Napoleon was frowning as he got into his car.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

*****

Music was quietly playing, the tea light candle was glowing, the food had been exquisite, and so was the blond sitting across from him.  Napoleon smiled at her over his brandy snifter.  "You have the most beautiful eyes.  Has anyone ever told you that?"

 

Lisa blushed.

 

Something niggled at the back of Napoleon's mind.  He pushed it away as he realized that Lisa was half way through a sentence.

 

"…through with men."

 

"I beg your pardon?"

 

"My girlfriends.  They all say they're through with men, but that's just because they don't get to meet men like you."

 

Through with men.  Napoleon thought the phrase sounded familiar.  He snapped his fingers.  Mike, Mike had said that he was through with women.

 

The waiter appeared in response to the snap.  "May I get you something?"

 

Napoleon looked up at him, momentarily confused by his appearance.  Then he remembered the snap.  "Ah, no, thank you."  He glanced at Lisa.  "Do you need something, my dear?"

 

She blushed prettily again and shook her head.  Then she leaned across the table as if to impart a great secret.  Napoleon leaned toward her, willing to play the game.  "You're all I need, Napoleon.  You're the perfect end to a very long day."  She sighed, her breasts lifting enticingly in response to her breath.  "I like it when it's just the two of us.  There're always too many people around at work."

 

Napoleon grinned, and then winked at her.  She smiled coyly in response.  Napoleon took a sip of his brandy, and then all the pieces fell into place.  I'm through with women, you'll be what I need, irreconcilable differences, the wink, the admiration, the--the flash of desire in Mike's eyes, the wanting to be alone with Illya.  Napoleon's jaw dropped open.

 

"Napoleon, what is it?  You have the oddest look on your face."

 

Napoleon was too nonplussed to answer right away.  Mike Donfield had been hitting on his partner.  He was sure of it.  Napoleon ran through Illya's responses--the blushes, the smiles, the getting flustered--and he reached his first conclusion.  Illya knew, and he hadn't minded. 

 

Napoleon shook his head at that.  Illya couldn't possibly have known.  He just thought that Mike was being friendly.  Most people didn't take the time to get friendly with Illya because of his surly nature.  So, of course, Illya would be flustered.  That had to be the answer.  Because otherwise--that would mean that Illya was--

 

"Napoleon?"

 

Napoleon put his hand up to stop her from speaking.  He wasn't done thinking.  Illya?  A lover of men?  He couldn't be.  He and Napoleon had been partnered for over a year.  They were together more than some married couples.  There's no way Napoleon could have missed that.  Nevertheless, being a master at making moves himself, and now that he'd put two and two together, there was no doubt that Mike was putting the moves on his Russian partner, which meant one of two things.

 

Either Illya was clueless and was possibly going to find himself in a potentially compromising position, or Illya knew exactly what was going on, and was hoping for said compromising position.  Napoleon looked at his watch.  In fact, right now, even as he sat here with Lisa, Illya and Mike could be--

 

Napoleon didn't take the time to sort through his emotional response to his thoughts.  He just knew he didn't like it, any of it.  And he had to see Illya.  Right now.  So, for the first time in as long as he could remember, unless he had Waverly breathing down his neck, or his partner's life was in danger, he looked into a beautiful woman's willing eyes and said, "I'm sorry, but I have to cut our evening short."

 

"Does it have to do with the case you're working on?"

 

At that exact moment Napoleon's communicator went off.  He snagged it out of his pocket and quickly stopped the noise.  "Napoleon."

 

"Napoleon, it's Illya.  You need to come here right away."

 

"I take it this is bad news."

 

"Very bad."

 

"Where are you?"

 

"Mike's lab."  Illya gave Napoleon the address and Napoleon scribbled it down on a cocktail napkin.

 

"I'll need to run Lisa home first."

 

Lisa put her hand on Napoleon's sleeve and shook her head.  "I'll take a cab.  Just go."

 

Napoleon nodded, smiling at her.  "I'll be there in ten minutes."  He turned off his communicator.

 

Lisa was just staring at him.  "How did you know?"

 

It took Napoleon a second to figure out that she was thinking he had been cutting their evening short because of some sort of psychic connection to his partner, and not because he was short circuiting at the idea of Mike putting the moves on Illya.  He casually shrugged.  "We've been partners for a while."

 

"Wow."  Her eyes were filled with stars.

 

He pulled out his wallet, laid down enough money to cover the bill, and gave Lisa money to cover her cab fare.  He gave her a peck on the cheek.  "You're an angel."  And with that he raced out the door.

 

The concern for whatever had gotten his partner so worried was diluted by the extraordinary relief at finding out that Illya and Mike had clearly been at the lab all evening.  He felt like he'd won some race against time, even though he wasn't quite sure what the race was, or even what the prize was. 

 

He checked the address one more time and then pulled into a parking lot. In less than a minute he was yanking open the door to the lab.  Illya and Mike had their heads together, taking turns looking into the eyepiece of a microscope.  Illya looked up as the door opened.  "Ah, good, you're here.  Come look."

 

Napoleon obeyed.  Both Illya and Mike backed up and allowed Napoleon access to the eyepiece.  Squinting one eye shut, hoping he'd know what the hell he was looking at, he focused in.  His eyebrows lifted. "That looks like metal."  He pulled back and gestured at the slide.  "What am I supposed to be looking at?"

 

"This is our locust."

 

"It's not a real locust?"

 

Illya shook his head.  "It's a miniaturized robot.  I've never seen such detailed work.  It looks almost like the real thing on the outside, but it's all manmade."

 

"Why would THRUSH make little locust robots, when they could be using the real thing?"

 

"Think of it, Napoleon.  These can do the same amount of damage, but they can be programmed to go where THRUSH wants them to go.  And they have an indefinite lifespan."

 

Mike chimed in.  "They can be sent from one crop to the next to the next, with nothing to stand in their way."

 

Illya's brow furrowed as he continued to paint the dismal picture.  "The only thing that will kill them is fire or explosion, which will also kill the farms we need to protect.  So either way THRUSH wins, either their robots destroy the crops, or we do it by trying to eliminate them."

 

Napoleon looked into the microscope again.  "For the millions that this must be costing them, it seems as if there are simpler ways to destroy America's economy."

 

"This is THRUSH we're dealing with.  They love technological gadgets.  It's part of their mission statement."

 

Napoleon scowled.  "Right.  All focused on the subjugation of humanity.  Why do something as easy as toppling Wall Street with some injudicious spending when they can have fun making a million little metal robots and unleashing them on an unsuspecting public?"

 

"We have to find where they're making these and destroy them," Illya said seriously.  "It's the only answer.  Once they release them, we won't be able to stop them."

 

Napoleon locked gazes with his partner.  "We've got the reconnaissance photos being taken at first light.  I'm assuming there are specific micro-circuitry elements we can track?"

 

Illya nodded.  "We need to get back to UNCLE and reverse engineer the bug, so we can determine exactly what we should be looking for."

 

Napoleon pursed his lips, thinking.  This could be a good thing, at least from one perspective.  "So, Mike, I guess we're through with your services.  Now that we know it's not a real bug, we can probably handle things from here.  We appreciate the help you've given us."

 

Mike wasn't so willing to be dismissed.  "I can still help.  Even if it is metal, I'm still an expert at dissection."

 

Illya nodded, agreeing.  "Yes, I agree.  I think Mike can still help.  Plus, he might need some protection.  As soon as THRUSH gets wind that we're on to them, the trail could lead them to Mike, and he could be taken and interrogated or used as a hostage."

 

Napoleon wanted to argue the point, but he couldn't, not if Illya was going to bring innocents into it.  "Fine, wrap it all up, let's go."

 

Mike and Illya worked as a team, packaging up the small components of the locust robot, securing the pieces against breakage.  Illya glanced up at Napoleon.  "You can head back if you want to.  We'll be right behind you."

 

"Aren't you coming with me?"  Napoleon winced at the hint of whine in his voice.

 

"No, I better go with Mike.  Someone should be with him."

 

Napoleon felt that undefined prize slipping away.  "We can all go in my car."

 

It almost looked as if Illya might argue but then he agreed.  He wrapped up a few more items, taking a last look around the lab, making sure nothing was being left behind.  Then he picked up the box of bug parts and gestured toward the door.  "Let's go."

 

Napoleon took the box from Illya and handed it to Mike.  "The system works better when the people with the guns have their hands free."

 

Mike swallowed nervously, but then he grinned and gladly took the box.  "Works for me."

 

Once back at headquarters, the three of them toiled for several hours.  Mike and Illya worked slowly and gingerly, pulling apart the miniaturized robot.  They moved as if they'd been working together for years, anticipating each other's needs.  Napoleon tried not to let it bother him.  He specifically refused to try to figure out why it was bothering him.  He took the small pieces handed to him by the two men, and working with UNCLE's top engineers, separated them out into two categories.

 

The first category was composed of items THRUSH must be manufacturing on their own.  The second type were items determined to be available for purchase.  On those, Napoleon initiated searches looking for any massive orders for either manufacturing or purchasing of those pieces.

 

Napoleon rubbed his bleary eyes.  The manpower alone to assemble the millions, or hundreds of thousands, or however many THRUSH was creating, of these monstrosities boggled the mind.  He would never understand THRUSH.  He decided that was probably a good thing.  Glancing up at his partner, Napoleon saw that Illya looked dead on his feet.  He opened his mouth to speak but Mike beat him to the punch. 

 

"Illya, you need some sleep.  C'mon.  Let me take you home."

 

Napoleon felt like punching him.  Who the hell did this guy think he was?  Illya was his partner.  "He's on my way.  I'll take him home."

 

"I don't mind.  I can take him home."

 

"You live in the other direction.  I'll take him."

 

"You guys are the ones who said I shouldn't be alone," Mike said in an oh-so-annoying reasonable tone.  "I can spend the night on Illya's couch and bring him back in the morning."

 

Napoleon barely kept from snorting in derision.  Yeah, he thought to himself, I know where you're planning on sleeping.  He gritted his teeth and tried to keep his voice from showing it.  "You'll be safer staying here.  I can drive Illya home and pick him up, just like I usually do."   

 

Illya's head bobbed back and forth as the two men argued.  His voice was irritated when he interrupted.  "In case it has escaped your attention, I am actually present in the room, and more than capable of deciding when and where I will sleep and how I will get home."  He shook his head in seeming disgust at both of them.  "I'm hungry.  I'm going to the cafeteria for something to eat."  Without another word he left the lab.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Mike and Napoleon glared at each other, and then sprinted after him.  He was already piling food on his tray when they caught up.  Mike spoke first, trying to mollify the Russian agent.  "Sorry, Illya.  I didn't mean--"

 

Illya turned to him.  "Mike, I do not wish to talk right now.  I wish to eat."

 

Napoleon knew better than to ever try to mollify Illya; it always backfired.  He grinned as Mike tried again.  "I just thought you looked tired, that's all."

 

"And how were you planning on getting me home?  Your car is back at your lab.  Were you planning on carrying me home?"  He cut his hand through the air as if to slice away any further foolishness.  "Be quiet now, or go away." 

 

Mike put up his hands in a sign of surrender.  Illya watched him for another few seconds as if waiting for more stupidity.  When Mike wisely stayed silent, Illya went back to his tray.  Then he turned to Napoleon and brandished his silverware at his partner.  "And that goes for you, too."

 

Napoleon looked aggrieved.  "I haven't said a thing."

 

Illya let out a snort of disgust.  He left his tray sitting on the counter and grabbed Napoleon's arm, pulling him away.  "What the hell were you doing back there?" he whispered furiously.

 

Napoleon pulled himself up to his full height, put a hand to his chest, and looked completely wounded.  "I have no earthly idea what you're talking about."

 

Illya stared up at Napoleon, as if trying to read his mind.  "You are determined to be contrary tonight, aren't you?"  He glared at Napoleon, and then glared at Mike, long distance.  "I think I am tired.  I am going to bed upstairs in one of the sleep rooms.  Goodnight."

 

Mike apparently took the glare as an invitation to join them.  "What's going on?"

 

Illya repeated himself.  "I'm going to bed, upstairs."

 

Mike pointed at the tray.  "What about your food?"

 

"Eat it yourself."  Illya stalked out.

 

The two men watched him leave.  Then Mike faced Napoleon.  "Are you two--?"  He made a vague waving gesture with his hand between Napoleon and the newly departed Russian.

 

Napoleon pursed his lips as he considered Mike.  He ran through several possible answers in his mind, and decided most of them would get him killed by his partner.  He went for the ignorant approach.  He widened his eyes.  "Are we two what?"

 

It was clear Mike was taking the time to work through a choice of responses as well.  He finally shook his head.  "Never mind," Mike said around a yawn.  "I'm tired too.  Where exactly did Illya go?  Are there more beds there?"

 

Napoleon's eyes narrowed.  He was tempted to physically eject Mike from the building, but he decided Illya would kill him for that, too.  "I guess I could do with a little shut eye, myself.  There's a sleeping area on the fifth level.  I'll take you up there.  I might as well sleep here, too, as late as it is."

 

Mike nodded and waited for Napoleon to lead the way.  There was a shout from the cashier.  "Hey, Solo.  Who's gonna pay for the chow?"

 

Napoleon had to curb the desire to unleash his built up frustration on the cashier.  He gave him a tight smile.  "Just put it on Section Two's tab, Charlie."

 

"No can do.  The old man said no more credit."

 

The smile getting tighter, a smile that would have made any THRUSH agent start running, Napoleon walked over to the cashier.  "Would it interest you to know that we've been up all night trying to save this country's farmlands, which coincidentally is a lot of what gets served here and therefore helps to pay for your salary?"

 

"Not really.  But it would interest me if you'd pull out your wallet and pay for your partner's chow.  How am I supposed to stay on budget if you guys keep grabbing food and then leave without paying?"  He pointed at the offending tray.  "I can't put that food back.  That stuff costs money, you know."

 

"'Stuff' being a perfect choice of word," Napoleon said with a disparaging sniff.

 

"Hey, are you complaining about the food?"

 

"Perish the thought."  Napoleon yanked out his wallet and pulled out a five-dollar bill.  "That should cover it."

 

Charlie plucked the five from Napoleon's hand and stared at it as if he was sure it was counterfeit. 

 

Napoleon rolled his eyes and turned and noticed that Mike was gone, clearly having decided to strike out on his own.  "Damn it."  He bolted from the cafeteria.  He didn't want to start a panic, so he refrained from running, but he walked at a very brisk pace to the elevator and then stabbed at the call button several times. "Come on, come on."

 

The elevator arrived, and a supply tech walked out.  Much to Napoleon's dismay he wanted to chat.  Not willing to just bite the man's head off, as he was one of the few supply clerks who was always willing to hand over last minute supplies Napoleon needed without demanding a requisition form filled out in triplicate, Napoleon spent a few very frustrating minutes talking about the man's just finished vacation in Colorado and the wonders of fly fishing. 

 

Finally he yawned, apologized, and pleaded the need for sleep.  As the technician wandered off he viciously stabbed the call button again.  When the elevator arrived, he entered and went through the same ritual, punching first the fifth level button, and then the close door button repeatedly until the door actually closed.  When the door opened at the desired floor, he scanned the hallway in both directions.  No one was in sight. 

 

He knew Mike was with Illya.  He just knew it.  Napoleon was about to start flinging doors open when he forced himself to take a deep breath.  He needed a plan.  His brow furrowed.  No, first he needed to figure out just what the hell he was doing.  Why did it matter so much?

 

He knew he was important to Illya.  After all, they were partners.  And friends.  Best friends, really.  Napoleon was pretty sure he was the only good friend Illya had.  Napoleon liked that.  He liked knowing that he was that important to Illya.  Women had never gotten between them, not for long, anyway.  Sure, he knew that Illya might get married some day, Napoleon might get married, but that was a long way off, after they retired, and even then, it wouldn't affect their relationship.  They'd still be best friends. 

 

But if Illya was--had leanings toward men, if he fell in love with a man, that would be completely different.  It felt threatening.  It felt like it would take Illya away from him.  Napoleon would no longer be number one in the Russian's life.  They'd still be partners and friends, but all the things Illya did with Napoleon now, all the non-work guy things, he'd have someone else for.  Where would Napoleon fit in at that point?

 

He leaned against a wall and tried to get his bearings.  This was ridiculous.  First of all, for all he knew, Illya was as heterosexual as Napoleon had always thought he was.  Second of all, even if he were--Napoleon took a deep breath--homosexual, it didn't mean he was going to just fall in love with Mike.  Even if Mike was really good looking, and charming, and smart, and just because he flustered Illya and made him blush, it didn't mean anything. 

 

Napoleon had to consciously unclench his jaw.

 

Homosexual.  He shook his head.  Bisexual.  He'd seen Illya with women.  Or at least he'd always assumed that Illya was following through.  Maybe he hadn't.  The idea of Illya being--whatever he was--didn't appall Napoleon, other than the fact that he hadn't known, hadn't even suspected.  He wasn't completely unversed in same-sex relations.  On the front lines in Korea you did what you had to do to get through a night.  And some of those nights got really dark, and really lonely.  And he hadn't exactly hated what he'd done to survive on those nights; he hadn't hated it at all.  It just had never become something that defined him. 

 

A renewed sense of urgency flared in Napoleon.  Time for action.  He knew that if he just barged in on Illya and interrupted something, and didn't have some dire message about THRUSH having forced entry into headquarters with machine guns, Illya would take his head off.  He weighed that against how he felt about not interrupting anything that Illya might actually be doing, and Napoleon decided that having a head was overrated.

 

Before sanity could take control again, Napoleon started opening doors.  The first two rooms were empty, a fact for which Napoleon could only be grateful.  He left the doors open.  The doors were supposed to be left open if the rooms were empty.  He'd have to have a talk with the cleaning lady again. 

 

Hoping they'd all be empty, he opened the third door.  Somebody was in the bed, fast asleep, a someone who clearly wasn't an agent, because an agent would already be out of the bed with a gun in his or her hand.  It would have been hard to explain the interruption, and Napoleon was glad he didn't need to try.  He shut the door quietly.  As he reached for the doorknob on the fourth room, he heard talking.  He leaned in toward the door and listened, finally shaking his head in frustration when he couldn't make out any of the words. 

 

Knock or barge in?  Napoleon wrestled with the decision for about five seconds, his head tilting to first one side and then the other.  He decided on both.  He rapped sharply and then opened the door.  His eyes took everything in as he put his mouth on automatic.

 

"Ah, there you are Mike.  Wanted to make sure you hadn't gotten lost."  He mentally catalogued what he was seeing.  Bad news first, they were both on the bed.  But the good news was that they both had their clothes on.  Well, most of their clothes on.  Illya looked like he was partially undressed but he was under the covers.  "Let me show you where you can sleep.  We don't want to keep Illya from his beauty rest."  He grinned at Illya, ignoring the icy blast coming his way from those arctic blue eyes.  More bad news, he thought, they're sitting pretty darn close, but the good news was that it didn't look like there'd been any touching going on. 

 

Napoleon walked over to the bed, gesturing to Mike, intent on his goal of getting the man out of this room and into his own.  He kept talking.  "Don't give me that look, Illya, you're the one who made your own grownup decision that you needed to sleep.  I'm just doing my part to make sure you're not disturbed." 

 

Of course, he had rapped on the door, giving them a second's notice; it was possible that they had been touching and the knock had given them time to move away from each other.  Napoleon gave Illya a quick once over. 

 

Mike frowned.  "I just wanted to talk to him for a minute.  Just tell me where my room is, I can find it on my own."

 

Napoleon shook his head.  "Sorry.  You two can chat later.  Depending on what our research turns up, Illya might be blowing up a factory tomorrow.  I'd just as soon Illya had a few hours of sleep before he starts handling explosives." 

 

No, Illya didn't look like he'd been being pawed.  His lips weren't swollen, his hair wasn't mussed, and there wasn't any sort of telltale bulge in his crotch, not that Napoleon could see much with the covers over his lap.

 

"Napoleon."  Illya's voice was frosty.

 

Napoleon ignored him.  He was in the middle of imagining what Illya would look like if his lips were swollen with desire, and his hair was all mussed, and if he were lying there with a raging hard-on.  The picture sent a jolt through Napoleon's body, and started some tingling in his own groin. 

 

"Napoleon."  The frost had turned into a blizzard.

 

Mike was being cooperative; Napoleon had to give him that.  He was up and halfway to the door.  Napoleon made as if to follow him.

 

"Napoleon."  Avalanche warnings ahead. 

 

Napoleon ushered Mike out the door and then he turned, facing his partner, figuring he was far enough away to get out the door and shut it behind him if Illya decided to pounce.  "Yes?"  He put on his most innocent look.

 

"After you have finished tucking Mike into bed, would you please come back here?"  It was extraordinary, Napoleon thought, that words so politely spoken could sound so menacing.

 

"Of course."  He flashed Illya a smile, felt the reassuring presence of his gun under his suit jacket, and shut the door.

 

Mike was standing there, waiting for him.  "Will he be in any danger on this mission?"

 

Napoleon shot him a disbelieving glance.  "You do remember what we do for a living, right?"

 

"Yeah, I know.  But--"

 

Napoleon took him by the arm.  "Don't worry.  We're both very good at what we do.  Besides, he has me to watch his back, just like I have him."  He opened the door to the room farthest from Illya and took a peak, hoping it was empty.  It was.  He showed Mike in.  "Toiletries are in the bathroom, and the bathroom's through there."  He pointed at a closed door across the small room.  "See you in the morning."

 

Mike scrunched his face up.  "Are you sure you two aren't--?"

 

Napoleon just gave him a smile.  He turned and went back into the hallway, closing the door behind him, wishing he could bolt it shut with a steel bar.  He moved to the room next to Illya's and opened it up, pleased that it, too, was empty.  He flicked the light on, claiming it, and left the door open. 

 

He stood outside of Illya's door for a moment, not looking forward to the upcoming altercation.  He took a deep breath and opened the door.  Illya was sitting right where he'd left him, his eyes still shooting daggers.   He closed the door and leaned against it.  "I just want to remind you that I'm armed."

 

That comment inspired a Russian curse that made Napoleon wince.  Illya got out of bed.  He was only wearing boxers and a T-shirt.  Napoleon thought that it should make him seem less threatening, but it didn't.  "Have you completely gone out of your mind?" Illya demanded.

 

Napoleon realized the only really honest answer to that was yes.  He wondered if it would surprise the Russian enough to calm him down if he just went ahead and admitted it.  He tried it.  "Yes."

 

It seemed to stop his partner in his tracks.  "Yes?" he asked suspiciously.

 

Napoleon nodded.  "I do seem to have lost my mind, just a little bit."  He held up his hand, showing a small space between thumb and forefinger.  Napoleon watched, intrigued, as the anger on Illya's face gave way to curiosity.  Ah, the lure of the scientist to study the clinically insane. 

 

Illya walked over to him, and stood just a few inches in front of him, studying him intently.  "Why did you come in here?  You have never concerned yourself with the amount of sleep I've gotten before a mission."

 

"That's not strictly true.  I've kept Waverly from sending you on missions when you've been up for days.  Lack of sleep makes any agent more susceptible to errors." 

 

"Napoleon, please, do not insult me.  I haven't even been up for 24 hours."

 

Napoleon frantically searched his mind for a credible reason for barging in the way he had.  He came up empty handed.  He gazed down at his partner and was taken aback at how small he seemed.  Napoleon knew he had a few inches on the man, but this close, and this not dressed, Illya seemed--the perfect size to hold. 

 

Disconcerted, Napoleon tried to take a step back only to realize there was nowhere to go.  He was already leaning on the door.  He put his hands in his pockets, anything to keep himself from following through on his crazy thoughts.  That brought the conversation full circle.  "Well, let's just chalk it off to me being crazy and call it a night."  He reached behind him for the doorknob.

 

Illya was faster, and he slammed a hand against the door, keeping it shut.  It put him even closer.  Napoleon's eyes wandered over Illya's hair, he could see the fine texture and wondered what it would feel like to touch it, really touch it, not the occasional pats he gave Illya when he wanted to infuriate him.  Then his gaze moved over Illya's face, the blue eyes, the strong jaw, the full lower lip.  His eyes got stuck there, and he found himself licking his own lips.

 

Napoleon realized it had gotten awfully quiet.  He glanced back up into Illya's eyes and saw his partner was subjecting him to a startled scrutiny.  Illya's voice was soft and a bit on the husky side and it did funny things to Napoleon's insides.  "Napoleon, are you--do you--?"

 

Napoleon listened to Illya stumble over his sentence, and then watched as Illya licked his own lips.  The Russian hadn't made any effort to move away, and Napoleon couldn't help but notice how close their bodies were, how many places they were almost touching.  The room suddenly felt hot.  His hand moved up to loosen his tie a bit; it felt like it was strangling him.

 

The movement caused Illya to take a step back and shake his head.  "Bozhe moi!  What am I thinking?  Your insanity must be contagious." 

 

Napoleon wasn't sure if he was relieved or frustrated that the moment had passed.  Fully acknowledging his insanity, he tried to recapture the moment, or maybe make a new one.  "Just what were you thinking, Illya?"

 

Illya shook his head again.  "Something so ridiculous I think I need to have my own head examined."  He reached past Napoleon and started to pull open the door, encouraging Napoleon out of the way, none too gently.  "Goodnight, Napoleon."

 

Napoleon let it go for the time being.  He stepped out into the hallway and gestured toward Illya's door.  "Lock it behind you."

 

Illya just rolled his eyes and shut the door.  Hard.

 

Napoleon stood in the hallway, listening, but not hearing Illya throw the lock.  He frowned, then pursed his lips, his eyebrows lifted.  That meant he could just go back in.  His heart was pounding as he relived the moment that had just happened.  He felt a heaviness in his groin as blood rushed south in accompaniment to the pounding beat of his heart and the richness of the memory.  Never had he imagined sharing a moment of sexual tension with his partner.  But he just had.  And it had felt good.  Too good. 

 

It made Napoleon nervous.  He hadn't quite bargained on this.  He wondered if there was a gorgeous secretary in the building he could go ravish.  Then he glared at Mike's door.  Deciding he really had lost his mind, he threw his hands up in disgust and went into his room, closing the door behind him.

 

 

*****

The next morning seemed to arrive very quickly.  Both Illya's and Napoleon's communicators went off as soon as the reconnaissance photos started coming in.  They were in the command center in minutes, rubbing the sleep out of their eyes.  Mike arrived a few minutes later with coffee and donuts from the cafeteria. 

 

They spent the next few hours poring over photos, looking for suspicious sites, trying to match them up with delivery addresses attached to any sizeable orders of the identified pieces from their locust robot.  Napoleon noticed, with a rising sense of ire, that Mike seemed to have appointed himself Illya's lackey, bringing him a steady supply of coffee and whatever else Illya needed.  

 

Napoleon was munching on another donut, staring at two photos, muttering under his breath that he was surprised Mike wasn't hand feeding Illya a donut, when it clicked.  He let out a yell.  "Illya?"

 

Illya moved to his side.  "You found something?"

 

Napoleon nodded.  "Look."  He pointed at the first picture.  "This one was taken just last year in Iowa.  This one, this morning."  He tapped his finger against a sizeable new structure.  "It's on privately owned property, owned by a dummy corporation that I think THRUSH has used before."  He pulled over an aide, pointing at the picture.  "Check and see if this company is on our books as THRUSH."  The aide nodded, made a note of the name, and hurried off.

 

The cartographer assigned to help them was already pulling out a map of Iowa, and began trying to match up the site of the building with a city.  It took him a minute but he found it.  "It must be here.  See, how these two roads connect right here?" 

 

Illya moved back to his area and fished through his papers until he found what he was looking for.  "A lot of the deliveries were made to Iowa."  He glanced at the cartographer.  "Can we find out what the address is of this building?"

 

The man took out a piece of paper and started making some notations.  "I'll get right on it."

 

The aide returned and spoke to Napoleon. "It's a THRUSH company, all right."

 

Napoleon tapped the picture hanging on the wall.  "I'm guessing that's one of our targets.  All we need to do now is figure out if that's the only one, or if there are more."

 

By late morning they had a matching address between the new factory and several large deliveries of the suspect items.  By early afternoon they hadn't determined another location.  Napoleon frowned.  "Could we be that lucky?  Could they really only have the one factory?"

 

Illya shrugged.  "If they can program those locusts to go where they want, they only need the one factory."

 

"It feels too easy."

 

"Napoleon, the only reason it's been easy is because they accidentally left that robot behind."

 

"Do you think they did that on purpose?"

 

Illya snorted.  "You saw what I had to do to get that drawer open.  There's no way they could have retrieved that box in the time it took us to get to the lab."

 

Napoleon weighed all the facts.  Then he nodded.  "Okay, then."  He grinned at Illya.  "Fancy a trip to Iowa?"

 

"My life will now be complete."  Illya had the photo of the factory and the available specs for the building in the other.  He was studying them both.

 

Mike chose that moment to walk up.  Napoleon put his index finger over his lips.  "Shhh.  Dr. Strangelove is hard at work."

 

Illya flashed Napoleon a dirty look.  "Have you figured out how we're going to do this yet?"

 

"Worry not, my little Russian spy."

 

Mike was looking at them both, his brow furrowed in confusion.  "What happens now?"

 

Napoleon gestured at Illya.  "Illya goes to his kitchen and brews up an explosive gift for our friends."

 

"Why does Illya do that?"

 

"He's the bomb expert."

 

Mike looked at Illya.  "I thought your degree was in quantum mechanics."

 

Illya nodded.  "It is.  Can't make a good bomb if you don't know how atoms work."

 

"But why do you have to do it?"

 

"Because I'm good at it."

 

Mike looked at Napoleon.  "What are you going to do?"

 

"I get us in and out.  That's what I'm good at."

 

"He handles explosives and you open doors?"  Mike sounded miffed at the inequity.

 

Illya helped out.  "He's very good at opening doors.  It's a gift."

 

Napoleon glared at Illya.  "Ha ha."  He pointed at himself.  "I make the plan.  I figure out the layout and the guards, and come up with a way to get inside.  Then I make sure we get back out."

 

One corner of Illya's mouth rose in a mocking grin.  "And then I figure out a way to rescue us when his plan fails."

 

Napoleon was determined to get in the last word.  "And then I always have a back-up plan to rescue Illya, who inevitably lets himself get captured."

 

"Only when I'm trying to rescue you."

 

"No, you manage to get captured all on your own most of the time."  He grinned.  "It's a gift."

 

Mike was scowling.  "I don't like this conversation.  How worried should I be, and what do I do?"

 

Illya shook his head.  "You won't be going, Mike.  It's too dangerous.  It will just be me and Napoleon."

 

"But suppose you find something different?  Suppose there really are bugs there and you need some information?"

 

Illya put his hand on Mike's arm.  "Then we'll call you."

 

"What if something bad happens to you?"

 

Napoleon noticed that Mike's concern didn't seem to include him.  Granted, during the last mission, until Mike found out otherwise, Illya had been killed right in front of his eyes.  Napoleon supposed the man had the right to ask a few worried questions.

 

Illya's hand was still on Mike's arm.  "That's why I have Napoleon."

 

"What if he's not enough?"

 

Illya glanced up at Napoleon.  "He will be.  Napoleon might be a pain in the ass a good deal of the time but I trust him to watch my back."

 

Napoleon felt a surge of pride at the words, insult aside.  He barely restrained from sticking his tongue out at Mike in some juvenile gesture of one-upmanship.  Barely.  He was ready for Illya to take his hand off of Mike's arm.  "Go play in your kitchen, Illya.  I need to know where you intend to plant that bomb and how the sky is gonna fall."

 

Illya nodded, gave Mike's arm a last squeeze and dropped his arm.  "I should know in an hour."  He headed off to the lab.

 

Mike made as if to follow him.  Napoleon grabbed his arm.  "He'll work faster if he's not disturbed." 

 

Mike conceded the point and stopped moving.  "What should I do?"

 

"Seeing as you might be here at least another day or so, shall I have an agent see you home to pick up a few things?"  At Mike's nod, he called someone over and made the arrangements.  Then, Mike out of his hair and away from Illya, he sat down with his own information and started making plans.

 

 

*****

A short nap on the plane later, Napoleon and Illya were up in a tree, binoculars honed in on the THRUSH factory.  Napoleon was counting guards.  As the older agent identified each mark, Illya timed their routes.  After an hour, Napoleon gave a satisfied nod.  "There it is again.  An eight-minute gap when no one is by that side door."

 

"That doesn't give us a lot of time."

 

"I know.  But it's the only chance we've got."  Napoleon scowled.  "Of course, this could all be a trap."

 

Illya raised an eyebrow.  "Do you think so?" 

 

"Don't you think that someone must have noticed by now that their locust paperweight was missing, slapped themselves on the forehead and said, 'wait, I think it's possible our plan's been foiled by some dastardly, good-looking, UNCLE spies'?"

 

"Not if said paperweight belonged to Mr. Cyanide."

 

"They still have to know their security's been breached."

 

"With the typical THRUSH egomaniac in charge?  Hardly likely."

 

Napoleon frowned at his partner.  "Wait a minute.  What happened to 'Mike's an innocent.  When THRUSH finds out about what we're doing someone might be after him.  Therefore he needs to stay within six inches of me at all times'?  Hmm?  You seemed pretty positive that THRUSH would be figuring things out in no time."

 

Illya put down his binoculars and stared at Napoleon.  "Despite the inappropriate timing, and against my better judgment, I see we must have this conversation.  You do realize what you sound like, don't you?"

 

Napoleon shifted on his perch uncomfortably.  He had a pretty good idea.  "Never mind.  Let's get back to business." 

 

"What?  And have you accidentally shoot me in some jealous pique?"

 

"Jealous?  Jealous?  Is that what you think I am?"  He put his binoculars to his eyes and started slowly sweeping the site.  "Don't be ridiculous."

 

"Then what would you call it?"

 

"Just trying to save our hides, Illya.  Either you think THRUSH has caught on to us, or you think they haven't.  You're being inconsistent."

 

Illya let out a long and much beleaguered sigh.  "Fine, have it your way."

 

"So, do you think they're on to us, or not?"

 

"No."

 

"That's it?  Just no?"

 

"You asked, I answered."

 

Napoleon drummed out an impatient tattoo on the tree limb beneath him.  The time difference between New York and Iowa had given them an extra hour but it was almost dusk.  "Let's get back to the motel, then.  We'll come back at midnight for a last recon before we go in."  He glanced at the sky.  "I don't think we're going to have the requisite moonlight for this Chinese locust burning ritual of yours."

 

"Then no doubt something bad will happen."

 

"Great.  Now you tell me."  He looked to see if he'd gotten a smile out of Illya.  He hadn't.   

 

Illya packed up his binoculars, glanced around to make sure they were unobserved, and then climbed down the tree.  Napoleon threw down the pack, and Illya strapped it on his back as Napoleon landed beside him.  They made their way stealthily back to the rental car which was parked a mile down the road. 

 

Once they were driving, Napoleon glanced at his partner.  One look at his clenched jaw let him know that he was in the doghouse.  Again.  He sighed.  "Illya."

 

"Just leave it, Napoleon."

 

Napoleon left it.  He drove back to their small motel in silence.  No words were exchanged as they walked to the restaurant next door and ate a quick dinner.  On returning to their room, Napoleon unlocked the door, and they both swept the area for any danger and surveillance mechanisms.  The room was clean.  Illya locked the door behind them and set in place additional alarms on both the door and the one window.  Then he stood to the side of the window, pushing back the curtain, looking out as night encroached.

 

Napoleon took off his jacket, hung it in the closet and threw himself on his bed.  He let out a disgusted chuff.  Jealous pique.  He grabbed a pillow and held it tightly across his chest, arms folded over it.  Jealous pique.  Napoleon shook his head in annoyance and tried to relax.  A couple hours of sleep right now couldn't hurt.

 

Unfortunately, the minute he let his mind wander, it went immediately to the sight of Mike hugging Illya goodbye.  Napoleon had done his best maneuvering to keep the two of them apart until it was time to leave.  He was just congratulating himself on his singular achievement when he had turned the corner and seen the two of them.  Granted, it was just a hug.  Or at least by the time Napoleon had gotten there it was just a hug. 

 

Napoleon could have lived with that.  Not happily, but he could have lived with that.  It was what happened next that was making him crazy.  Illya had his back to Napoleon so all he could see was Mike's face.  The Russian had pulled back from the hug, lifted a hand to touch Mike's cheek, and said something.  Napoleon was too far away to hear anything but the soft rumble of Illya's baritone, but the response on Mike's face, the delighted expression and blinding smile, was eating a hole in Napoleon's gut.  What had been said?  What had Illya said to Mike to make him smile like that?  What words, what promises? 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Jealous pique.  That didn't even come close.  Jealous rage, maybe.  For the first time in his life he understood the motive for crime passionel.  It overwhelmed him, humiliated him, confused the hell out of him.  He had just stood there, until Mike had noticed him and pointed him out to Illya.  Illya had simply turned, picked up his suitcase, and moved to Napoleon's side.  Napoleon had taken refuge in the mission, and for the duration of their chauffeured drive to the airport and the flight on their privately chartered plane, he had talked logistics.

 

And now here they were.  Napoleon knew he should keep his mouth shut but he couldn't.  He couldn't stop picking at the scab.  "Mike seemed a bit distraught about the mission."

 

Illya stayed at the window and didn't respond.

 

Napoleon refused to let the silence deter him.  "Well, not the mission so much.  More about you participating in it."

 

Illya let the curtain fall.  "He is an emotional man."

 

"What did you say to him?"  Napoleon could have slapped a hand over his mouth.  He couldn't believe those words had passed his lips.  He let out a frustrated noise and turned on to his side, away from Illya, hoping that Illya would just ignore it.

 

No such luck.  "What are you talking about?"

 

Napoleon bit down on the pillow to keep his mouth shut.  A THRUSH veridical seemed less effective a truth serum than his own current insanity.  He could hear Illya moving.  He opened his eyes to see Illya leaning against the wall directly opposite him, staring down at him.  He closed his eyes again.  "I just need to get some sleep."

 

He felt the bed dip as Illya sat down next to him.  "No, I think we need to talk about this."

 

"It's nothing.  I'm just tired."

 

"Napoleon, it's not nothing.  You have not been yourself ever since--", there was a pause, "--since we were in Mike's lab.  Not that you're not usually argumentative and challenging, but you've been particularly so.  I thought it was the mission, but it's not, is it?  It has something to do with Mike--or with me."

 

The uncertainty in Illya's voice made Napoleon open his eyes again.  Illya's head was lowered, his arms crossed tightly across his chest, as if he might protect himself against whatever Napoleon might say.

 

Napoleon flipped on to his back, and inched back until he was leaning against the headboard.  He still held the pillow in front of him as his own sort of protection, however flimsy, and to keep from pulling Illya into his arms.  "I don't know if I can talk about this."

 

"Then it is about me."  Illya stood and moved back to the window.  "Do you want a new partner?"

 

That got Napoleon's attention.  He let go of his pillow and sat straight up, staring at Illya.  "What?"

 

"Do you want a new partner?"

 

"Why on earth would I want a new partner?"  Napoleon couldn't even imagine how Illya had ended up there. 

 

Illya gave Napoleon a quick glance.  Napoleon saw a flicker of hope in his eyes before it gave way to guardedness.  "So you don't want a new partner?"

 

"Hell, no.  What made you think that?"  Napoleon scrunched his face up as he thought.  Then an obvious answer occurred to him, and his gut clenched.  "Do you want a new partner?" 

 

Illya shook his head.  "I just thought--" He didn't complete the sentence, just pulled the curtain back and resumed his nighttime vigil.

 

Napoleon flopped back on the bed again, pillow back on guard.  There was so much he wanted to know, but he was clueless as to how best to tackle the subject, not to mention wary of what he might be told.  His mouth took charge again, fearlessly treading on. "What did you say to him?"

 

Illya leaned against the far wall and contemplated Napoleon.  "I assume you're talking about Mike?"

 

Napoleon nodded.  "Right before we left, I saw you two hug, and you said something to him.  What was it?"

 

"Why does it matter?"

 

"It just does."

 

"Why?  It's really none of your business."

 

"Everything about you, partner, is my business.  What we don't know about each other can be used against us.  And it seems to me as if you've been keeping at least one fairly large secret from me."  Napoleon tried to keep his voice even, but he could hear the angry tones.  He saw Illya's eyes harden in response.

 

"What is this game you are playing, Napoleon?  And to which secret are you referring?  There is much about me you don't know and it's never bothered you before.  Why is now suddenly the time for dark confessions?"

 

"Illya."

 

Illya stalked across the room, on a tear now.  He glared down at Napoleon.  "You tell me you don't want a new partner, but I hear the anger in your voice.  Or is it disgust that I am hearing?"

 

Napoleon sat up.  "No.  Illya--"

 

"I assume we are talking about my sexual proclivities.  Am I right?"

 

Napoleon nodded.  "I don't--"

 

Illya didn't let him finish.  "You don't what?  You don't find it acceptable?  You don't want a partner who fucks other men?"

 

Napoleon's jaw dropped.  Not only at the English cussword, as Illya always swore in other languages, but at the image the words implied.  Napoleon hadn't taken the thought of Illya and another man that far.  He was astonished to find the thought somewhat arousing.  And then he thought of Mike again and the idea of him and Illya fucking made Napoleon crazy, and not in a good way.  He rolled out of bed and faced Illya.  "Did you fuck Mike?"

 

Illya sneered at Napoleon.  "Oh, dozens of times.  In Mike's lab before you showed up, in UNCLE's lab when your back was turned.  We had planned to fuck in the sleep room but you interrupted us.  And then of course in the command center, under the table.  And we definitely would have fucked in the hallway if you hadn't come along.  Fucking, fucking, fucking, that's all we were doing."

 

Napoleon couldn't help but grin.  "I take it that means no."

 

"Tell me why it's any of your business.  I don't ask you about your sexual activities, Napoleon.  What gives you the right to know mine?"

 

Napoleon couldn't shake the image of Mike and Illya wrapped around each other.  He spit out his answer.  "Because my sexual activities won't take me away from you."

 

That stopped Illya in his tracks.  He stared at Napoleon.  He opened his mouth to speak and then snapped his jaw shut.  Finally, he found his voice.  "Is that what this is about?  You're afraid of losing me?"

 

Napoleon felt a little sick to his stomach.  He sank back down on the bed and buried his face in his pillow.  Again, he felt the dip in the bed when Illya sat near to him.

 

"Napoleon, I have been with men before, and I'm still here."

 

Napoleon just shook his head, still hiding in the pillow.  This wasn't really what he wanted to hear right now.

 

"I have watched you with dozens of women, and it hasn't affected our friendship.  Why should this be any different?"

 

Napoleon's voice was muffled.  "It just is."

 

"Why?"

 

Napoleon sighed and turned his head, needing fresh air to breathe.  "Because they're women."  He glanced at Illya, willing him to understand.

 

Illya pulled his legs up and sat on the foot of the bed.  He drew his knees up to his chest, wrapping his arms around them, resting his chin on his knees.  "Whereas my partners are men."

 

Napoleon nodded and then he let out a long sigh and sat up, too.  "I'm not making any sense, am I?"

 

Illya shook his head.  "No, not really."

 

Napoleon tried to explain.  "It's just that if you got serious about somebody, really serious, then he'd be a man."

 

Illya nodded, biting the inside of his cheek.  "You're a man."

 

"Exactly."

 

"Are you afraid I want you?"

 

Napoleon's brows went up.  Something else he hadn't really considered other than that brief moment in Illya's room last night that he had finally chalked up to momentary insanity.  The problem was that the insanity seemed to be back, and gaining momentum.  The idea that Illya might want him was intriguing.  "Do you?"

 

Illya let out a short exasperated laugh.  "We're not talking about me right now, and there is no way I'm answering that question.  No matter what I say it's sure to be the wrong answer."

 

"What do you mean by that?"

 

"If I say yes, you'll start being uncomfortable around me and if I say no, your vanity will be offended, as I know you think you're completely irresistible."

 

"I am completely irresistible."

 

Illya snorted.  He waved that conversation aside with a sweep of his hand.  "Let's move on.  What do you need me to say?  How can I reassure you that nothing needs to change?"

 

Napoleon didn't like the way that question was worded.  "Does that mean that things are about to change?  Are you in love with Mike?  What did you say to him?"

 

"It's doesn't matter.  The only thing that you need to know is that you'll still be my partner, and my friend.  Do you really think me incapable of holding a place for you in my life if I found someone to love?"

 

"Do you love him?"  Napoleon wasn't sure why he felt the need to keep twisting the knife in his own guts deeper still.  He watched Illya sigh.

 

"No, Napoleon, I don't."

 

"Could you?  I mean, will you see him, date him?"

 

"Could I fall in love with him?  I don't know.  Will I see him?  Probably.  That's what I said to him, that when I got back we'd go out."

 

Napoleon rubbed his hands briskly over his face.  He stood and moved to take Illya's place by the window.  "I'd rather you didn't."

 

"If I asked you not to go out with a woman you were interested in, what would you do?"

 

"I'd laugh at you, and then I'd go out with her anyway."  He glanced over at the bed.  Illya had taken advantage of Napoleon's absence and was now stretched out on his side, supported by an elbow.  He found his eyes wandering along Illya's body.  His form-fitting clothes clearly delineated the lines of his body.  Napoleon took in the strong legs, the flat abdomen, the muscles of his chest and arms, the large hands, the blue, blue eyes, and the mop of blonde hair.  He had to admit that Illya looked good.  He suddenly realized what he was doing and he turned back to the window.  "I'm still asking."

 

"I think you just find him threatening because he is the first man you have seen me express any interest in.  I have been much more involved with other men."

 

Napoleon tried not to wince at that.

 

Illya continued.  "Do you trust me?"

 

"You know I do."

 

"Then I need you to trust me on this.  Nothing about our relationship will change."

 

Napoleon sat in the chair by the window, rested one arm over the top.  "What's he got that I haven't got?"

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Illya let out a groan and fell back on the bed.  Then he sprang up and walked over to Napoleon.  "Listen.  I am sorry this is hard for you.  And I probably should have told you about myself before now so you wouldn't be dealing with this in the middle of a mission.  But don't get confused.  You don't want me.  You don't want me to want you."

 

"How do you know?"

 

"Because I know you.  You are the most rampant heterosexual I know.  If I humor you and don't date Mike, it won't keep me from dating other men.  You just won't see it."

 

The idea of Illya sneaking around his back with other men made Napoleon grind his teeth.  "You don't know me that well.  I've slept with men before."

 

Illya's voice was challenging.  "When?  And don't tell me it was while you were in Korea."

 

"Why not?"

 

"Because war makes people do many things they might not ordinarily do.  Tell me one time you slept with a man since you've been home."

 

Napoleon hardened his jaw and feeling at a disadvantage he stood, looking out the window.

 

Illya tried again. "Tell me one time you even thought about it."

 

"Last night."

 

Illya took a step back.  Clearly he hadn't been expecting that answer.  Then he rallied.  "Only because you were being challenged by someone you see as competition.  You have never had those thoughts before, have you?"


Napoleon shook his head. 

 

Illya nodded his head in a satisfied way.  "You see?  This will pass.  It is just a stage you're going through."

 

Somehow, Napoleon found that amusing.  He looked at Illya, a glint of humor in his eyes.  "A stage?  Is this the only one, or will there be other stages I should prepare for?"  He took a step closer to Illya until he was looking down into his partner's blue eyes.  "You know, he's right."

 

Illya's brow furrowed.  "Right about what?"

 

"You really do have the most stunningly blue eyes."  Napoleon felt a primal surge of satisfaction go through him when Illya blushed.  "Didn't you feel it too?" Napoleon challenged.  "Last night?  Didn't you feel it?"  He couldn't pull his gaze away.

 

Illya cleared his throat, but his voice was still lower than normal.  "Feel what?"

 

Napoleon lifted a hand and rested it against Illya's neck, his thumb vibrating in response to the Russian's pounding pulse.  "This.  You and me."  He shifted his hand and traced Illya's bottom lip with his thumb.  "I wanted to kiss you last night." 

 

It was an infinitesimally small move, but Napoleon felt it.  Illya leaned into Napoleon's hand.  That was all the encouragement he needed.  Never taking his eyes from Illya's, he lowered his head and caught Illya's lower lip between his teeth, running his tongue along the edge of it.

 

Illya's hands came up and caught at his waist.  Napoleon cupped the back of Illya's head and moved them closer.  He turned his head to the side and pressed his lips fully against Illya's, his mouth open enough to invite any exploring Illya might want to do.

 

Illya's hands moved again, framing Napoleon's face, holding him captive as he accepted that invitation and swept his tongue inside Napoleon's mouth. 

 

Napoleon let out a groan and pulled Illya closer until their bodies were fully pressed together.  He couldn't believe how turned on he was.  Just half a kiss and he had a raging erection.  He could feel Illya's corresponding hardness and a jolt of desire ripped through his body.  He met Illya's tongue with his own and did some exploring of his own.  He carded his fingers through Illya's hair and it felt so silky.  Napoleon let out another groan and pulled back from the kiss.  "God, you feel so good.  Everything about you feels so good."

 

Illya lifted a leg and wrapped it around Napoleon, pulling him even closer, forcing their groins to rub together.  He let out a cry of his own.  "Oh, Napoleon.  Ni astanavlivaysa."

 

"No, no I won't stop."  Napoleon was pressing fevered kisses along Illya's jaw, down his neck.  He'd never stop.  "Tell me you want me, tell me you don't want him."  Illya was suddenly still in his arms.  Napoleon opened his eyes and looked down at him.  "Illya?"

 

"Is that what this is about?" Illya hissed at him.

 

Napoleon shook his head.  He had no idea what Illya was talking about, but he hoped that disagreeing would get Illya to start kissing him again. 

 

Illya pulled away, shaking his head in dismay.  "It is.  Durak!  I am so stupid.  This is not about us.  This is about Mike.  This is so you can go back and tell him you won.  How could I be so stupid?"

 

Napoleon's voice was imploring.  "No, Illya.  It is about us."  He tried to pull Illya back into his arms.  "That's not what I meant."

 

Illya spun out of his grasp.  "Do not come near me.  We will finish this mission, and then you can go back and tell Mike that I am a fool.  That you made me want you and made me think you wanted me, too."

 

"I do want you."

 

"Yes, you do.  But this isn't about desire.  This is about proprietary rights.  You think you own me, and that no one else has the right to me.  And you'll do whatever it takes to assert your claim."  He gestured at their bodies and hissed in anger.  "Even this.  You'll even sink this low to win your game."

 

"It's not a game, Illya.  I admit this whole thing is a bit of a surprise, but--"

 

Illya dismissed him with an emphatic hand gesture.  "Pah.  Do not talk to me anymore."  He grabbed his jacket.  "I am going out.  I will be back here at 11:45."  He disarmed the alarm and unlocked the door.

 

Napoleon got to the door before Illya had it open.  "Illya, you're making a mistake.  Don't go."

 

"Am I?"  Illya glared at Napoleon.  "Then answer me this.  Why is it that this is all happening now?  You never wanted me before.  You have seen me naked, and you never acted remotely interested in me that way.  Suddenly, because I am showing interest in a man, you expect me to believe that somehow this has awakened your latent homosexual tendencies?"

 

Napoleon was affronted.  "Of course not."

 

"Of course not?" Illya mocked.  "Does the thought offend you?  But you'll do whatever it takes to get your way, won't you?  You don't want me to see Mike.  You asked me to not see him and I refused.  So what do you do?  You start to seduce me, so you can win and have your way."  The blue eyes looked unbearably sad.  "I have seen you play these games before, more times than I can count.  I just never expected to be the one being manipulated."

 

"That's not what happened here," Napoleon protested.  "I promise you."

 

"Maybe you can't see it, but I can." 

 

"Is it that hard to believe that I might truly want you?"

 

"Yes.  It is.  Now move."  Illya's eyes were cold and challenging.  Napoleon moved.  Illya yanked open the door and disappeared into the night.  Napoleon didn't even bother going after him.  When the Russian wanted to stay hidden, attempting to find him was an exercise in futility.  Napoleon fought back the urge to slam the door hard enough to take it off its hinges.  He slowly shut it, relocked it, and reset the alarm. 

 

Napoleon wanted to punch something.  He wanted to punch Illya.  No, he wanted to fuck Illya.  He groaned and using the door as leverage he slid to the floor.  He shifted a little, making adjustments for his still hard cock.  God, he'd never wanted someone like that; he'd completely lost control.

 

Napoleon liked passion as much as the next man, but he always stayed in control.  He always knew who was doing what to whom, and what was going to happen next.  He liked being the conductor.  He liked calling the shots.  But when Illya had started kissing him, all his control had gone up in a ball of flames.  He thumped the back of his head against the door.  "Shit."  He rapped his knuckles against his lips and tried to think.

 

The fullness at his crotch was making it difficult.  He cupped himself and then undid his pants, reaching his hand inside to free himself.  He stretched out his legs, parting them so he could reach his balls.  Cradling them in one hand, his other hand slowly stroked the full length of his erection. 

 

He imagined blue eyes and blond hair, firm muscles and a hard cock.  He imagined kissing Illya again, he imagined Illya sinking to his knees and taking Napoleon's cock in his mouth.  Napoleon groaned and thrust into his own hand, imagining the textured warmth of Illya's tongue.  Then he pictured Illya naked on the bed, on his stomach, Napoleon between his legs, pounding into him over and over again.  Napoleon cried out Illya's name as he came.

 

He sat there, semen dripping down his fingers, staining his pants.  He didn't think he could move if his life depended on it.  And somehow it hadn't helped.  He still wanted Illya.  He wanted him even more than he had before.  His cock twitched.  He muttered, "Don't even think about it."

 

Napoleon thought about his fantasies.  Illya giving him a blow job, him fucking Illya.  Submissive roles for Illya, dominant roles for him.  Was Illya right?  Was this all about marking Illya as his property?  Did he want to put a collar and chain on the Russian and keep him at his beck and call?  Own every piece of Illya, his heart, his mind, his body, his soul?  Was it that important to Napoleon to have all of Illya's attention and focus?

 

He staggered to his feet and stumbled into the bathroom, stripping off his clothes, leaving his pants and briefs in a heap on the floor, hanging his shirt on the doorknob.  He started running a bath.  As the tub slowly filled, he stared at himself in the mirror, looking for answers.  When it was full he got in, letting out a sigh at the comforting warmth. 

 

Napoleon was disconcerted that most of the answers to those questions were yes.  Or mostly yes.  He did want to claim Illya, mark him, keep him to himself.  He could see why Illya had thought the things he had.  And much of what he said was true.  Napoleon did want to go back to Mike and tell him to keep his hands off, that Illya was his.  And there was no doubt that a part of that was all about winning. 

 

But Napoleon didn't think this was a stage he was going through.  He thought it was about having his eyes opened.  Napoleon ran his hand down his flaccid cock and thought of Lisa.  He could have had her in his bed last night.  He could have her in his bed any night he chose.  There were too many women to count that he could have in his bed.  A whole smorgasbord of them.  A veritable cornucopia.  He could probably have a different woman in his bed every night for the next month. 

 

And every morning he'd give whoever it was a kiss, see them happily on their way, and then immediately dismiss them from his mind.  Then, just like he always did, he'd grin as he made his way to pick up Illya, or meet him for a drink, or track him down at headquarters.  And once he was with him, he'd let down his guard and relax.  The time he spent with Illya was more important to him than anything.  Because it was constant.  The women came and went.  Illya stayed constant, like the Northern Star.

 

Napoleon grinned.  Illya would take out his gun and shoot him for that piece of romantic drivel.  Not that it made it any less true.  And knowing that Illya had let him in, had let him past the icy reserve he put up for the world at large, was a point of pride for Napoleon.  And up until now, Napoleon had thought he'd gotten everything he could have, and it had been enough.  But now Napoleon had been shown that he could have so much more.  He could have everything, and he wanted it, fiercely.

 

But it wasn't just about owning.  Or it was, but it was also about being owned.  He wanted Illya to want him the same way.  He wanted Illya to not be satisfied until he had everything Napoleon could offer, until he could claim Napoleon as his, in every way.  His cock twitched under his fingers.  He gave it a glance.  "You like that idea, don't you?"  It twitched again.  Napoleon was amused that it hadn't moved a millimeter with the thought of a parade of women, but it was coming to life again with thoughts of Illya.

 

He deliberated if a second orgasm would make him too tired, knocking him off his game.  Deciding that a second orgasm was probably the only thing that might make his brain shut up long enough so he could take the nap he knew he needed, he started to stroke himself again.  This time, he thought of touching Illya's body, of taking the Russian's cock in his mouth, of spreading his legs and allowing Illya to take him.  The orgasm obliterated him.  He came to, spitting out water. 

 

Napoleon forced himself out of the tub, scooped up his clothes and headed into the bedroom.  Opening his suitcase, he rammed his soiled pants inside, pulled out some fresh underwear, put them on, and then crawled into bed.  Counting on Illya to be his alarm clock, he surrendered to sleep.

 

 

*****

Napoleon had one hand on his gun before he heard his name called softly again.  He opened his eyes and saw Illya across the room.  Napoleon frowned.  "How did you get in?  I set the alarm."

 

"I designed that alarm."

 

"Oh."  He sat up, rubbed his face, and then threaded his fingers through his hair.  "Illya."

 

Illya shook his head.  "We need to go.  This isn't the time for any further discussion."  His voice was frosty.

 

Napoleon swung his legs out of bed and stood, stretching.  He glanced up and caught Illya watching him.  He bit back a grin.  Illya might be as approachable as blue flame right now, but Napoleon had been the recipient of that searing kiss, and he had felt the hardness of Illya's cock pressing against his own.  Illya wanted him.  Napoleon knew it.  Now all he had to do was make sure that Illya kept feeling that way, and convince him that his oh-so-heterosexual partner felt the same way.  But Illya was right; now was not the time. 

 

He pulled out a matching set of dark clothes and got dressed.  Then he put on his holster, checked that his clip was full, and holstered his gun.  "You have the explosives?"  Stupid question, but he felt the need to say something.

 

Illya just patted his pack. 

 

"Okay, let's go."  Napoleon led the way, reassured by Illya's presence behind him, despite the arctic mood.  The drive was silent, and once again they parked the car quite a distance away.  No point having the car caught in the blast.  Using flashlights they made their way back to the tree they'd been in earlier.  In short time they were both on their perches and watching the guards.  After establishing that the rhythm of the guards was unchanged from earlier, Napoleon decided that the eight-minute gap was still their best bet.  "We have fifteen minutes until the next gap." 

 

Illya pulled out his gun and checked his clip, scowling.

 

Napoleon glanced at him.  "What?"

 

"I don't have any sleep darts."

 

"We don't need sleep darts, Illya."

 

"Why not?"

 

"Because anyone we put to sleep will die in the explosion, unless you plan to drag them all to safety."

 

Illya tilted his head to the side, considering Napoleon's point.  "You are right."  He snicked his clip back into place.  "Of course, it's possible that there might be some innocents working in there."

 

Napoleon rolled his eyes.  "Right, innocents who think nothing of creating a million miniaturized locust robots."  He leaned toward Illya and prodded his leg.  "Not even Santa would requisition something like that."

 

Illya rolled his eyes, and attached the silencer to his gun.

 

Napoleon attached his silencer.  "Let's review.  We get in, we find the bug stash, plant the explosives, and we're out.  No heroics, no last minute decisions to find a lab to see if there might be more THRUSH secrets to uncover.  We just blow it all up.  Right?"

 

Illya gave Napoleon a look, but then he nodded.  "Right."

 

"And then we talk."

 

"There's nothing to talk about."

 

"Au contraire, moi lyubov."

 

Illya glared at him.  "Do not call me that."

 

Napoleon just grinned at him.  He gently pushed the barrel of Illya's gun aside so that it was no longer pointing at his midriff.  "Let's get in position."

 

They dropped out of the tree and advanced to the factory, well shielded by rows of corn.  As they crouched at their final waiting point, Napoleon gave one last thought to his decision to not include other agents.  The local office knew about the operation and was on standby.  He could have gotten any number of volunteers to assist them.   Napoleon glanced at Illya and smiled to himself.  The problem was that he was spoiled; it hardly required thought to work with his partner.  They could practically read each other's minds.  While it was an intense matter of pride to Napoleon, he was also objective enough to know for a fact that he and Illya were the best team UNCLE had. 

 

Throwing other agents in the soup got in the way of their nonverbal communication.  And the rule of thumb was that the more agents you involved, the higher the body count, and not of the bad guys.  Especially with agents that neither Illya nor Napoleon had ever worked with.  Better to sneak in with an agent he thoroughly trusted, get the job done and sneak out. 

 

Napoleon looked at his watch.  Amused, as always, at his need to send a prayer skyways when the thought never even occurred to him when he wasn't about to leap into danger, he nevertheless sent off the prayer.  Keep us safe, he prayed, watch over us.  He added a new line.  Watch over him.  Keep him safe for me. 

 

The minutes silently ticked by and as the last guard moved away as expected, Napoleon made a hand signal.  Both men were up and running for the factory.  Napoleon already had a small explosive in his hand.  He tested the door first and when he found it locked, he placed the explosive over the lock and added a short fuse.  He made sure Illya was standing back, and then, using a lighter, lit the fuse.  Moving away, he shielded his eyes from the flash of light.

 

Illya was playing point, making sure neither the noise nor the flash of light alerted anyone.  He signaled the all clear to Napoleon.  Brushing off any signs of explosive, Napoleon gingerly opened the door and peered inside.  After seeing the way was clear, he signaled Illya to follow.  He didn't need to check to know that Illya was right behind him.

 

Napoleon had counted on the staffing being low in the wee hours of the night, and so far it looked as if he were right.  The halls were empty.  Moving silently, they searched for their target.  Illya suddenly grinned and lifted a hand, pointing at a sign on the wall.  It was a directional sign, with locations and arrows indicating different destinations.  Third down on the list stated: Factory Floor, and an arrow that progressed to the right for a couple of inches and then turned downward. 

 

Both men looked down the hallway to the right, and saw the door labeled stairs.  Napoleon grinned at Illya and spoke at a low whisper.  "That was darn helpful of them."  He watched Illya grin again, and Napoleon's shoulders shook in a silent laugh. 

 

Napoleon indicated with a royal gesture that Illya should precede him.  Illya gave a condescending nod in return, but then the grin slid off his face, and he was all business again.  Their eyes were everywhere, watching every door, every possible source of danger.  But all was silent.  Down the stairs they went and, at the bottom, Illya was the one to open the door, poke his nose out and then signal the all clear to Napoleon. 

 

Another sign conveniently awaited them, indicating that they should now turn to the left to achieve their goal.  They heard voices.  Pulling back into a recessed doorway, they waited to see if the voices came closer or moved away.  They moved away.  Napoleon gave it a count of sixty before he started moving again. 

 

By another count of sixty they were inside the factory, standing on one of the short sides of a rectangular catwalk.  The factory was immense.  Down on the floor below, there was row after row of assembly lines, most of which were currently dark and unmanned.  There were perhaps a dozen workers on the floor, painstakingly bent over their small models, connecting Part A with Part B.  Around the walls were bins filled with the completed bugs, overflowing, like barrels at a candy store, the taffy and hard candies spilling out to the floor.  Somewhere, a radio was playing, blaring out a rock and roll tune that made Illya wince.

 

Napoleon gave up after he counted over thirty bins.  He hadn't even gotten half way around the factory.  The bottom line was that there were a lot of mechanical locusts ready to wreak mayhem.  He and Illya exchanged glances.  They'd gotten here just in time. 

 

The door started to open behind them.  Napoleon and Illya pressed against the wall and waited until the employee was fully in and the door shut behind him.  Then, Napoleon shot him.  Illya watched the employees on the factory floor to make sure no one heard the soft pffft of the discharging gun.  Napoleon caught the man before he fell to the metal grating.  Illya grabbed his feet and together they quietly carried him to the corner where they could slide him down to the ground to rest eternally.

 

Illya tapped Napoleon's sleeve.  When Napoleon looked over, Illya pointed at the man's jacket and rolled his eyes.  The emblem on the pocket was a little bird.  Napoleon gave Illya a crooked smile and shook his head.  THRUSH didn't know the meaning of the words 'covert action'.  Everything they did was grandiose and blazoned with cocksure righteousness that they were beyond the reach of the law.  Napoleon ran a list in his head, and he was relatively certain that every THRUSH mastermind always died with a look of indignant amazement on his or her face.

 

Napoleon realized he was woolgathering at a time when he could ill afford to do so.  He checked for Illya and saw that he was crouching over his pack, pulling out the explosives.  Napoleon crouched down next to him, watching and waiting.  Illya silently pressed timed detonators into the soft but deadly explosive, and began to lay them out, side by side, until there were fourteen of them.  He started setting the timers, setting the first two for ten minutes.  The next two he set for thirty seconds longer.  He set the last two for thirteen minutes. 

 

Pointing at Napoleon, Illya held up his hands, clearly showing a count of seven.  He pointed at himself and did the same thing.  Then he pointed toward the metal stairs, down the long sides of the rectangle that made up the factory, and waved the pointing finger to indicate the far end of the factory.  Then he held up five fingers again. 

 

Napoleon got the plan.  They'd plant them in seven bins each, equidistant, starting with the thirteen-minute bombs in the farthest bins. They'd have five minutes, exactly, to set the first bomb. The timers would be started as they were planted and they'd have exactly thirty seconds to get from one location to the next to guarantee they'd have a full ten minutes to get out and away from the factory, and to ensure simultaneous explosions.  Napoleon had no doubt that the explosive being planted would be sufficient.  Illya knew his bombs. 

 

Illya demonstrated setting one of the bomb timers and also how to stop it, in case something went amiss.  Then, they synchronized their watches to the second.  When that was done, Napoleon began carefully scooping up his share of the bombs.  As he watched Illya cram them into his jacket pocket, Napoleon let out a silent snort and followed the Russian's example.  Napoleon had never developed the knack, unlike his pyro partner, of determining whether an explosive was inherently unstable, or if it required a detonation to turn it into a lethal substance.  These were obviously of the latter variety.

 

As Illya turned to go, Napoleon felt a sensation he hadn't had to deal with before.  Every time they were on a mission like this, he knew that one of them might not come back.  He'd faced Illya's possible death more times than he could count, and each time it had been a nightmare.  But it never stopped him.  It never stopped either of them.  They had a job to do, a job that made a difference, and they were willing to pay the high price that came along with it. 

 

Napoleon had no intention of stopping now, and he knew it would take an act of God to get Illya to not fulfill his part of the plan.  But, he found himself insanely wanting to hug his partner before they parted.  Just in case.  A hug, maybe a quick kiss.  Just in case.  He wrestled with the temptation for a few seconds. 

 

Napoleon could see a puzzled look on Illya's face, as if wondering if Napoleon had some last-minute instructions, or some explanation as to why they weren't creeping down the stairs and moving to plant the bombs.

 

It was the fear that giving in to his temptation might rattle Illya that allowed Napoleon to shake it off.  He simply grasped Illya's shoulder, and gave him a squeeze.  Then he turned and headed off to the right, keeping low, and moving silently.  They both halted at the top of their selected set of stairs, and Illya looked at his watch.  Napoleon waited for the signal.  When it came, Napoleon noted the exact time, and then he moved.

 

The music was a godsend, despite Illya's obvious distaste for it.  It covered the unintentional rattle of metal locust bodies as bombs were placed in the bins.  Each time Napoleon inadvertently caused a noise, he froze, never losing track of the silent counting inside of his head, knowing he didn't have the luxury to stay still until he was sure no one had noticed anything.  Thirty seconds.  Set the timer.  Thirty seconds, set the next timer.  Three minutes was all they had.  Three minutes that seemed both absolutely endless, and nerve-wrackingly fleeting at the same time. 

 

When they met again on the top of the catwalk, Napoleon saw the same look of relief in Illya's eyes that he knew was in his own.  Now the new timer was on.  They had ten minutes to get out and a safe distance away, another magical number Illya determined.  In this instance, safe was where the car was.  And the ten minutes meant they had to run like hell.  It was always a fine line between setting the fuses to go off soon enough to keep down the odds of the explosives being discovered and possibly disarmed, and yet giving the two of them time to get away.

 

This was going to be a big explosion.  They couldn't risk leaving anything behind that THRUSH might salvage to start again.  UNCLE was standing by, ready to alert the local fire department to keep any fires from spreading too fast.  The point was to save crops, not burn them to the ground. 

 

Napoleon listened at the door for a moment, making sure no one was walking by.  Then he opened it carefully, checking the hallway for occupants.  Once again, they were lucky.  Napoleon started getting that uncomfortable feeling he always got when things were going too well.  Something had to go wrong.  Something always went wrong.  He wished it would happen so they could get it over with.  He gave the dead THRUSH agent a thought.  Maybe he would be the extent of what went wrong.  Napoleon scowled.  Not likely.  Especially with the inauspiciously moonless night working against them.

 

They both hurried up the stairs, Napoleon painfully aware of the seconds ticking by.  He had no doubt that Illya was keeping even more stringent count than he.  At the top of the stairs they got lucky again.  Another empty hallway.  Working together, they made it down the maze of hallways, back toward the door they entered through.

 

From behind them they heard a yell.  "Hey!"

 

Illya turned and fired.  They couldn't afford a second yell that might bring added assistance.  But, instead of just one man, there were two of them.  Before Illya could get off another shot, the second man fired.  Illya grunted and his body jerked back for a second.  He stayed standing.  It allowed Napoleon to maintain his poise long enough to shoot the second man, before turning worried eyes on his partner.   "You okay?"

 

Illya was already moving, his gun hand clasping his other arm.  "It's just my arm.  Let's go."

 

Napoleon didn't need to be convinced.  They started sprinting down the last hallway.  No time for subtlety.  Even those few seconds defending their lives were too important to have lost. 

 

Both men had their guns ready for action when they burst through the door.  There were two guards standing outside, and each agent brought one down as they headed for the corn.  Within the tall stalks, they could hide more easily as they continued their frantic run to safety. 

 

Napoleon heard the door slam open behind them, and the sound of guns being fired.  Illya grunted again, but when Napoleon spared him a glance, he was back to holding his injured arm and still running.

 

They made it to the cornfields, and using arms as makeshift machetes, they battled their way through cornhusk and silk.  At some point, Napoleon realized that Illya was falling behind.  He slowed down and grabbed Illya's uninjured arm, to assist him along.  Illya waved him on.  "Go.  Just go."

 

Napoleon noticed, nervously, that Illya was unaccountably winded.  The Russian was in superb shape and could run for miles without getting short of breath.  Even with a bullet in his arm, even with bullets in each arm, and one in his leg, Illya shouldn't be out of breath.  Illya was like a Timex.  Takes a licking, and keeps on ticking. 

 

Trying to keep an eye on the ground so he didn't trip and fall, Napoleon ran the other eye over his partner.  Something was wrong.  He could see blood dripping off Illya's fingers but Napoleon dismissed that as the blood coming from the arm wound.  It didn't help that Illya was dressed in black and that it was nighttime.  It made it next to impossible to make any kind of assessment.  And they couldn't stop.  They were still too close.

 

Napoleon settled for keeping a grip on Illya's good arm, dragging him, making him keep up.  Once they got a safe distance away, he'd strip Illya if necessary to figure out what other injury his partner was hiding.  Concern for Illya had made him lose track of time.  "How long?"

 

The answer was gasped out.  "Two minutes."  The voice was tight with pain.  Napoleon slowed down.  Illya shook his head, his breathing labored.  Again the words were gasped.  "Don't--stop.  If--we stop--I won't--be able--" He stopped trying to talk, the effort clearly too much.

 

Everything in Napoleon was screaming to stop.  Something was dreadfully wrong.  He kept moving while his mind tried to connect the dots.  That second grunt.  Illya must have been shot again. 

 

Illya tripped and Napoleon instinctively put his arm around him to keep him from falling.  He'd slipped his arm under the jacket to get a firm grip and he was startled to feel wetness.  Illya's shirt was soaked.  Napoleon could feel the moisture sliding over his fingers, and he knew it was too viscous to be sweat.  Which meant his partner had taken a hit to his chest somewhere. 

 

He was saved the decision of whether to stop or not when Illya tripped again, and this time even Napoleon couldn't stop the fall.  Illya's momentum dragged Napoleon down before he could let go of him.  Illya let out a groan of pain when Napoleon landed, partially atop the Russian, unable to sufficiently change his body's trajectory as he fell. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Napoleon rolled off, and Illya struggled to his knees.  "Not--enough--go."  He pushed ineffectually at Napoleon.

 

Napoleon stared at him in amazement that Illya would think for an instant that he'd run and leave him behind.  Hoping he wasn't doing more harm than good, he pulled Illya to a standing position, got the Russian situated over his shoulder and ran as fast as he could.  The time must be almost up. 

 

Napoleon just managed to clear the cornfield and get another fifty yards when the factory blew.  The concussion rocked the ground, and Napoleon fell to his knees.  He carefully laid Illya down and covered him with his body, even knowing it was unlikely that he could offer any protection if they hadn't gotten far enough. 

 

The ground tremors continued, and Napoleon could hear the blaze ripping through the corn.  It was like a behemoth stalking them.  The volume of the crackling firestorm increasing as it approached at devastating speed.  Napoleon started praying again.  Let it stop, let it stop before it reaches us.  There were only seconds remaining until he'd know, one way or the other, if they'd made it to safety.  There wasn't enough time to struggle to his feet again and move.  

 

It was amazing how many separate sensations he was able to discern in those last few seconds.  The shaking earth, the air growing uncomfortably warm, and Illya trying desperately to breathe.  Then the heat was on them, like a fetid breath, and Napoleon cringed, waiting for the searing blast that would flay the skin off their bodies. 

 

But then, miracle of miracles, it stopped.  The heat was still horrendous, and the air thick with the dust of burning debris, but the fireball had stopped its ground-eating stride, and was just assuming the proportions of a normal fire.  Where they were lying, there was nothing of worth to consume, so the fire began to turn toward the fields to its right and left, needing to continue its mindless feed.

 

They still had to move.  Napoleon could hardly breathe, and Illya--for a second Napoleon's heart stopped--it sounded as if Illya wasn't breathing at all.  Then he heard the gasping.  He released his breath in a sound like a sob, and got up on one knee, scooping his partner up, holding him in his arms like a child.  Then, staggering under the weight, he got to his feet. 

 

He stayed in the open, not wanting to get caught unaware by the ongoing inferno behind him.  He had seen flames leap from treetop to treetop, cutting off avenues of escape before your brain could even recognize the danger.  He focused in on the moans coming from his partner.  "Hang on, Illya.  Hang on." 

 

Once he felt the air temperature start to drop, Napoleon decided he had gone far enough.  He carefully placed his burden on the ground, and reached for his communicator, opening the channel to the local office.  "This is Solo, I have an agent down and request emergency evac. I'll set the homing beacon."  He made a slight adjustment to the bottom of the silver cylinder.

 

Waverly's voice came on, letting Napoleon know that he was monitoring events while still in New York.  "The mission, Mr. Solo, was it successful?"

 

Internally, Napoleon reacted to the question with a heated fury. Rationally he understood that the mission was always the priority, but when Illya was in such agony, somehow it seemed ridiculously unimportant. He did his best to keep it from showing in his voice.  "The factory has been destroyed."

 

"Good work."  There was a pause.  "How is Mr. Kuryakin?"  The fact that there was worry evident in the voice was a small consolation to Napoleon.

 

"Too soon to tell.  He's been shot twice, once in the chest."  He looked fiercely up at the sky, as if his will alone might materialize the rescue helicopter. 

 

"A medical team will be standing by at the hospital."


Napoleon's fingers went on autopilot as they switched the communicator off, leaving the homing beacon blinking.  The rest of him was focused on his partner.  All he could see was that Illya's attempts to keep breathing were growing more ineffectual by the second.  He placed his head closer to Illya's chest.  He could hear a sucking sound.  His lung, he'd taken a bullet in a lung.

 

Napoleon had seen the procedure performed once, while in Korea.  Someone had slipped a hollow tube in between a man's ribs, allowing air back into the lung, until the medics could arrive.  Napoleon would have tried it, if he'd had anything to use.  He patted himself down and then Illya.  Somehow in the madness of their escape, the pack had been lost.  He had nothing.   

 

He slid to Illya's side and partially lifted him up so he could slip his hands underneath him.  He found the entry wound immediately; it was sizable, and it was still pumping blood.  Not just the lung then, a major vessel as well.  Napoleon did his best to apply pressure, knowing it would be a stopgap at best.  But he couldn't just do nothing.  He couldn't sit here and watch Illya die right in front of him. 

 

Suddenly he was overwhelmed with fear.  Illya couldn't die.  Not now, not when there was so much for the two of them to share.  He yelled at his partner.  "Illya, wake up, damn it.  Fight."

 

Illya tried to open his eyes but he lost the battle.  One corner of his mouth turned up in a weary smile.  "Sorry, Napoleon."  He coughed, and in the minimal light offered by the fire in the background, Napoleon could see blood frothing on Illya's lips.

 

"Don't apologize, God damn it."  Illya's body, which had been tense and guarded up to this point, grew lax.  Napoleon let out a frustrated cry.  "Don't you dare die on me.  Don't you dare die."  Napoleon lifted Illya to his chest, holding him tightly with his free arm, the other hand maintaining pressure.  "Stay with me." 

 

Panic inundated him, and he actually shook Illya as he continued to yell.  "Illya.  Stay with me.  They'll be here soon."  Illya whispered something.  Napoleon lowered his head, until his ear was at Illya's lips.  "What?  Say it again." 

 

"Too late."

 

Fear made his voice rough.  "It's not too late.  It's not."  Napoleon searched for something to say, something that might engage Illya enough to cling to life.  "And you know why?"

 

There was the smallest of headshakes, and as if even that movement was too painful, Illya made a guttural moan that kept chorus with the tortured gasping for air.  The sounds of the Russian's distress brought a sting to Napoleon's eyes.

 

He cleared his throat, trying to push past the painful lump there.  "I'll tell you why."  And then, just like that, he knew what he had to say while he still had the chance.  "Remember when I asked you what Mike had that I didn't have?  Remember?"

 

Napoleon experienced a flare of acute relief when he felt a nod.  "Well, I figured it out.  I love you.  Mike doesn't.  He doesn't even know you.  He may like you, he may want you, but he doesn't love you.  I'm the one who loves you.  And no one is ever going to love you more than I do.  Are you listening to me?"  There was no response.  "Illya.  Oh, Jesus, Illya."  He moved his hand to underneath the side of Illya's jaw and felt for a pulse.  Nothing.  "Oh, Jesus."  He felt again, shifting his slippery bloodstained fingers, trying to find some proof of life.

 

There, it was there.  Thready at best, and irregular, but there.  Napoleon had never felt anything more precious.  Suddenly the sky was full of noise and wind and light.  Napoleon looked up and saw that the helicopter had arrived.  He shoved Illya's head into the hollow of his shoulder to protect him from the dust as the helicopter landed.

 

Then people seemed to be everywhere, and they were trying to pull Illya out of his arms.  He protested.  Someone put a hand on his shoulder.  "Let him go.  We'll take care of him now."  The voice spoke again.  "Let him go."

 

Napoleon reluctantly obeyed, although he felt bereft as he watched the most important part of him carried away.  The voice spoke again.  "Are you hurt?"  Napoleon turned his head and saw a young man.  "Are you hurt?"  The man pointed at Napoleon's hands.

 

Napoleon glanced down.  In the light of the helicopters, he could see the dark red of Illya's blood all over him.  He shook his head.  "No.  Just him."  Galvanized by a sudden need to see Illya, afraid he might give up if Napoleon wasn't there to make him hang on, he jumped up, and stumbled.

 

The young man caught him.  Napoleon shook him off and headed for the helicopter.  The man accompanied him.  Napoleon guessed that he'd been assigned to watch him.  A couple of the people in the helicopter gave Napoleon a worried glance when he climbed in.  Napoleon could only guess what he looked like.  Blood, dust, all mixed with tears, he must look only marginally better than Illya. 

 

Even in the midst of the orderly frenzy surrounding Illya, someone made room for Napoleon to stay by his partner's side.  They all knew what it was like.  Napoleon reached for Illya's hand and held it tightly.  He spoke softly from his vantage point near Illya's head.  "Hang on, tovarisch, hang on.  Don't think you're getting out of writing the report for this mission by dying on me."  The last words were choked out.

 

Napoleon kept hoping that someone would reassure him that Illya would be fine.  But everyone was too busy trying to keep him alive until they could get him to the hospital.  Napoleon ran his eyes over Illya.  His jacket and shirt had been cut off, and Napoleon could see the edges of a tight pressure bandage that must be sealing the bullet wound. 

 

He had an oxygen mask on.  Two IV's had been started and fluid was being pumped into him.  A chest tube had been inserted and was draining blood into a glass jar partially filled with water.  Electrodes were attached to his chest, and even Napoleon could tell that the rhythm being displayed on the monitor was far from normal.  It skipped, and occasionally flattened out and then would get back into action by throwing some crazy beat that made the small green blinking light dart up and down in wild swings before slipping back into something vaguely resembling a normal rhythm. 

 

Napoleon realized they were in flight.  He hadn't even noticed the helicopter leaving the ground.  Leaning forward until his mouth was right by Illya's ear, he began to speak.  He didn't worry about what words came out of his mouth; he just wanted Illya to hear his voice.  "Illya, stay with me.  Don't leave me.  Keep fighting.  I promise I won't even ask you to help write the report if you stay alive.  Don't leave me.  Don't make me do this on my own.  We'll be there soon.  Hang on.  Hang on, Illya.  That's an order.  Please, Illya.  Hang on."  He kept on talking, his entire world shrinking until all it contained was his words and the irregular beep of the monitor.

 

 

*****

At the hospital, Napoleon was shunted aside as Illya was sped inside and hustled off to emergency surgery.  Deprived of anything useful to do, Napoleon began to pace the small emergency room waiting area, scowling at the clock at approximately thirty-second intervals. 

 

After a few minutes of this, the young agent assigned to Napoleon, accompanied by a fairly hefty orderly, escorted Napoleon into the physician's dressing room.  It was suggested to him that he take a shower because his appearance was scaring the other family members waiting for news of their loved ones. 

 

Napoleon stared at them both for a minute and then looked down at the set of scrubs being offered to him.  "I'll need a lab coat or something so I can still wear my gun and holster."  Napoleon was amazed that he had the mental wherewithal to be practical.

 

The orderly began to go through the lab coats hanging on the various hooks that took up any wall space not occupied by lockers.  Finding one that met whatever criteria the orderly had in mind, he began to hand it, and the scrubs, to Napoleon.  Then he took another look at the filthy agent and glanced down at the white lab coat.  He laid the pile on a bench.  "I'll leave everything here, you can get it after you shower."

 

Napoleon nodded and then he glanced at his shadow agent.  "Go back out there, so you can come get me if anything happens."

 

The young man shook his head and firmly pointed to the ground.  "I'm staying right here."

 

Napoleon opened his mouth to argue and then decided it was pointless.  The man had obviously been assigned to stick to him like glue, and Napoleon wasn't going to be able to brush him off.  He wasn't exactly sure what the agent's orders were, whether they were along the lines of: the man's a hero, get him anything he wants, or: the man might snap at any second, make sure he doesn't go bananas and start shooting innocents.  Napoleon sighed.  To be honest he felt closer to option two than option one.

 

He toed off his shoes, and reached down to strip off his socks, balancing one hand on the wall for balance.  He glanced at his hand before accomplishing his goal and realized he was leaving a bloody handprint.  He gave an apologetic look to the orderly, and then caught his image for the first time in the mirror.  He almost took an involuntary step back.  No wonder they'd dragged him in here.  His own mother, if she were still alive, wouldn't have recognized him, and certainly wouldn't have claimed him. 

 

Napoleon moved to the sink and after turning on the water, placed his hands under the spigot.  He watched as Illya's blood washed off his hands, and made lazy circles down the drain.  Illya's blood.  He looked in the mirror again.  He was covered in it.  How could Illya still be alive when so much of his blood was all over Napoleon?  He glanced down at the sink again, turned his hands over, mesmerized as the blood stained the water a brilliant red. 

 

He had no idea how long he stayed at the sink, but eventually he came out of his trance when he was gently tapped on the shoulder.  "Come on, go take your shower.  You'll feel better when you're clean."  It was the helpful agent again.

 

Napoleon almost laughed.  He'd feel better when he was clean?  He glanced up and saw the agent's earnest face and he kept his snappish comment to himself.  And he obeyed the suggestion, if for no other reason than to avoid any other trite sayings offered up for his benefit. 

 

He stripped off his jacket and rifled through the pockets until he found his communicator.  He handed it to the agent, along with his holster and gun.  He finished his previous task of stripping off his socks, and picked up the scrubs, holding them well away from his body.  He wended his way around the corner until he found the shower cubicles.  The showers were two-sectioned, the first area meant for changing.  Closing the curtain behind him, he laid the scrubs down on the small bench, and began to disrobe. 

 

The shirt was so saturated with blood he could have wrung it out.  He dropped it in a sodden heap on the floor.  The rest of his clothes followed.  Turning on the shower, he waited a minute while the water warmed up.  Napoleon stepped under the water and adjusted the temperature until it was as hot as he could stand it.

 

He closed his eyes, not wanting to watch more of Illya's blood wash down his body and into the drain on the floor.  He didn't need any more reminders of Illya's mortality.  When he was relatively certain that the blood would be gone he opened his eyes.  He'd opened them too soon.  In the rush of the water he hadn't even realized that the drain was emptying slowly.  His feet were standing in a quarter inch of red-tinged water.

 

He couldn't handle it.  He tore open the curtain and left the inner cubicle, stepping right onto his blood soaked clothes.  Filled with a superstitious need to be free of the blood that seemed to be hounding him, he stepped through the outer cubicle of the next shower, and immediately into the shower chamber. 

 

Napoleon turned the spigot and braced himself for cold water.  The thought of waiting long enough for the water to grow warm was untenable.  He let out an involuntary yell when the freezing water cascaded over his skin. 

 

He heard the agent call.  "Everything all right?"  It sounded as if the man were right outside the shower.  Napoleon figured the yell had brought him running.

 

"It's just cold."  Napoleon was grateful for the silence.  Grateful that the man didn't ask why he was taking a cold shower, or why he was using two showers, as he hadn't shut off the other one.  "Can you get me a couple of towels?"

 

"Sure."  There was another silence and then the sound of the outside curtain being pulled. 

 

Napoleon saw towels being handed to him over the second curtain rod. 

He took one.  "Leave the other one on the bench, would you?"

 

"You got it."  Another pause.  "What do you want to do with your clothes?"

 

The question stymied Napoleon.  He didn't want to deal with them.  Not when they were filled with Illya's blood.  He wanted them burned.  He wanted them out of his line of vision.  The superstitious dread filled him again, and he began scrubbing at his body with the towel he'd been handed. 

 

His silence must have been an answer of sorts because the agent spoke again.  "I'll take care of them."

 

It was the perfect answer.  Let someone else take care of them.  He tried to keep his voice free of emotion but he knew he was only nominally successful.  "Thank you.  I'll just be another minute or so."

 

There was no response, but Napoleon heard footsteps moving away.  He kept scrubbing, visions of Lady MacBeth filling his brain.  Napoleon looked down at the drain, relieved this one seemed to be doing an adequate job.  The water was not collecting at his feet, and the stream whirlpooling down the drain was clear.  He dropped the towel, and just stood under the spray, the temperature now comfortingly warm. 

 

He needed to pull it together.  It was never easy when his partner was hurt, but he'd always been able to keep it together.  Napoleon knew he was losing it right now.  If his new feelings for Illya were going to make him this crazy when he got hurt, then the feelings were dangerous indeed.  Because Illya would get hurt again.  That was a guarantee.  If he lived, that is.

 

The thought of Illya dying brought nothing but pain.  It brought back the pain he'd felt when he'd lost his young wife.  He hadn't thought he would ever get over that pain.  But he had.  Or at least most of him had.  He'd never risked loving like that again.  He'd been in one relationship after another, slept with more women than any man had a right to, but he'd kept it simple.  Kept it easy.  Kept his heart behind a well-guarded lock and key. 

 

But someone had snuck in.  Someone unexpected, someone Napoleon had felt safe with, someone he'd had no reason to protect himself from.  That someone had crept in under his radar and insinuated himself in Napoleon's heart deeper than anyone ever had before.  A part of him didn't want it, was terrified by it, even as he knew it was too late to do anything about it.  Not unless he left.  Not unless he picked a new partner, and transferred to a new office, and systematically removed all traces of Illya from his life.  Then maybe, in time, he'd get over it, be able to get back to the never ending line of safe, and ultimately unsatisfying, relationships.

 

An inner voice wailed at the mere notion of that loss.  Just as it wailed at the thought that even now Illya might be dying under a surgeon's knife.  Alone, under anesthetic, maybe never even knowing how much he was loved.  Napoleon wondered if Illya had heard his proclamation of love.  He fervently hoped he had.  He hoped that Illya had heard it and felt comforted by it, and was even now, deep in unconsciousness, clutching the thought to him like a security blanket.

 

Napoleon had a vision, then, of lying in bed, holding Illya that tightly.  Holding him through the night, feeling the warmth of his body, the tickle of his hair against Napoleon's nose.  He wanted that, he wanted it so badly it made his heart ache.  Napoleon felt the sting of tears and rested his head against the cool fiberglass wall of the shower.  Please, he prayed.  Please.

 

He heard a noise and could see, under the bottom lip of the shower wall, gloved hands reaching for his sodden clothes and their quick placement into a plastic bag.  Napoleon turned his eyes away from the blood that remained on the floor.  Then several towels were laid down, covering up the spot.  He saw a flash of legs clothed in green scrubs move in and shut off the other shower.  When he heard the footsteps move away, he shut off his own shower.  Now that the clothes were gone, Napoleon could take the next step. 

 

Now he could retrieve the scrubs he'd left in the other changing space.  He wasn't sure he would have been able to with his clothes on the floor, the specter of Illya's blood taking on increasingly haunting proportions.  He could have called for another set, of course, but then he might have had to explain.  Or even worse, he might not have needed to explain, but instead seen pity in the other agent's eyes as he silently went to retrieve a second set of scrubs, leaving the other set in its showery tomb.

 

He dried himself with the second towel and then, feeling a visit to a therapist looming, he stood well outside of the outer cubicle area of the first shower and reached within for the scrubs.  He dressed quickly, ran his fingers through his hair to arrange it as best he could, and headed back out to the locker area.

 

Startled eyes met his, and Napoleon grinned.  "Look a bit different, do I?"

 

"Very."  Napoleon watched as eyes swept him from head to toe, and he saw the flash of desire flicker through the man's eyes.

 

Napoleon found it frighteningly ironic that the man assigned to him at this particular time was another lover of men.  The man was attractive.  Taller than Napoleon by at least a couple of inches.  Curly auburn hair, hazel colored eyes.  Broad in the shoulders, lean in the waist.  Napoleon found it reassuring that he felt no desire for him at all.  There was only one man Napoleon wanted that way.  That brought him immediately and painfully back to the current moment.  "Is there any news?"

 

The man shook his head.  "I'm Mike, by the way."

 

Napoleon snorted.  "Of course you are."

 

The brow furrowed.  "Something funny about that?"

 

"Long story."  Napoleon sat down and after fingering his socks from cuff to toe, making sure they were completely dry and blood free, he slipped them on, and then slid his feet into his shoes.  Standing he took the holster being offered to him and snugged it on over the scrubs.  He holstered his gun and then shrugged into the lab coat.  His fingers rubbed over the embroidered letters.  Dr. Welch.  Dept. of Thoracic Surgery.  More irony.  He was sick of it.  "Let's go."  He turned and left the changing room, walking quickly, needing news of his partner. 

 

He lasted fifteen minutes before he was led away again.  Though clean, the vision of a man who looked like a physician, pacing and scowling, was not doing much for the other patrons' morale and complaints had been made.  Napoleon was led to a private place to wait.  As the nurse left him in the unused treatment room he begged her to find out how Illya was.  Surely after thirty minutes, they must know something.

 

He flung himself on a stool, running his fingers through his hair.  He glanced at Mike.  "I could use some coffee."

 

Mike, for some reason, seemed to feel that Napoleon was safe alone in the treatment room and, with a nod, left to fulfill the request.  Or maybe, Napoleon thought, Mike saw this as a first step in wooing his way into Napoleon's heart.  He let out a half laugh.  He needed that like a hole in the head.  Then again, maybe he was imagining the whole thing, and his ego had simply grown to unacceptable proportions.

 

He was softly snickering to himself when Mike entered, carrying two cups of coffee, sugar, packets of powdered cream and stirrers, held tenuously between clenched fingers.  Napoleon plucked a creamer packet and a stirrer, and then retrieved his cup of coffee.  He mixed in the creamer and took a hesitant sip, cautious of the temperature.  He lifted it toward Mike in recognition.  "Thanks."  

 

Mike nodded, and prepared his own coffee. 

 

Napoleon drank a few more sips and then glared up at the clock.  "Why aren't they telling me anything?  They must know something by now."  He resisted the urge to throw his coffee cup against the wall.  Having a temper tantrum was not the answer, even if it would make him feel better.  He blew out a long breath and glanced at Mike.  "You have a regular partner?"

 

Mike shook his head.  "No, I work with whoever they assign me to, mission by mission.  It's how they do it here."  He took a sip of coffee.  "You like having a partner?"

 

"If it's the right one."

 

Mike gestured toward the door with his coffee cup.  "Like Kuryakin?"

 

Napoleon nodded.  "Yes, like him." 

 

"I've heard of you guys, you know.  Most of us have."  At Napoleon's raised eyebrow he continued.  "I mean you've only been partners for a little over a year, but you're like a brand name or something.  Solo and Kuryakin."  He said it fast so the names ran together.  Solon'Kuryakin.  "You two get most of the really big missions and then they do inservices on them to show us how it's done."

 

Napoleon snickered.  "Or how it shouldn't be done.  Big missions sometimes mean really big screw-ups."

 

Mike shrugged.  "Things can always go wrong."  He winced as he realized what he'd said.

 

Napoleon gave him a wan smile.  "Yes, they can."

 

"So, how did you know?"

 

"Know what?"

 

"That he was the one?"

 

Napoleon gave Mike a startled glance, wondering if he had a sign on him somewhere saying 'in love with Russian' on it.  Then he realized the other agent was still on the partner conversation.  Napoleon grinned.  "I'd never have picked him, nor he, me.  We're complete opposites in so many ways."

 

"Like how?"

 

"Well, I love to socialize, he loves to stay at home with his nose in a book, I get along with almost everyone, he gets along with practically no one.  I got through school on my charm and good looks, he graduated top of the class with a Ph.D. in quantum mechanics."

 

"So, why are you guys partners, then?"

 

Napoleon shrugged.  "I don't know.  We just click.  We know how the other one thinks, and it helps us read each other's mind.  We know each other's weaknesses.  Where I stop he picks up and vice versa.  It just works."  Napoleon didn't add that he loved the surly Russian, and that the same said Russian had kissed him to within an inch of his life a few hours earlier, until Napoleon had opened his stupid mouth and given Illya the wrong idea.

 

Napoleon could see the nurse heading toward the room.  He crushed his now empty cup and threw it in the trash, stood and squared his shoulders, trying to prepare himself for bad news, frantically hoping for good.

 

He felt lightheaded for a second when she walked in and gave him a smile.  "He'll be fine."

 

Napoleon reached for the stool he knew was somewhere behind him.  Mike assisted him and he sank down, his knees suddenly weak.  He gestured for the nurse to finish.

 

"He was shot in the lung, and it nicked a major blood vessel.  The team on the helicopter said he had a tension pneumothorax.  It can compress the heart, and well, it's pretty dangerous, but the chest tube took care of that emergency.  The bigger problem was how much blood he'd lost."

 

Napoleon didn't need to be told that.  He'd be dreaming about all that blood.  "But he's fine?"  He knew the nurse had said that he would be, but Napoleon wanted all the reassurance he could get.

 

She nodded.  "It took them a while to know for sure, but they sewed the vessel shut, and pumped in replacement units of blood and IV fluids, and everything seems to be working fine.  They're just finishing up now in the operating room."

 

"I'll get to see him?"  Napoleon didn't really mean it as a question.  They'd have to put him in a strait jacket to keep him away.

 

"Once he's all settled in the ICU you can see him for a few minutes."

 

Napoleon started to argue, but he saw Mike flash a gesture that clearly said that the younger agent would take care of things.  Napoleon let it go for the time being.  If Mike didn't come through, he was more than happy to have that temper tantrum.  In the meantime he could afford to be gracious.  Illya was going to make it.  He gave the nurse one of his most charming smiles.  He reached for one of her hands and held it.  "You, my dear, have just made me a very happy man."

 

She giggled, a bit agog at being the recipient of the full brunt of Napoleon's charm.  She reluctantly pulled her hand away.  "I'll come and tell you when he's on his way upstairs."

 

"I'll await your return with breathless anticipation."

 

The nurse backed out of the room, and almost collided with another worker in the hallway. 

 

Napoleon flashed Mike a grin and shook his head as if to share a moment's camaraderie about the silliness of women.  Napoleon was astonished to realize that he had absolutely no intention of capitalizing on this easy victory, and in fact, had no desire toward that end.  All he felt was an extraordinary relief that there wouldn't be any need to come up with some reason to get her on her way as quickly as possible after they'd had sex. 

 

The next person he made love to was staying in his bed, all night, with a mandatory encore for every possible night after that.  He ignored the small detail that this new lover of his had yet to agree to participate. 

 

Suddenly the news about Illya finally sank in.  He dropped his face into his hands, elbows on his knees.  "Oh, God, he's going to be okay."  He rubbed his hands over his face a couple of times, and then glanced up at Mike.  "He's going to be okay."

 

Mike grinned at him and lifted his Styrofoam cup as if in a toast.  "Here's to partners."

 

"Amen to that."  He grinned back at Mike.  "So, what are your orders, exactly?"

 

"About you, you mean?"

 

Napoleon nodded.  "How long do I rate a babysitter?"  He smiled again, to take any sting out of the words.

 

"Until we heard, one way or the other, and if the news was bad--" He shrugged.

 

Napoleon's heart gave a lurch.  It had been so close.  Illya could so easily have died in his arms.  If the helicopter had taken a few minutes more to arrive, he'd be making arrangements to go home partner-less, lifeless.  A shiver ran down his back.  He shook it off, not wanting to dwell on the 'what might have beens'.  "But the news was good, so that means you're free to go, yes?"  Napoleon really wanted some time on his own.

 

Mike nodded.  "Yes, unless you'd--unless you'd like some company."  The invitation was clear.

 

Napoleon shook his head, smiling regretfully.  "No, I wouldn't.  But thanks for the offer."  He found himself shamelessly relieved that his ego hadn't imagined the interest.  Napoleon glanced at the door.  "You'll fix it so I can stay with him?"

 

Mike nodded again.  "I'll have my boss give the right person a call.  It shouldn't be a problem."  He gave Napoleon a rueful grin.  "But, somehow I think you could charm your way up to his room if push came to shove."

 

Napoleon tapped his gun.  "I'll just start shooting people.  It usually gets me what I want."  At the look on Mike's face he laughed.  "Kidding.  Just kidding."  When the younger agent still looked dubious, Napoleon laughed again and held up his first two fingers in a Boy Scout salute.  "Scout's honor.  I won't shoot anybody.  Go home.  Get some sleep.  Consider your job well done."

 

Mike stood.  "Let me go make a couple of phone calls."  He felt his pockets and pulled out a communicator.  He handed it to Napoleon.  "Here, this one's yours."

 

Napoleon took it, sliding it into the lab coat's breast pocket.  He stood as well and held out his hand.  "Thanks, Mike."

 

Mike tried one more time.  "You sure you don't want some company?  He's in good hands here, you know."

 

Napoleon shook his head and kept it simple.  "Unwritten partner rules.  When he wakes up, I need to be there."

 

The tone of his voice must have brooked no argument, because Mike just nodded and headed for the door.  "Well, take care, and try to stay out of trouble."

 

Napoleon gave him a crooked smile.  "Not very likely."

 

Mike flashed him a smile in return and left the room.  Napoleon let out a long sigh, sat again, and stretched his legs out in front of him.  He glanced at the clock.  They had thirty minutes to come get him.  Then he was going to start making a stink.  In the meantime he was just going to sit there and be damned glad Illya was alive.  Damned glad.  He rested his head on the back of the chair, and closed his eyes. 

 

 

*****

They had come for him in twenty-three minutes.  He'd been shown into Illya's room by a nurse who had twenty years and twenty pounds on him.  She had found him a comfortable chair to sit on in the corner of the room, sternly instructed him not to touch anything, and then ignored him as she saw to the well-being of her patient.  Napoleon didn't care.  He didn't care about anything but the sight of his partner alive and not bleeding to death.

 

He had made a couple courageous forays to the side of Illya's bed, but for the time being he was back in the corner, as it was clear the nurse needed free access to check IV's, heart monitors, the ventilator, and miscellaneous drains.  Napoleon had been advised that Illya would come off the ventilator in short order, as soon as he was doing his own breathing.  They had come in twice to decrease the amount of breaths the machine gave him, as his own respirations started taking over.

 

When the nurse finally left, Napoleon remained where he was for a few minutes to see if she was coming back.  When it appeared she wasn't, he carried his chair over closer to the bed, sat down, and laid his fingers on Illya's wrist, wanting to feel both the warmth of his skin and his pulse.  When he felt the pulse beating regularly under his finger, Napoleon felt some more of his tension slip away.  Each time he felt the proof of that steady beat, as opposed to listening to that infernal machine beeping, it made it more real.

 

They'd pulled it off.  They'd stopped the locust threat, set THRUSH behind several million dollars, and they were both alive.  Napoleon wondered if this would be another inservice for Mike and his fellow agents to listen to.  Either way, whether Illya had survived or not, he expected this was one they'd be talking about.  If Illya had died, there'd simply have been a small footnote at the bottom of the case report.  One agent, Illya Kuryakin: died in action. 

 

One line.  Such a meaningless epithet for any agent, let alone Illya.  Only five feet eight inches or so of him, but the small frame contained so much.  So much suffering and strength, contention and compassion, innocence and passion, and all that dry humor combined with a frighteningly high IQ.  Napoleon glanced up at Illya's face.  He didn't dare touch him.  Not with the ventilator tube there.  Not only was he concerned for Illya, having no wish to knock something askew, he also had no desire to risk antagonizing Illya's nurse, who Napoleon was sure would knock him into next Sunday if she even suspected he was causing her patient some harm. 

 

He wished Illya would wake so he could see those blue eyes.  Those truly astonishing blue eyes.  Napoleon wondered if Illya had those thoughts of him.  Before any of this had ever happened, he wondered if Illya had ever thought about his brown eyes, of running his fingers through his dark hair, or kissing him.  Napoleon hoped so.  He hoped that Illya found him attractive. 

 

Napoleon didn't think he'd be able to stand it, if after this was all over, Illya just looked at him with those blue eyes and calmly stated that he didn't want Napoleon, that he didn't have those sorts of feelings for him.  Napoleon saw Illya in his mind's eye walk away, Mike Donfield at his side, and it made his blood boil. 

 

He swept the vision away.  Napoleon remembered the kiss.  There had been no second-guessing in that kiss, no ambivalence.  Illya had wanted him, as much as Napoleon had wanted Illya.  Napoleon had to believe that.  He sighed.  He wanted Illya to wake up, to open his eyes, to smile at him, and he wanted those blue eyes to be shining with love, just for him.

 

Napoleon snorted.  Jesus, he was turning into a first class romantic fool.  He felt a moment's commiseration for all the women who had ever looked at him that way, wanting more from him than he would ever be willing to give them.  He wondered what they'd say if they knew he'd finally be returning that look, to his very male, icy cool, deadly Russian partner.  They'd probably laugh themselves sick and tell him it served him right.

 

Illya started to cough, as one of his out breaths conflicted with an in breath of the ventilator.  Napoleon forced himself to stay calm and pushed the call button.  This had happened before, and each time the nurse had come in and after some consultation with the physician, a respiratory therapist had appeared to adjust down the ventilator. 

 

This time was no different.  Napoleon was banished to the corner again, and a few minutes later, the ventilator was adjusted to just give him two breaths a minute; Illya was doing the rest.  Actually Illya was breathing plenty for himself, they just wanted him to wake up before they took the tube out.  When the room was once again quiet, Napoleon inched back to the bedside.  Making sure no one was hovering outside, he laced his fingers through Illya's. 

 

He glanced at his watch: four in the morning.  Napoleon yawned, suddenly exhausted.  Never letting go of Illya's hand, he folded his other arm on the mattress and rested his forehead on it.  Just planning to close his eyes for a second, he fell fast asleep.

 

Something woke him up.  Napoleon tried to figure out what it was.  Then he tried to figure out where he was.  It took a few seconds but then the memories rushed clearly and painfully back.  Mission, locusts, bomb, gunshots, hospital, Illya.  Then he remembered what had woken him up.  Fingers twitching.  He sat up, and looked down at Illya's hand, his fingers still entwined with Napoleon's.  There, they moved again.  He called to his friend.  "Illya?"

 

The coughing started again, except this time Illya's eyes popped open, glaringly unhappy.  Napoleon pressed the call button, as he tried to calm his friend.  "Relax, moy droog.  That's a breathing tube down your throat. The more you fight it, the worse you'll feel."  He pulled his hand free and ran it down the length of Illya's arm, trying to comfort him. 

 

Napoleon winced as Illya just kept coughing.  He let out a sigh of relief, pulling his chair out of the way, when both nurse and an older man came in.  Napoleon assumed the man was the physician who had been giving orders from an unseen location for the last few hours.  He liked the way the man looked.  Kind, wise, experienced.  Napoleon hoped that appearances weren't deceiving.  The doctor saw that Illya's eyes were open.  "Ah, you're awake.  Let's get that tube out, shall we?"

 

Illya's frustrated eyes gave tacit permission.

 

The nurse removed the tape holding the tube in place.  When she was done, the doctor moved to Illya's side and taking a syringe he deflated the inner cuff.  He took a hold of the tube.  "Now, give me a big cough."

 

Illya hadn't stopped coughing, but he tried to oblige by coughing more.  The doctor waited for the next exhalation and slid the tube out, which only made Illya cough harder.  Napoleon could see the pain in his partner's eyes and the hand that gravitated up toward his chest, as if to somehow stop the movement the cough generated.  The nurse started coaching Illya on taking slow deep breaths.  Napoleon noticed Illya's eyes darting around the room, and he knew the Russian was looking for him.  He moved to the end of the bed and put his hands on Illya's feet, rubbing softly.

 

Illya's eyes latched on Napoleon, and Napoleon was pleased to see the calming effect his presence had.  His partner's eyes lost that wild look, and he started doing his best to obey the instructions of the nurse.  He drew in several long breaths, with only a last few token coughs, and then seemed to collapse back on the bed.

 

Napoleon felt a flash of fear, but then realized that neither the doctor nor the nurse seemed the least bit concerned.  Napoleon just continued to gently rub Illya's feet.  He glanced up at Illya and saw that his partner had a small smile on his face.  It also looked as if he'd fallen back asleep.  Napoleon yawned.  He could do with some serious shuteye himself. 

 

The doctor nodded, seemingly pleased with whatever he was seeing.  He spoke softly to the nurse.  "Vital signs q thirty for the next 2 hours."

 

"Yes, Doctor."

 

The physician seemed to notice Napoleon for the first time, and he pursed his lips, scrutinizing him.  "I understand we've been breaking a few rules for you?"

 

Napoleon nodded.  He didn't want to say the wrong thing and make them decide to stop breaking rules. 

 

"Molly here tells me you act like you've done the bedside vigil before.  That true?"

 

Napoleon's eyes flickered to Illya, and he nodded again.  "Too often," he answered. 

   

"You two are in some sort of law enforcement, right?"

 

"Yes, sir."  Napoleon didn't volunteer any additional information.  He followed the doctor's eyes and saw he was looking at the lab coat Napoleon was still wearing, proclaiming he was Dr. Welch, Dept. of Thoracic Surgery.  "They gave it to me down in the Operating Room."  He hoped that was sufficient, he didn't want to have to explain about his gun.

 

Another few moments of scrutiny.  "Well, he'll be just fine.  He just needs a few days to recuperate."

 

Napoleon gave the doctor a grateful smile, relieved beyond measure that this was so.  "Thank you."  He included the nurse with his smile.  "Both of you, all of you.  It's clear he's been in good hands."

 

"Just doing our job, son.  Just like you do yours."

 

Napoleon felt a spark of kinship with the man, coupled with a surprising sting of tears.  Exhaustion was creeping through his bones, and he fought back a yawn.  The doctor took him by the arm and had him out of the room before Napoleon could put up any sort of resistance.

 

"You're dead on your feet, young man.  He'll be fine while you get a bit of sleep.  I'll leave instructions to come get you when your partner wakes up again."  The doctor stopped at a room labeled, very appropriately Napoleon thought, Sleep Room.  The door was opened for him and he was ushered within.  "Just pick a bunk."

 

Napoleon was too tired to argue, and the thought of lying horizontal, even for a short time was irresistible.  He flashed the doctor another grateful smile and just claimed the closest one, lying down.  "Make sure they come and get me.  For anything."

 

"Just get some sleep."

 

Napoleon was asleep before the door closed again. 

 

 

*****

A bad dream woke him up.  He lay on the small bed, trying to get his bearings, while his heart raced in his chest.  The particulars of the dream faded from memory and he was glad to let it go.  He swung his legs down and sat on the edge of the bed, feeling like death warmed over.  His body was stiff, his mouth tasted like old socks, his gun had left a permanent indentation in his side from the way he had been lying, his bladder was about to burst, and he would have sold his soul for a cup of coffee.

 

First things first.  He rose, and poking his nose through a door that was slightly ajar, was relieved to find it was a bathroom.  Taking care of nature's call, he noticed a basket of toiletry items that were clearly there for the doctors' use.  Retying his scrub pants, he selected a few items.  He brushed his teeth, had a quick shave, combed his hair, and almost felt human.  Time to go see Illya, and then time to get that cup of coffee. 

 

He glanced up at the clock on the wall.  Eight thirty.  He'd slept for a little over four hours; that would hold him for the day.  He glanced down and brushed ineffectually at the now hopelessly wrinkled lab coat.  Napoleon sincerely hoped he didn't run into Dr. Welch.  He considered switching it over for one of the lab coats hanging in the sleep room, but decided against it. 

 

He left the room and blinked at the hustle and bustle of the ICU on day shift.  It was a far different environment than the one he'd just spent his nighttime hours in. 

 

A nurse slowed down as she walked by him.  "Can I help you, Doctor?"

 

Napoleon just went with it.  "Illya Kuryakin?"

 

She pointed.  "Room 11."

 

Napoleon nodded, and moved in that direction.  Once he got closer, it all began to look familiar and he moved confidently toward his partner's room.  Seeing a man at Illya's bedside, Napoleon assumed it was the doctor, and kept moving, hoping to ask the doctor a few questions.  Then he realized that the man was too young.  He frowned.  Maybe it was the agent from last night.  Napoleon thought for a second, trying to recall his name.  Ah, Mike.  How could he have forgotten that?

 

He was almost at the door when he saw that whoever it was, he was holding Illya's hand.  That stopped him in his tracks and he took a good hard look at the man.  It was Mike--the other Mike.  The bug guy Mike.  The competition.

 

Napoleon had to force himself to stay still, to not go and rip Mike away from Illya's side.  He glanced at his partner; it looked like he was still asleep.  Mike was talking and Napoleon quietly moved a little closer so he could hear his words.

 

"Hey, Illya.  You in there?  Open up those baby blues for me."

 

Napoleon thought that if Illya did open those baby blues and smiled at Mike that his heart would break.  He took another step closer, but then heard Illya grumble something.

 

Mike spoke again.  "I didn't hear you.  What did you say?  Come on, wake up.  The nurse said you needed to wake up."

 

Illya said it again.  "Nyet, nyet.  Idite atsyuda."

 

Napoleon grinned.  No, no, go away.  God, how he loved his grumpy Russian.  No smiles for Mike. 

 

Then Illya did open his eyes.  He blinked a couple of times and looked up at Mike.  Napoleon held his breath.  Please don't smile, please don't smile.  Illya frowned.  Napoleon's heart leapt.  "Gyde Napoleon?"

 

He stepped forward.  "I'm right here, Illya."  Illya's eyes moved to the voice and the blue eyes swept over Napoleon.  He answered the unspoken question.  "I'm fine.  You're the one that got hurt."

 

Illya glanced down at his body and back at his partner.  Again Napoleon answered.  "You'll be fine."

 

Illya nodded.  "Ya zamyors."  Napoleon frowned.  If Illya was still speaking Russian, even when Napoleon was speaking English, he had to be hurting. 

 

"I'll go get you a blanket."  And a nurse with some pain medicine. 

 

Illya nodded again and closed his eyes.

 

Napoleon came back in a minute, a blanket over his arm.  "Here you go.  Straight from the blanket warmer to you."  He began to lay it over his partner, giving Mike a pointed look, gesturing at the clasped hand.  "He said he's cold.  I need to get him covered."

 

Mike let go of Illya's hand.  Napoleon cheerfully tucked him in securely, hiding all extremities safely away and out of touch. 

 

Illya let out a sigh, clearly enjoying the warmth.  Then his brows furrowed.  "Katory chas?"

 

Napoleon looked at his watch.  "8:45 in the morning."  When the eyebrows stayed furrowed, he continued orienting his friend.  "It's Thursday morning.  We're still in Iowa.  Mission successfully completed, the fire was contained with minimal crop damage."  Napoleon mentally reviewed, trying to think if there were anything else Illya would want to know. 

 

The nurse came in, brandishing a syringe.  Illya glowered at Napoleon but Napoleon just gave him an innocent look.  As the medicine was administered through the IV, Napoleon watched in silence while he formulated a new game plan.  Everything had changed now that Mike was here.  He moved to Illya's side.  "Hey, partner.  Will you be all right if I leave you with Mike for a while?  I need to run a few errands." 

 

Illya glanced at Mike and nodded.  He was already getting sleepy.  He muttered one last thing as the medication pulled him under.  "Bal'nitse mne ne nravitsa."

 

Napoleon barked out a laugh and the last of his tension for his partner's well-being melted away.  If one day after being shot twice, while under the influence of pain medication, he could still complain about being in the hospital, he was going to be just fine.

 

The nurse made a few adjustments, and then left the room.  Napoleon glanced at Mike.  "What brings you to Iowa?"

 

Mike gestured at Illya.  "I was worried.  Mr. Waverly told me he'd been hurt, and where he was--so here I am."

 

Napoleon gave him a tight smile and nodded.

 

"Is that Russian he's speaking?"

 

"Yes."

 

"Why?  Why is he speaking Russian?"  Mike had clearly been feeling left out.

 

Napoleon didn't want to talk about Illya, giving away intimate information that he alone was privy to, but if he was going to leave Mike here with Illya for a while, he needed to know so he could keep Illya pain free.  "He tends to lapse into Russian when he's tired or hurting.  It's why I went to get the nurse."  He gave Mike a warning glance.  "Keep it in mind." 

 

Mike nodded.  "What did he just say?  Before he fell asleep."

 

Napoleon couldn't resist a juvenile response.  "Oh, nothing I didn't know already."

 

Mike's eyes narrowed, and he switched subjects, going on the attack.  "What happened?  I thought you were supposed to watch his back."

 

Napoleon almost hit him.  He clenched his jaw to keep from speaking.  No matter what he said, it wasn't going to satisfy Mike, and it was none of his goddamn business anyway.  Besides, Napoleon already felt bad enough about Illya getting hurt without needing any assistance from some guy who fully expected to go out on a date with Illya as soon as Illya was well enough to go out.  Napoleon almost hit him again. 

 

Only the fact that Illya might feel the need to comfort Mike if he was injured kept Napoleon from giving in to the temptation.  He forced his jaw to unclench.  "I'll be back."  With that, he spun around and walked out the door.

 

He was still fuming when he hit the front door.  Realizing he had no transportation, nor, in fact, any idea where to go, he walked back in and asked the woman at the registration desk to call him a taxi.  It took fifteen minutes to arrive and he paced nonstop around the front circle until it showed up.  The only thing that kept him from going back upstairs was the fact that Illya was now nicely sedated, and wouldn't be giving Mike any smiles.  With a little luck, Napoleon would be back before he woke up again.  Then, let the games begin.

 

It had to be subtle.  That much Napoleon knew.  If Illya saw Napoleon actively competing with Mike, it would be all over.  He needed, even if it killed him, to be pleasant to Mike.  He needed to not act jealous, and that included not inflicting bodily harm.  But, it rankled.  Badly.  Mike was probably holding Illya's hand again, or gently rubbing his forehead.  Mike in his snappy outfit, looking unquestionably gorgeous, while Napoleon was the antithesis of sartorial splendor in his wrinkled scrubs and lab coat.  How could he compete at all, let alone subtly, looking like this?

 

Napoleon knew Illya could care less, but compared to Mike, Napoleon felt his current appearance put him at a severe disadvantage, and he didn't like feeling that way.  After all, one's mental attitude was half the battle.  And that meant he had to look good.

 

The taxi driver drove up and Napoleon got into the back seat.  "I need a good men's shop."

 

The driver took in Napoleon's outfit, and the dark expression on his face, and wisely kept his smart-ass comments to himself.  As soon as Napoleon was seated, the cab lurched to a fast start and it didn't seem to slow down until it was pulling into a parking lot.  As he got out of the cab Napoleon realized he had no money, no ID, and he was wearing a coat that said he was Dr. Welch, which made it unlikely anyone would believe that he was who he said he was, and he couldn't take it off because of his gun.  He was starting to hate Dr. Welch.

 

He thought for a minute.  What he did have was his communicator.  He asked the cab driver to wait.  The driver shrugged, put the cab in park, and picked up his newspaper from the passenger seat, the meter noisily and expensively keeping track of the passing time.

 

Napoleon moved an acceptable distance away for privacy and opened his communicator.  He was connected immediately to the local office.  "This is Napoleon Solo.  I need to speak to the agent who assisted us last night.  His name is Mike."

 

It took a few minutes but he was tracked down.  "Agent Stoddard here."

 

"Mike, it's Napoleon."

 

The voice conveyed its pleasure.  "Napoleon, what can I do for you?"

 

"Well, I'm in a bit of a bind.  I'm at--" He glanced behind him at the store, "--a store called Roderick's to pick up some clothes to wear, but I find myself sans wallet.  A situation the taxi driver won't be too happy about, either.  I know it's presumptuous, but can you spot me a loan?"  Napoleon knew he'd get reimbursed for the new outfit, but he couldn't exactly tap the Iowa office.

 

There was a short laugh.  "You're in luck.  I just got paid.  I'll be right there."

 

"I'm not taking you away from anything important, am I?"

 

"No, I was just writing up the report for last night.  Any excuse putting it off works for me.  This is just a particularly welcome excuse."

 

Napoleon didn't want to set up any false expectations.  "Mike--"

 

It must have come across loud and clear.  There was a moment's hesitation, and then, "Don't worry, Napoleon.  This is just one agent helping out another."

 

"Well, this agent appreciates it."

 

"I'll be there in about ten minutes."

 

Napoleon signed off and, putting the communicator back in the breast pocket of the lab coat, he entered the store.  By the time Mike arrived, and settled with the taxi driver, Napoleon had made his selections.  All that remained was to try them on.  He went into the dressing room, gratefully took off the hated lab coat, slipped out of the scrubs, and got redressed, from new briefs outwards to a new suit.  Taking the jacket back off, he slipped on his holster, and then shrugged back into it.  Looking at himself with some satisfaction, he grinned.  Now it was a level playing field. 

 

He walked out of the dressing room, all the empty packages still in his hand so the clothing could get rung up.  He posed for Mike.  "How do I look?"  A part of him preened at the admiration in Mike's eyes. 

 

"Like the Napoleon Solo I've heard so much about."


Good answer.  Napoleon looked in the tri-sectioned mirror.  He felt like Napoleon Solo.  He remembered Mike's words late last night, or actually, early this morning.  Solo and Kuryakin.  Soon, he promised himself.  He held out his arms so the salesman could clip off price tags.  Mike stepped forward to pay, and then he handed the receipt to Napoleon.  After inquiring, Napoleon wrote down the cost of the taxi.  "I'll send this off as soon as I get home," he promised.  His purchases went in one bag, and the scrubs and lab coat went into another to be returned.

 

Mike held the door for him.  "You got time for coffee?  Oh, how's your partner, by the way?  I assume he's fine or I can't imagine you'd have left."

 

"He's fine.  Still a bit sore, but he's already starting to complain so that's a good sign.  And yes, I have time for coffee.  In fact, I'm starved, so if you know a good breakfast place, I'm buying."  He grinned.  "First I'm borrowing, then I'm buying."

 

Mike laughed.  "I know just the place." 

 

Napoleon followed him to his car, and after getting his packages settled in the back, slid into the passenger seat.  A few minutes of silence passed as Mike started up the car and began driving.  Napoleon hoped Illya was still asleep.  He hoped that Mike had hopped on a plane and gone home.  His lips tightened at the man's temerity.  Who asked him to fly all this way?  He hoped Illya didn't appreciate it.  Illya didn't like to be smothered.  Maybe he'd think that Mike was smothering him. 

 

Napoleon sighed.

 

"You need to talk about it?"

 

Napoleon did need to talk about it, but it didn't seem fair to talk about it to Mike.  He shook his head.

 

Mike seemed willing to let it drop.  He pulled into a lot and parked in front of a small diner.  As Napoleon stepped out of the car he could smell bacon frying.  It made his stomach growl and his mouth water.  He grinned at Mike.  "Just what the doctor ordered."

 

Mike held the door for him again.  Napoleon's eyes widened when he felt the man's hand at the small of his back, steering him toward a booth.  He wasn't sure how that made him feel.  It was something he did whenever he was out with a woman.  Napoleon tried to figure out what it meant when he did it.  It was a courtesy.  No, it was a bit more than that.  It was a way of saying, this one is with me, and I'll take care of whatever she needs.  He barely noticed sliding into the booth. 

 

He imagined doing that to Illya.  Steering him toward their table with a soft touch.  He grinned to himself.  Illya would deck him.  He imagined Illya doing that to him.  Walking into Mama Rose's, Illya behind him, gently directing him with a hand on the small of his back.  Napoleon sort of liked that idea.  Not that Illya would ever do it.  Illya would never make any sort of public display of affection, and certainly not with another man.  Too risky.

 

But maybe he did.  Maybe when Illya went out with a man, he did do those sorts of things.  How would Napoleon know?  Maybe he held doors for his dates, and gently steered them, and took their coats, and pulled out their chairs.  Napoleon's mind was filled with pictures of Illya being publicly affectionate with other men, most of them wearing Mike's face.  The other Mike.  That reminded him that he was with somebody.  He glanced up to find Mike watching him.  He looked down at the table and realized that someone had poured them coffee and given them menus and he hadn't even noticed.  He gave Mike a wan smile.

 

Mike shook his head.  "Where were you?"

 

Napoleon gestured at his head.  "Somewhere confusing."

 

"I'll ask again.  Do you want to talk about it?"

 

Napoleon hesitated, but then shook his head.  "No, but thanks."

 

The waitress showed up and took their order.  Napoleon just went with the special.  It reminded him of Illya.  Illya always ordered the special.  His mind went back to his previous train of thought.  If Illya took him out on a date, and did those things, would that make Napoleon the woman in the relationship?  Is that how it worked?  Would he start adopting new behaviors and start acting like the mincing fags that hung out with the other prostitutes down in the red light district?  He started to panic.  What the hell was he doing? 

 

Napoleon dropped his face into his hands and let out a noise of frustration.  Maybe Illya was right, maybe this was just a stage.  Maybe this would all blow over, and he could still be happy screwing women, and stop having all these disturbing thoughts, and things could get back to normal.  And Illya could just carry on his discreet sneaking around with men.  With Mike.  Napoleon's jaw clenched again.  Over his dead body.

 

Someone tapped him on his arm.  Napoleon dropped his hand and looked at Mike.  "Sorry.  I guess I'm not exactly the best company right now."

 

"If I outranked you I'd make it an order."

 

"What?"

 

"That you tell me what's bothering you."

 

Napoleon decided he couldn't afford not to talk about it.  He'd never have another opportunity like this.  He leaned forward in his seat, and spoke softly.  "Have you always--?"  He couldn't finish the question.  Napoleon sat back, already defeated.

 

But Mike nodded.  "Yes."

 

Napoleon leaned forward again.  "How did--?"

 

He shrugged.  "It took me a while, but I figured it out."

 

Napoleon hoped they were both having the same conversation.  "How?"

 

Mike got it somehow, even with so few words.  His eyes widened.  "You mean, you aren't--?"

 

Napoleon shook his head.  "What made you think I was?"  There was a brief pause as plates were laid down in front of them.  Napoleon reached for the saltshaker, waiting for Mike's response.  Mike was looking decidedly nervous.  Napoleon put his mind to rest.  "Don't worry.  It didn't bother me."  He added some pepper to his eggs as well.  "But why did you?"

 

Mike pointed at Napoleon's eyes.  "I looked.  You noticed.  Men who aren't--well, they don't usually notice.  It just doesn't compute."

 

Napoleon ate a mouthful of eggs and potatoes, thinking.  "So what made you figure it out?"

 

Mike grinned.  "I found myself looking at men a whole bunch more than at women."  He shrugged.  "I experimented.  I found out that I liked it.  A lot.  Much better than the alternative."

 

Napoleon slapped his hand on the table.  "But see, I like the alternative.  A lot.  I always have."

 

"So what's the problem?  If you like it, just keep doing it."

 

Napoleon scowled and sat back in his seat.  He ran a hand over his face, digging deep within to find the courage to ask the question he wanted to ask.  He just blurted it out.  "How does it work?  Is one always in charge, and one always--not?"

 

"Are you just curious?"

 

Napoleon wasn't sure how to answer that. 

 

Mike went ahead and answered the question.  "It's totally dependent on who the two are.  Sometimes that's the way things work out, one being in charge; and sometimes it's a completely equal relationship.  It's whatever works with you and your partner."

 

Napoleon's jaw dropped.  "Me and my partner?"  How did this guy know?

 

Mike's eyes grew wide.  "Jesus, is that what this is about?"  He leaned forward.  "I meant you and the person you're in a relationship with, not you and your partner."  He emphasized the word partner, clearly meaning Napoleon's work partner.  He shook his head in amazement.  "You and Illya?"

 

Napoleon scowled.  "No--yes--no."

 

Mike snorted.  "You've got me convinced."

 

Napoleon suddenly found himself babbling.  "Illya thinks it's a stage I'm going through.  He thinks this isn't real, that I couldn't possibly--you know."  Napoleon could feel his face blushing.  Napoleon was appalled; he never blushed.  But he couldn't stop talking, the floodgates were open wide with no hope of ever calling the water back.  "I just found out about him, and I saw him with someone, or rather I saw someone put the moves on him, and I didn't like it.  At all.  He thinks I just think I own him, and that I don't want to share him with anyone.  He thinks that it's all about winning, and that it has nothing to do with me actually wanting--that."

 

Napoleon covered his face with his hands again.  "Listen to me.  I sound like an idiot."  He was exceedingly glad that the diner was mostly empty and no one was around them.  He'd been eighteen years old when he'd last been this undone over an affaire de coeur.  It was humiliating.

 

Mike smiled, shaking his head.  "No, you sound human.  And I find that very comforting, that the great Napoleon Solo is simply human.  It gives me hope that some day I might be as good as you."

 

Napoleon gave him a grateful smile.  He ate some more of his breakfast.

 

Mike considered him.  "So, is he right?"

 

Napoleon blew out a breath.  "I don't know.  It sure doesn't feel like a stage.  But how do you know for sure?"

 

"You experiment, like I did."

 

"I don't want to experiment on him.  He's too important."  Napoleon saw the light in Mike's eyes.  "And no, that wasn't an invitation.  I'm not looking.  I don't look at men that way.  Except him."

 

Mike took a sip of his coffee.  "So, let me see if I've got this straight.  You're crazy about your partner, and he thinks it's a phase you're going through.  You don't think it is, but you don't want to hurt him.  And you're also afraid that if you follow through with this that you're going to start redecorating your apartment and buying cookbooks."

 

Napoleon frowned.  "What's wrong with redecorating your apartment and buying cookbooks?"  Napoleon had a cabinet full of cookbooks, and liked to redecorate his apartment.

 

Mike grinned.  "I'll try again.  You're afraid you're going to start spouting poetry, and spend time looking in a mirror worrying about how you look."

 

Napoleon frowned again, trying to decide whether or not to be offended.  "What's wrong with poetry, or worrying about how you look?"

 

"So, what then?  Are you afraid you'll start wearing women's clothing?"

 

Napoleon stared at him aghast.  "Will I?"

 

Mike started laughing.  "Jesus, Napoleon.  Listen to yourself.  You need to get a grip.  You've known your partner for a while now.  Does he seem effeminate to you?"

 

"Hell, no."

 

"Do I?"

 

Napoleon shook his head.  "Not in the slightest."

 

"So, what are you afraid of?  This isn't about your masculinity.  This is simply about love and attraction.  You'll still be exactly who you are, a man.  That won't change.  Granted it's a bit more extreme, but in some way it's no different than liking redheads more than blondes, or shorter women instead of taller women.  Just because you choose to love another man, doesn't mean you're going to become a flaming queer with limp wrists, and a high pitched voice."

 

Napoleon covered his face with his hands again and groaned.

 

Mike kept talking.  "Listen, look at it this way.  You said you're still attracted to women, right?"

 

Napoleon nodded.

 

"So, it's not like you've suddenly become a homosexual.  Think of it as adding to your sexual repertoire.  You'll be sexually diverse, sexually sophisticated.  You'll have the luxury of making a choice from a broader palette.  You can mock those men and women who only live within narrowly defined sexual roles."  His voice deepened, as he swept his hand across the table, painting a picture for Napoleon.  "Napoleon Solo, sexual maverick.  Sexual adventurer." 

 

Napoleon let out a loud laugh.  "You missed your calling.  You should have gone into advertising."

 

"After I've been shot at a few more times, maybe I'll give it a try."

 

Napoleon gave him a tight smile.

 

Mike swore.  "Sorry, Napoleon.  Bad choice of words."

 

"It's all right."

 

"Do you love him?"

 

Napoleon nodded.  "Yes."

 

"Do you want him?"

 

"Yes."

 

"Does he love you?"

 

"I don't know."

 

"Does he want you?"

 

"I don't know that either."  Napoleon paused.  "He's here."

 

"Who's here?"

 

"The guy who was putting the moves on Illya.  He's here.  He showed up this morning.  I found him in Illya's room." 

 

Mike's eyebrows rose.  "And you left them together?"

 

"After I had Illya nicely sedated with pain medication."

 

"You are an evil man, Napoleon Solo.  Remind me not to get on your bad side."  Mike kept probing.  "Do you think he loves you?"

 

"As a friend, yes.  As more?  I really don't know.  I know I matter to him more than anyone.  But that could just be because he hasn't met the right person yet."

 

"Have you guys--done anything?"

 

Napoleon could feel the blush heating his face again.  "Damn, I feel like a teenager having a locker room conversation."

 

Mike persisted.  "Have you?"

 

"We--kissed."

 

"Was it good?"

 

Napoleon felt like fanning himself, and not just because he was blushing.  The thought of that kiss made him hot.

 

It must have been on his face.  Mike grinned.  "I'll take that as a yes."  There was a delicate pause.  "Did it seem like he was liking it?" 

 

Napoleon drank some ice water.  "He told me he was going to go out with this guy."

 

"After you kissed?"

 

"No, before.  After the kiss he stormed out of the motel room."

 

"Why?"

 

"Because I said something stupid that made him think all that stuff I said before, that I was just engaged in a competition.  That it had nothing to do with real desire."  He gave Mike a wry grin.  "I guess it is a bit out of character for me.  All he's ever seen me do is chase the ladies."

 

"It seems to me that this is a big risk for him to take, to suddenly believe that you've changed your spots, so to speak.  I would imagine he'd want to be fairly cautious about something like that especially if your friendship is important to him.  That old adage is true, you know, that nothing screws a friendship up faster than sex."

 

"So how do I convince him?"

 

Mike thought about it for a minute.  "First you need to be sure about how you feel."

 

"All I know is that the thought of him with another man makes me crazy. I want him to be with me."

 

"How about him and a woman?"

 

The idea of that hadn't bothered Napoleon before.  Or maybe it had.  He thought about how many times he'd done his best to get in between Illya and any woman he seemed interested in.  He pictured Illya with a woman, kissing her, sliding into her.  He scowled.  "I don't like that idea either."

 

Napoleon fidgeted as Mike stared at him for a while.  Then Mike nodded.  "Okay.  Next, we need to find out how he feels."

 

"We?"

 

"We.  We go to his room, and I pay some attention to you, and we see what he does.  If he doesn't seem to care, you go back to the ladies and you leave him alone.  If he doesn't like it, then you're half way home."  He grinned.  "Or if he doesn't seem to care, you're welcome to experiment on me."

 

A slow smile formed on Napoleon's face.  "You wouldn't mind doing that?"  He clarified quickly.  "Making him jealous, I mean, not the experimenting."

 

Mike let out a mock sigh of distress.  Then he laughed.  "Are you kidding?  Think what a great story this will make at the water cooler."

 

Napoleon dropped his fork.  "You wouldn't."

 

Mike really started to laugh.  "I wish you could see your face."  He called for the check.  "Come on, Romeo.  Let's go get you your Juliet."

 

"Can we come up with a story line that doesn't end with two funerals?"

 

"How about Benedick and sweet Beatrice?"

 

"That's better."  Napoleon took a look at the bill, as Mike laid down some money, so he could add it to the amount of money he planned to send Mike.  They both stood and headed for the door and this time Napoleon held the door for Mike.  He suddenly glared at the other agent.  "Which one of us is sweet Beatrice?"

 

Mike just laughed, and unlocked the car.

 

 

*****

The hospital was in sight when Napoleon snapped his fingers.  "I should have picked up some clothing for Illya.  Damn it."

 

"I don't imagine he'll be going home for a couple of days.  You have time to get back to the store."

 

"He has some clothes at the motel.  For that matter, I have some clothing.  And my wallet.  I probably should have just gone there."  He opened the glove compartment and fished around for a map of the area.  He ended up with a handful of them.  He flipped through them, and chose the one of the entire state.  "I figured out all by myself that we're now in Cedar Rapids."

 

Mike grinned.  "I want to be just like you when I grow up."

 

"Very funny."  Napoleon struggled to get the map open, the creases proving recalcitrant.  The factory had been just outside of Dyersville, and the motel they'd been staying at was on the edge of town.  He located it on the map, and talked while he looked for the legend.  "I left a rental car there about a mile from the factory.  Hopefully it didn't get charbroiled."  He measured the distance with his fingers.  "Looks like we're about sixty miles from there.  Sound about right?"

 

"Yup.  Sounds about right.  I can have someone run out there and pick up your belongings, and make sure the car is returned."

 

"That would be great.  The keys to the car are under the driver's side seat.  I have no idea where the motel key is.  But we were in room 16 at the Best Western."

 

"I'll call it in.  Someone ought to be able to run out there today or tomorrow at the latest."  He glanced at Napoleon.  "Where are you planning on staying in the meantime?  You can't just park yourself in Illya's room."

 

"I've done it before."

 

"But you don't need to now.  And don't worry, I'm not trying to get you into my bed."  They pulled into the hospital parking lot.  "There's a hotel right there."  Mike pointed across the street.  "All their rooms are suites with kitchens and living areas.  Then at least you can take showers, get a bite to eat, have a few minutes privacy, and catch a catnap every now and then."

 

Napoleon nodded.  "Good idea."  He grinned at Mike.  "Thanks.  And thanks for not suggesting I bunk with you."

 

"I wouldn't dream of it, not unless Illya gives you the heave ho.  With all the rumors I've heard about him, I definitely don't want to get on his wrong side."

 

Napoleon snickered.  "No, Illya's not a very good enemy to have."  He felt a moment of pride in his partner's ferocity.  Then he snickered again.  Effeminate.  Jesus.

 

They both got out of the car, and headed toward the hospital entrance.  Mike flashed his UNCLE badge and they were admitted into the ICU.  They got to the door to Illya's room, and saw that Mike was seated at the side of the bed, the two men quietly talking.  Neither of them noticed Napoleon and his fellow agent standing in the doorway.

 

Napoleon took in the scene.  Illya looked tired.  In fact, his eyes were staying closed most of the time.  Napoleon checked for hands.  It looked as if Illya's hands were still safely tucked away under the blankets.  Good.  He was suddenly turned to face his partner in crime.  Said partner in crime spoke, saying, "You ready?"

 

Napoleon nodded.  There were butterflies in his stomach.  If Illya acted like he couldn't care less, he didn't know what he was going to do.  And it would be just like Illya to act that way even if he did care.  He wasn't one for letting his feelings just hang out there in the breeze.  Suddenly this seemed like a really stupid idea.  "I don't think--"

 

He didn't finish.  Mike raised his eyebrows.  "Man, you didn't tell me he was gorgeous."

 

Napoleon frowned.  "Hey, hands off, buddy, he's mine."

 

"I'm not talking about the guy in the bed, I'm talking about the other one."

 

A sour look appeared on Napoleon's face.  "Oh, Mike."

 

The agent snickered.  "Mike?  No wonder you laughed when I told you my name."

 

Napoleon grinned.  "The situation was certainly developing all the ingredients for a Shakespearean farce."

 

Mike lifted his hands and adjusted the lapels on Napoleon's suit.  "Well, now I understand the need for the fancy duds."

 

"I'll have you know I always wear fancy duds."

 

"Don't worry, Napoleon, you're gorgeous, too."  Mike grinned.  "In fact, I'm beginning to think that I'm definitely living in the wrong state."

 

"Feel free to transfer to the New York office.  It would be nice to have a friendly face around."  He scowled, still whispering, wanting a second opinion.  "Does Illya look like he's glad to be with that guy?"

 

"I think Illya has just noticed us, so that means it's show time."  Mike took his time adjusting the knot in Napoleon's tie, and then smoothed out the fabric, tucking it familiarly inside Napoleon's suit jacket.  "Come hither, sweet Beatrice, let us use trickery to win you your Benedick."

 

Napoleon growled.  "Don't make me kill you."

 

Mike laughed and, tugging at Napoleon's arm, he dragged him into the room.  Once inside, Napoleon moved directly to Illya's bedside.  He smiled softly at his friend.  "Hey, partner.  How are you doing?"

 

Illya was frowning.  "Where were you?"  He glanced at the man by Napoleon's side.

 

Napoleon put his hand on Mike's arm.  "Illya, this is Mike Stoddard.  He's one of the UNCLE agents who helped us out last night."  He gestured toward Illya.  "Mike, this is Illya Kuryakin, my partner."

 

"Hey, Illya."

 

Illya grunted.

 

Used to Illya's monosyllabic approach to communication, Napoleon carried on.  He gestured at the man on Illya's other side.  "And this is Mike Donfield.  He was giving us a hand in New York with research for this case."

 

The two Mikes shook hands. 

 

Napoleon looked back at Illya.  "Are you hurting?" 

 

Illya was still back at square one.  "Where were you?"

 

Mike answered that one.  "He was with me."  He plucked at the sleeve of Napoleon's suit.  "He needed something to wear other than surgical scrubs and a lab coat."  He turned Napoleon in his direction, ran his hands across Napoleon's shoulders and down his arms.  "I think he looks great."  He glanced at Illya.  "What do you think?  Do you approve?"

 

Napoleon turned back to Illya, bracing himself.  He expected to see nothing, or maybe a look of disdain, or a mocking leer.  What he didn't expect to see was a bone deep hurt.  It speared him right through his heart.  He was almost relieved when Illya shut his eyes.  Napoleon lifted startled eyes to the agent at his side to find an apology there.  Obviously Mike had seen the look in Illya's eyes as well.

 

Mike shifted away from Napoleon's side and spoke to the other man across the bed.  "Hey, Mike.  Can I talk to you out in the hall for a minute?"

 

Napoleon watched as Mike Donfield took them all in, clearly recognizing that something was amiss.  He shrugged.  "Sure."  He followed Mike out the door.  It was firmly shut behind them.

 

Napoleon blew out a nervous breath and stared down at his partner, not quite sure how to make amends, not even sure what Illya was feeling, only knowing that the plan had misfired.  He went for a light touch.  "Finally, alone at last."

 

Illya's eyes opened.  The hurt was still there.  Illya was shielding as much as he could, but either because of the sedation, or the lingering pain, or the emotional remnants of the last two days, Illya couldn't hide it, not from Napoleon.  Napoleon wanted to crawl into the bed, take Illya in his arms and hold him until the hurt went away.  Illya turned his head away.  "More games, Napoleon?"

 

The voice was exhausted, on so many levels.  Napoleon felt his heart clench in response.  He dropped all pretenses.  "I'm sorry, Illya.  I just--I guess I don't know how to do this very well."

 

Illya turned his head back to face his partner's.  "Do what?  Manipulate people?  You do that better than almost anyone I know."

 

Napoleon winced and shook his head.  "I really am sorry, I should have known better.  I didn't really think it through."

 

"What are you talking about?"

 

"I was trying to manipulate you, and I shouldn't have."

 

"What were you trying to prove?  That other men find you attractive?  That I'm a fool for rejecting you?  Or perhaps this is to remind me how fickle you are?"  Illya shut his eyes again, as if the sight of Napoleon was too much to bear.

 

Napoleon wanted to scream with frustration.  "No, no, Illya."  He ran his hands over his face, scrubbing furiously for a second.  Then he dropped his hands, and let one wander to Illya's face to softly touch his cheek with the backs of his fingers.  "No."  He smiled sheepishly.  "I was trying to make you jealous.  I was trying to see if you'd drop some clue as to how you feel about me.  All I want to do is win your heart, and I don't know how."

 

Illya's eyes latched onto Napoleon's, and Napoleon felt himself the subject of serious scrutiny.  The seconds passed, and Napoleon just held still, allowing the invasion, hoping that Illya would find something he wanted.  Something he wanted to keep.

 

Out of the corner of his eye, Napoleon saw movement.  Then a moment later, Illya's hand worked its way out of the blankets.  He reached up with his injured arm, wincing slightly, and wrapped his fingers around the lower rung of the bedrail, trying to sit up.

 

Napoleon reached out with both hands, pushing him back down.  "No, don't do that.  I'll put up the head of the bed if you want me to."

 

"Da."

 

Napoleon found the control and cranked the head of the bed up.  At a gesture from Illya, he stopped.  Illya shifted to adapt to the new position causing a spasm of pain to cross his face.  Napoleon wanted to help but he was afraid he might make it worse by doing the wrong thing.   

 

Illya began to assess his situation.  An IV in his right arm, a chest tube, EKG wires, his left upper arm swathed in bandages, a sizeable bandage wrapping around his right side to his back.  Napoleon watched as he checked under the blankets and made an unhappy face.  Napoleon had already seen the bag attached to the side of the bed collecting urine.  Illya flashed Napoleon another unhappy face.  "I hate hospitals."

 

Napoleon bit back a grin.  "I know you do.  We'll get you out of here as soon as possible.  I promise."

 

"When will that be?"

 

An exasperated look crossed Napoleon's face.  "Illya, you almost died last night.  For real.  If the helicopter had taken just a few minutes longer you would have bled to death in my arms, that's if you'd kept breathing that long with a bullet hole in your lung."  Napoleon could hear a residual of fear in his voice from the memory.

 

Illya reached over carefully with his right hand, not wanting to upset the IV needle and tubing, and took one of Napoleon's hands in his.  He laid it over his heart, his hand pressed on top of it.  "I am alive, Napoleon.  I am very hard to kill."

 

Napoleon felt the reassuring beat of Illya's heart under his hand.  Wordlessly, he shook his head.  Last night had scared him down to his marrow.  "It was too close."

 

"You would not have allowed it to happen."

 

"It was sheer luck.  Sheer luck that my communicator wasn't in that pack we lost.  Sheer luck that you weren't just killed outright by either of those bullets, sheer luck the fire turned when it did."

 

"The infamous Solo luck.  It has kept us both alive before."

 

Napoleon wasn't in the mood to be cajoled.  He just shook his head again.

 

Illya tapped the bedrail with the back of his left hand.  "Put this down."  Then he patted the bed to his left side.  "Sit here."  They were orders, clearly not to be disobeyed.

 

Napoleon complied.  He was just glad that Illya hadn't ordered him from the room.  Not that he would have gone.  He gingerly sat on the bed, facing Illya, his left thigh brushing against his partner's left hip.  Napoleon wanted to grab Illya's hand again but he didn't.  He couldn't remember feeling less sure of himself.  Napoleon glanced at his partner and saw that he wasn't looking so sure of himself either.  Napoleon found that reassuring.

 

They both spoke at the same time.  "Illya."  "Napoleon."

 

Napoleon gestured for Illya to continue.  Illya picked at a fingernail for a moment, the effort seeming to take his complete concentration.  Napoleon was willing to wait him out. 

 

Finally Illya's eyes flickered up to his partner's.  "Did you--did you mean what you said?"

 

Napoleon was sure that he had and answered definitively.  "Yes."  He paused.  "Which part, exactly?"

 

That got a small smile out of Illya.  Then the nervousness returned.  "Last night."  He went back to bothering his nail bed.

 

Napoleon smiled inside.  "Last night?  You mean when I told you that I loved you?"

 

Illya nodded, now picking pieces of fuzz off the blanket.

 

"More than I've ever meant anything."  Napoleon captured the active hand, and held it in both of his.  It felt so good to touch him.  He was suddenly very aware of how his thigh was brushing up against Illya.  Down boy, he encouraged himself, this isn't the time or the place.

 

The blue eyes lifted, filled with confusion.  "Why?"

 

The question momentarily stymied Napoleon.  "Why?"

 

Illya nodded.

 

Napoleon thought for a moment what it had felt like last night, holding Illya, deathly afraid he was dying, envisioning his life without the irascible Russian by his side.  "For where thou art, there is the world itself, and where though art not, desolation."  Napoleon held his breath.  He wasn't sure how Illya would take to having Shakespeare quoted at him.

 

Illya stared at him for a moment, and then he smiled, and if Napoleon hadn't already been in love, he'd have fallen right at that moment.  It was one of Illya's real smiles, one that lit up his whole face.  The one that Napoleon could count on the fingers of one hand as to how often he had seen it since meeting his partner.  A rare smile, indeed, and it was just for him.

 

Without warning, the door opened, and a nurse came bustling in.  Illya withdrew his hand, and the smile came off his face, but it was still there