'Memory is a complicated thing, a relative to truth, but not its twin.' Barbara Kingsolver Afterwards, he'd bless the famous Solo luck that he was the first person on the scene. Illya was confused, that much was obvious from the way he was waving the gun around, a gun he must have taken from one or other of the fallen Thrush workers that littered the room they were standing in. The rest of the assault team who had followed Napoleon into the room knew enough to stay well back and keep under cover, Illya's reputation enough to make them more cautious than they would otherwise have been. At least their caution would reduce the death toll on the UNCLE side of things. It was impossible to tell if Illya had killed any Thrush or whether only the assault team was to blame, but that wouldn't matter much if Napoleon couldn't get through to his partner now. "Put the gun down, Illya." Napoleon kept his own gun lowered but was still cautious of his welcome as he stepped out into Illya's line of sight for the first time. He didn't like the expression on his partner's face, the utter lack of recognition that greeted him. "We're the good guys, remember?" Illya had tensed at his voice, the gun he held now raised and targeting Napoleon with an accuracy he knew all too well. He looked scared, an emotion Napoleon wasn't used to seeing so nakedly on his partner's otherwise-familiar face. If Illya chose to shoot him, of all people, there'd be little chance that either of them would get out of this room alive. "I don't know who you are," Illya said, his voice sounding odd. It took a moment for Napoleon to realize what was different about it. The accent was heavier than he'd ever heard it before; the cultured tones he'd always attributed to Cambridge were missing. "I don't know who they are." The gun moved slightly, muzzle shifting sufficiently to indicate their surroundings and the other agents on the assault team, without losing its aim. Efficient as usual. "You'll need to trust me, then," Napoleon said, hoping he could convince his partner of this. If Illya really didn't know who they were, where he was, then Napoleon would be in for a tough time convincing him to trust anyone. If there was one thing Illya was, it was paranoid to the core if he thought someone was trying to convince him of something that wasn't true. "Otherwise there's no good way for this to end." His gun might have the option of tranquilizing darts, but Illya's didn't and Napoleon found himself really disliking the current odds. Illya appeared to be considering his words - Napoleon found himself holding his breath as he waited for him to come to some conclusion. Fortunately the assault team were seasoned professionals, waiting on his command or for something to happen, which reduced the chances of something unexpected and unfortunate happening a little. "What do you remember, Illya?" he pressed, inching a little closer to Illya as he spoke. The other man watched him but didn't move in response, allowing him to put himself more in harm's way. Napoleon was between Illya and the assault team now and he could almost imagine the looks aimed at his back. "You've been missing for nearly a month." "Leningrad," Illya said after a moment, his tone thoughtful now. "I was in Leningrad, celebrating my promotion to Lieutenant." "Lieutenant?" Napoleon winced a little at the surprise he heard in his own voice and hoped his partner hadn't heard it too. Or at least hadn't misinterpreted it as disbelief or worse. "Illya, that must have been 15 years ago." "Ridiculous," Illya said, his voice hardening. "If you are going to lie to me, then at least make some effort to appear convincing." Napoleon took a chance then; he holstered his gun with one fluid movement and let his hands hang empty by his sides. Illya watched him, still cautious, as he crossed to the nearest bench and sorted quickly through what wasn't broken. "Look," he said, after he found something suitably reflective. "Look at yourself, my friend." He knew the moment that the angle was right, seeing the realization in Illya's face as he saw himself for the first time. As he was now, not a fresh-faced Navy lieutenant but a seasoned UNCLE agent in his mid-thirties. The coveralls he was wearing, though baggy, did little to disguise the muscle he'd put on even in the time they'd known one another - Napoleon was certain there was no way Illya wouldn't notice that change as well. "How is this possible?" "Put the gun down," Napoleon said, suddenly tired of all this negotiation. "And I'll try to make sense of it." He lowered the metal tray, replacing it carefully so the rest of the debris there wouldn't be disturbed. That was a job for clean-up, once they got here, to sort through what was left and try to figure out exactly how Thrush had done whatever it was they'd done to his partner. Illya didn't move for a moment, seemed to be considering the few options he had, before suddenly flipping the gun in his hand. He offered it butt-first, taking a step forward to place it in Napoleon's outstretched hand. "You seem to know me, even though I have no idea who you are," Illya said. "So what choice do I have?" You don't know the half of it, Napoleon thought. -------------- Illya didn't press him for any further information until they were safely outside the building, the rest of the assault team sweeping past them in search of any Thrush stragglers. There was a chopper waiting for them, as Napoleon had expected. He wondered whether Waverly had known just what he was walking into when he'd sent Napoleon to that particular installation. He wouldn't put anything past the old man. "So, this is normal transportation?" Illya asked, as they climbed into the back of the UNCLE helicopter. "Pretty much," Napoleon agreed, gesturing towards the helmets that lay on the seats. "Comfortable?" Illya was fiddling with the strap of the helmet, as he always did, and Napoleon had to practically sit on his own hands to stop himself from interfering. Illya hadn't liked that before and chances were this new version of his partner would think even less of it. Instead, Napoleon leaned forward and tapped the pilot on the shoulder, indicating it was time to leave. "No," Illya said, shortly. "But it will do." He adjusted the microphone a little with a thoughtful expression on his face. "Where are we going?" "To the local office," Napoleon said, aware that the nature of their communication meant the pilot and navigator could both hear every word. "We'll talk more when we get there." He looked meaningfully in the direction of the flight crew, aware that Illya was watching him closely - his partner caught the glance, nodding tersely as if to say he understood the reluctance, even if the slightly defiant glint in his eye said he didn't necessarily agree with it. "We will." That statement was spoken in a familiar tone, one that made Napoleon grin. Illya, his Illya, was still in there even if the person currently occupying that body didn't recognize him or anyone else. There was silence between them for the rest of the short flight, though Napoleon was more than aware he was being watched. He tried his best to ignore that fact, letting Illya examine him without comment - what could he say that wouldn't alert their unwanted audience to the fact that something was seriously wrong with his partner? He could rely on the assault team to keep their mouths shut, or he'd know the reason why, but Napoleon couldn't take the chance of rumor spreading further. If Thrush had done something to Illya, the last thing anyone needed was for word of their success to spread. The two of them bustled through Security in a matter of minutes, Illya a silent presence beside him. Napoleon was glad he'd been to this particular office before, since that meant he knew the location of the sound-proofed conference room, and they headed there. Once inside, Napoleon let Illya precede him into the room. He found himself under scrutiny once more and leaned back against the door as if to reassure himself they wouldn't be interrupted. "So," Illya said. "I have been more than patient with this charade. I demand to know what is going on." "You're pretty insistent for a guy with no weapons," Napoleon said, raising his hands when Illya took a step towards him at that comment. "Just kidding. Keep your hair on, tovarisch. I'll tell you what I know." He moved away from the door, conscious that standing there might give the wrong impression. Napoleon pointedly took a seat in the nearest chair and then said nothing until Illya had taken the hint and sat as well. "Not that there's much to tell," he continued. "The bad guys - how many of them did you shoot, by the way? - belong to an organization known as Thrush. They're into world domination and that kind of thing and we'd got word they were working on some kind of mind control serum, something that would allow them to control people by rebuilding their thought processes from the ground up." "Ridiculous." "That was what you said before," Napoleon pointed out. "I know how it sounds, Illya." "Continue. You know my name, at least." "I should do," Napoleon said, settling back in his seat as he spoke. "That and a whole lot more. We both work for an organization called UNCLE - we're the good guys - and you're my partner. We've worked together for the best part of six years." And it had been the best part, regardless of all the things they'd gone through together and separately. The stranger currently wearing his friend's face couldn't begin to understand, and Napoleon himself couldn't begin to explain, but the steady presence of Illya Kuryakin beside him had helped beyond words on occasions too many to count. That was beyond any words Napoleon could summon to mind. "But I know you don't remember any of that, do you?" he asked. Illya shook his head. "Nothing about UNCLE?" Another shake. "Before that, Cambridge? Paris?" Illya's eyes widened at the words and Napoleon knew that the young lieutenant his partner had once been was more than a little delighted to learn he had got what he'd always wanted. Even if he didn't remember it now. "I don't remember anything," Illya said. "Do you think this is permanent?" "I'm no doctor," Napoleon said. "The best thing we can do is get you back to New York, but till then the fewer people who know about this..." "I agree," Illya said. "One small problem: I don't know your name." Later, Napoleon wasn't quite sure what to make of the fact that Illya was still laughing as they left the conference room together, the sound echoing oddly in the corridor. -------------- He was used to Illya's silences, so it wasn't that. Perhaps it was the feeling of being scrutinized that was starting to get under Napoleon's skin, not that he could blame his partner for that. After all, a large part of what made Illya who he was had been excised from his life and he'd found himself among strangers, being told who to trust and what to believe. Napoleon wondered whether he would have shown the same equanimity had the roles been reversed. By the time they reached the New York headquarters and finally got to the infirmary, Napoleon was almost guiltily glad to hand Illya over to the waiting doctors, though he didn't miss the look his partner gave him as he left. He could pretend to have missed it, pretend that momentarily fearful expression that flitted across Illya's face hadn't happened, but he couldn't stop his treacherous subconscious from replaying the expression over and over. Still, he had a report to make and there wasn't much he could do to help now that the medics had taken charge. "Mr. Kuryakin remembers nothing of UNCLE?" Waverly asked, his brows lowered. "Apparently not, sir," Napoleon said. "The last thing he says he remembers is being a lieutenant in the Russian navy." "Curious. I wonder why they chose that time." "Sir?" As usual, Napoleon had the uneasy feeling that Waverly knew more than he was telling, something which always seemed to delight the older man greatly. "Is there something I should know?" He wanted to be more pushy, the expression on Illya's face as he'd left him in the infirmary still haunting him, but Napoleon knew there were limits to what the old man would tolerate. "Just rumors, Mr. Solo. Rumors of a Thrush project designed to give them an immense advantage by allowing them to place trained operatives under their control, literally re-programming them as if they were machines to follow the orders of Thrush." "Brainwashing?" He'd heard about this, mostly the horror stories of traumatized prisoners of war, but somehow he couldn't imagine Illya being involved in any such scheme. Or maybe it was just he didn't want to imagine it. "Like that movie 'The Manchurian Candidate'?" "In some ways, Mr. Solo. The plan as we understand it was to remove a significant portion of the agent's history, replacing it with a similar period of loyalty to Thrush, complete with the memories and experiences they would have had during that time. You must have interrupted the process partway through." "So the old memories were removed but the new ones had yet to be planted?" Solo asked, but Waverly's answer was interrupted by a buzz from the internal communications relay. "Waverly here." "This is Dr. Jacobs," an anxious voice said. "Mr. Kuryakin is becoming a little distressed..." "Mr. Solo will be right down," Waverly interrupted, then flicked the switch to cut off the transmission. "Mr. Kuryakin is too valuable an asset for this agency to lose, Mr. Solo. Go and see what you can do for him." ------------------ When he reached the infirmary, the source of the problem was immediately obvious. His partner was backed into a corner, glaring at all-comers, a scalpel clutched in his hand. The rumpled bedclothes on the bed nearest the door told their own story, as did the doctor still curled up in a fetal position on the floor near the doorway - they had probably tried to restrain Illya for some reason and that would, understandably, have been the last straw. At least Napoleon couldn't see any blood, which was a good sign; even if he was angry, Illya was still in control if he was disabling rather than killing his opponents. "You!" Illya spat the word as soon as he saw Napoleon. "Why did you bring me to this place?" Napoleon ignored him for a moment, looking for Jacobs. "Thank god you're here," Jacobs said, moving to Napoleon's side from the small huddle of medical personnel currently watching his partner. "Maybe you can talk some sense into him." "What happened?" Napoleon asked, choosing to ignore the snarled Russian curses coming from the corner of the room. Apparently his partner had put his time on board a submarine to good use, as the litany was a colorful one. There were even a few that Napoleon didn't recognize, though his partner had taken the time during one tedious stakeout a couple of years ago to teach him a number of the more obscene expressions his former shipmates had used. "We wanted to draw some blood." Jacobs ran a hand through his thinning hair, his expression harried. "As you know, I've treated Mr. Kuryakin before and heaven knows he's never the most patient of patients, but we're used to that." "And?" "And he took objection to the idea," Jacobs continued. "Said he'd had enough of people poking holes in him." He looked thoughtful. "From a cursory examination, I would say that Mr. Kuryakin does appear to have a significant number of needle marks on both arms." "He's had a rough day," Napoleon said, figuring he'd got everything he was going to get from Jacobs for now. Except... "Did he show any signs of recognizing you? The infirmary?" "None at all. At least I hope not, if some of the things he called me in English before he switched to Russian are any indication." It was all Napoleon could do to suppress a grin at that, not to mention the aggrieved tone of Jacobs' response. He could imagine the scenario in his mind, but the last thing he needed was Illya hurting someone innocent more than he already had - that was the last thing his partner needed either, when he was himself once more. "And to think I came down here to fetch you for dinner," Napoleon said, directing his words toward Illya as he took a couple of steps and effectively placed himself between Illya and the medics. "You must be starving by now." Out of the corner of his eye, Napoleon could see Jacobs edging round, but his interest was in his colleague who was still curled up on the floor, and Napoleon moved round a little more with the intent of placing himself between Illya and his previous victim. He had no doubt this Illya could do a great deal of damage with that weapon, as his own Illya could, but the question remained how much of the man he knew still remained within the person currently glaring at him. The fact Illya hadn't killed anyone yet was a good sign, or at least Napoleon hoped so, and the last thing either of them really wanted was to change that. "I could eat," Illya said, without lowering the scalpel. "But for all I know, you plan to poison me." "If I wanted you dead, Illya, I could have shot you back at the Thrush installation," Napoleon pointed out, trying to keep his tone reasonable. "You were outnumbered there, remember?" He could see a slight uncertainty in Illya's expression now - he'd learned to read his taciturn partner over the time they'd worked together and this version of Illya was slightly more of an open book than the one he'd been used to. "Or we could have dragged you in here and strapped you down, but we didn't. You trusted me before, so trust me now." "No more needles," Illya said. "I give you my word." The logical part of Napoleon's brain reminded him Illya had no reason to think he was a man of his word, but it was as good as he could manage. "Make them leave." Napoleon half-turned; he caught Jacobs' eye, nodding at the doctor, who swiftly helped his colleague to his feet before rounding up the others and leaving the two agents alone. Illya relaxed when they left, slumping back against the wall like a puppet whose strings had been cut. There were dark circles under his eyes and the hand that held the scalpel started to shake a little. "Sit down before you fall over," Napoleon snapped, amused at the immediate response to his words. By the time Illya realized he was moving and had glared at him for his temerity in giving orders, the other man was already seated. "Give me that." Illya hesitated for a moment, then handed the scalpel over, flipping it to present the handle first. Napoleon dropped it on a nearby tray, noticing the way that Illya flinched a little at the clatter. "We should go," he continued. "Before you decide to start eating the furniture." Illya looked worn out, barely able to put one foot in front of the other, but Napoleon knew he'd keep moving till he dropped. That was one of the few certainties in this mixed-up situation - he knew Illya's limits, or apparent lack of them, as well if not better than the man himself did. Besides, after that little display Napoleon had no intention of leaving his partner in the tender care of the medical staff again. Or out of his sight at all, if he could possibly manage it. "I have caused a great deal of trouble for the doctors," Illya said quietly. He was walking with his head down, shoulders hunched, like a man headed for his own execution; Napoleon couldn't help but feel sorry for him. "Don't worry about them," Napoleon said, as he held the door open and gestured for Illya to precede him into the corridor. "They're used to cranky Section 2 agents." "Section 2?" "Operations and Enforcement. That's us." The corridor was empty. It looked as though Jacobs had taken his unspoken instructions seriously, leaving the two agents with a clear path. "Enforcement?" Illya sounded like he was trying the word out for size and wasn't completely happy with what he found. "Are we assassins?" Napoleon hadn't thought it possible for his partner to look more down than he already did, but with that question Illya's shoulders slumped even more. It made sense, though, that a man brought up knowing first-hand the terrors of war would despise the possibility he was a killer himself. "UNCLE is an international law enforcement agency," Napoleon replied. He stepped into Illya's path deliberately as he spoke, forcing the other man to stop. "Though sometimes it's kill or be killed." Illya nodded at that, as if the concept was something he was still considering. "I don't remember any of this, Napoleon," he said, pausing a little before the name as if unsure of that as well. "And I'm not sure I want to." ------------------- The scene in the commissary was an achingly familiar one. Napoleon had lost count of the number of meals he'd shared with his partner, many of them under the widest variety of conditions; the majority of them had been in rooms such as this. Working for UNCLE always appeared to have a dampening effect on the imagination of cooks, but Illya didn't seem to mind. His eyes had lit up at the sight of steak, which could come as no surprise if the last thing he remembered was whatever culinary transgressions were committed by the Russian Navy. Somehow Napoleon didn't think steak often appeared on the menu there. He'd waited politely, though, till Napoleon had picked up his cutlery. It was easy to wonder if the innate suspicion that seemed to fuel all their encounters so far also extended where food was concerned - did Illya really think there was a possibility someone would try to poison him or was that just an example of the arid sense of humor Napoleon had come to know so well in the more grown-up version of his partner? Napoleon found himself picking at his dinner as he watched Illya eat. He worked his way through the contents of the plate with the same single-mindedness he applied to everything he did. That was one constant at least. He wasn't sure he could have coped with an Illya who was a finicky eater, or even believed it really was his partner without further evidence. "What happens now?" Illya asked, as he replaced his knife and fork neatly on the empty plate. "Dessert?" Napoleon quipped. Illya scowled at that, the expression so familiar that for a moment Napoleon could almost forget the past few hours, pretend that it had all been some kind of prank or that Illya would suddenly snap out of it and be himself once more. Or at least that version of himself that Napoleon knew. "You know very well what I mean," Illya said. "I remember nothing of the past... how many years did you say?" "Fifteen, give or take." "A significant portion of my life. Significant enough to render me both a security risk to your organization..." "Our organization," Napoleon corrected. "You're still an UNCLE agent, even if you don't remember being one." "Our organization," Illya echoed, with a brief nod to acknowledge the point. "And yet I am ineffective as an agent in my current condition." Napoleon wondered about that for a moment, conscious that Illya was watching him, trying to read him as if they'd never met before. Which in Illya's reality they hadn't. But if Waverly was right, if the plan was to gain control over agents and compromise their loyalty without compromising their skills... "It's tricky, that's for certain," Napoleon said. "Though it's early days to say how much your basic skills have really been affected." "So, as a liability, what will happen to me?" Illya's gaze was direct, holding him pinned. Napoleon couldn't deny that Illya was right, that maybe what he'd lost was too important to ignore, but that was still his partner in there, already having lived through a significant part of the life experiences that had helped make him who he was. "I assume UNCLE has some form of retirement plan." The coolness of his tone alerted Napoleon immediately to the direction of Illya's thoughts. He'd never considered himself an expert on the Soviet system but rumors had got out about what happened to former spies there once they'd outlived their usefulness. In some ways, though UNCLE's de-training was essentially kinder than certain death, his partner would still lose a significant part of himself. And unlike the others going through that program, Illya had already lost much of who he was. Napoleon had no intention of letting that happen if he had anything to say about it. "You're putting the cart before the horse, my friend," he said. "We need to give the UNCLE doctors a chance to see if they can help before we think about putting you out to pasture." The expression of relief that flitted across Illya's face was so brief that for a moment Napoleon thought he'd imagined it. If it hadn't been for the fact he'd spent the past couple of years effectively living in his partner's pocket, he might not have even recognized it for what it was. Understandable, though - there was little enough for Illya Kuryakin to cling to in this new and uncertain world he'd found himself in, without the further threat of a death sentence hanging over his head. ------------------------- Illya had consumed a large amount of the commissary's awful coffee, but it didn't seem to be having much effect on him. By the time they'd lapsed into an unexpectedly comfortable silence, Illya studying the depths of his mug as if he expected to find the answer to all their problems laid out there in the dregs, Napoleon could tell he was definitely starting to wilt. He'd needed food, though, so Napoleon couldn't find it in himself to feel too guilty about bringing Illya here first, before finding him a place to sleep. He hadn't got to the point of discussing what to do with Illya with Mr. Waverly before he'd been interrupted by the emergency call from Dr. Jacobs. Napoleon considered the conundrum for a moment, watching his partner: a return to the medical center was out of the question while a trip to the cells would give the wrong impression completely, even if was probably safer for all concerned. All that was left was the VIP quarters, since it didn't seem like a good idea for Illya to leave UNCLE New York any time soon. Not till they knew what they were dealing with and just how much his loyalty to UNCLE had been compromised. In other circumstances, if Illya had just been injured in the normal course of things, this was when Napoleon would be preparing to take him home – either dropping him off at Illya's apartment or insisting he stay over at Napoleon's place, depending on how badly he'd been hurt. And then Illya would remind him that he was merely injured, not helpless, and they'd argue for the sake of demonstrating that Illya was capable of making a decision without Napoleon having to make his mind up for him. It was a familiar routine, altered very little on those occasions when it was Napoleon recuperating instead, and suddenly he found he missed it immensely. It took a moment for Napoleon to realize that Illya was now watching him as intently as he'd been looking for patterns in the contents of his coffee mug. He felt his face heat, embarrassed at how transparent his feelings on the subject of his partner must be, and looked down at the table top while he composed himself. "I am sorry," Illya said, quietly. "I did not realize." Puzzled, Napoleon looked up again. Illya's expression was intent, so familiar from a hundred stakeouts, a thousand briefings, but he couldn't help remembering that behind it was the mind of a stranger. "Contrary to the impression I may have given before, Agent Solo," Illya said, "it seems I find myself trusting you." "Glad to hear it." Napoleon found himself more than disoriented - the mix of familiar and unfamiliar in Illya was disconcerting, throwing him off balance. That was something he was not accustomed to. "That'll make everyone's lives much easier." Illya sat back in the chair then, crossing his arms - a familiar, stubborn expression reappeared on his face. "If you are thinking of the medical staff," he said, "you should remember that I did not say I trust them." ------------------------- Having left Illya in one of the VIP rooms, Napoleon headed back to Waverly's office and was completely unsurprised to find the old man still there, still partway through a stack of files on his desk despite the late hour. It would have been more of a surprise if he hadn't been there, Napoleon realized, wondering not for the first time how anyone could really step into Mr. Waverly's shoes when the day came. He'd heard the rumor that Waverly was grooming him as his successor, but Napoleon had never been sure he wanted the job. Sadly, he knew he'd probably feel quite differently about moving into Section 1 if he had a choice about it, rather than having it forced upon him. And Napoleon also knew he'd just left part of the reason he enjoyed being Chief Enforcement Agent back in the VIP quarters. It was quite a different matter taking on any assignment knowing Illya was there to watch his back than considering doing so alone. Ironic, really, considering he'd struggled to accept the need for a permanent partner for quite a while till something Napoleon couldn't quite put his finger on had convinced him that Illya was the one. And now the Illya Kuryakin he knew was gone, possibly lost forever. "Sir?" Mr. Waverly looked up, gesturing at a nearby chair before turning his attention back to the folder he was studying. Napoleon did as he was bid, settling himself for what experience told him might be quite a lengthy wait - Chief Enforcement Agent or not, Mr. Waverly would decide when he was ready to hear from him. "Well, Mr. Solo?" Mr. Waverly asked, after a relatively brief time. "Everything's under control," Napoleon said. "Illya didn't much like being examined by the doctors, which is understandable if Thrush has been brainwashing him for the past few weeks." Waverly nodded, silent encouragement for Napoleon to continue. "He's in the VIP quarters, room 3 - I'll take him back to the infirmary myself in the morning." If Waverly didn't like the plan, Napoleon knew he wouldn't hesitate to overrule his decision but instead he just nodded. "Keep me informed, Mr. Solo," he said. As usual, Waverly's tone was firm and decisive, with no expectation that anyone would even consider doing other than what he had sanctioned. Napoleon recognized a dismissal when he heard it, and left the office without needing to be told twice. He probably should have gone home, but his need to check on Illya was too strong to resist. Besides, Napoleon told himself, it would be just a few minutes detour via Security and Personnel, which would give him the chance to check that his partner had settled down to get some well-needed sleep. Illya didn't know, after all, that there were few places he'd be able to get to within UNCLE's HQ - he'd been brought in by means of one of the quieter entrances instead of through Del Florias. AS a result he had no security badge. If Illya even managed to get out of the VIP room, which was a task Napoleon wouldn’t put past him since his partner was more than capable of pretty much anything, the steel doors round that area would slam into place the moment he triggered their sensors. It didn't hurt to check, though. Agent Jenks didn't look up from the bank of monitors when Napoleon entered the room, which was no surprise considering Napoleon could see the corridor he'd just used on one of them. Nobody could sneak up on Section VI, or at least not without expending a significant amount of effort. "He's asleep," Jenks said, looking round with a grin. His freckled face was deceptive - Jenks might look like an affable hayseed but he was currently UNCLE's reigning karate champion. Jenks leaned forward to flick a switch and one of the monitors changed picture, showing the familiar interior of VIP Room 3 and the even more familiar figure of his partner sprawled out across the bed, still clothed. "I heard what happened," Jenks continued. Then he suddenly seemed to remember he wasn't supposed to know anything and stopped talking. Even if Security and Personnel knew more about what was going on in the building than anyone else, up to and sometimes including Mr. Waverly, they were also supposed to keep quiet about what they overheard. "Sorry, sir." Jenks' face reddened. "Don't worry about it," Napoleon said. "Just don't let the Old Man hear you." ------------------------- After what seemed like two hours sleep at most, Napoleon found himself heading back into Headquarters much earlier than usual. He could only imagine how Illya was this morning; pacing the confines of Room 3, probably, if he hadn't escaped at some point during the night. Napoleon took his badge from the receptionist's fingers and put it on himself, rather than allowing her to do so as he usually would - she pouted attractively at him but he couldn’t let himself be distracted. He ignored the rest of the badges, particularly the one with his partner's number, still waiting to be claimed. By the time he'd reached VIP Room 3, Napoleon found himself in a state of anxiety he was unfamiliar with. He knew he'd barely paid attention to the various people who'd greeted him in the hallways and it also hadn't escaped his notice that nobody had tried to make small talk with him in the elevator. News of Illya's condition had spread through the building, as Napoleon it would; it felt as though everyone he saw had a sympathetic expression on their face. Illya probably wouldn't believe it, since he never went out of his way to cultivate smooth interpersonal relationships with the people he came across on a daily basis, but he was generally well-liked. Illya had a reputation for fairness, at least, while some field agents tended to think of themselves as the best of the best, with the expected impact of that attitude on their interactions with the support staff. Napoleon himself was an equal opportunity flirt, not caring whether the person he flirted with carried a gun or a clipboard; he tended to get a reasonable reception too, in addition to the respect due to his position as CEA. He couldn't hear any yelling from the other side of the door, anyway, so that was probably a good sign. Napoleon looked up at the camera mounted just above the doorway, nodding at the security agent he knew would be monitoring him. Moments later the door slid open silently, opening onto a room still in darkness. Napoleon paused on the threshold, listening, all too aware of what a good target he made with the light behind him. He couldn't hear any movement within the room, though, and after a few tense seconds had passed, he stepped carefully through the doorway, moving toward the side where he knew the light switch was located. With a click, the room was flooded with light - not as bright as the corridors, but still enough to show that Illya was still where he'd been the night before, when Napoleon had checked his position on the security monitor. He was still sprawled out across the bed, though he'd moved enough to pull a blanket over him, hair tousled and snoring lightly. Napoleon knew better than to get too close, even if his sleeping partner did look as innocent as a child. Assuming he was asleep and not just shamming for the purposes of getting Napoleon close enough for an effective assault. Illya had told Napoleon last night that he trusted him, but that might not be enough if Illya had reconsidered his position since then. "Illya? Time for breakfast." Napoleon punctuated his words with the lightest of kicks to the slippered sole of Illya's foot. He'd probably lain down on the bed with both his borrowed infirmary slippers on, but only one remained, the other having fallen to the floor. Illya moved slightly, rolling to his side with a muffled sound that Napoleon could almost convince himself was his name. The next few words were even more recognizable, most of them Russian and all of them unrepeatable. "My head," Illya said, sitting up slowly. He looked pale, one hand rubbing his temple, and Napoleon couldn't help taking a couple of steps forward, even if this was some kind of act. "I think something's trying to get out." "I always said your brain would overheat from all that thinking," Napoleon said. He took hold of Illya's elbow, helping him to stand, and found himself relaxing when Illya didn't suddenly move to attack him, as he'd half-anticipated. "Sounds like I was right." "Pah." That sound was so familiar, even coming from a voice with a stronger accent than he was used to, that it stopped Napoleon in his tracks for a moment. "Nothing that coffee and a handful of aspirin won't cure." Napoleon couldn't tell whether Illya hadn't noticed the hesitation or whether he was ignoring it, but he was grateful either way. "Coffee we can manage, but aspirin means a trip to the infirmary." They were standing in the corridor by now, the door to VIP Room 3 sliding closed behind them, and the expression on Illya's face was exactly as Napoleon expected it would be. "And if I decided not to go along with all of this?" Illya asked, in a conversational tone. He still looked tired, barely awake, but there was an element of tension in the atmosphere between the two of them; an air of unspoken menace that would have seemed ridiculous if this was anyone else other than Illya Kuryakin. "What's to stop me walking out of here?" "Be my guest," Napoleon said, as he took a step back from Illya. He gestured down the corridor. "The exit is that way." Another step back, half turning in the opposite direction. "Or the commissary is over here." If Illya didn't move, he wouldn't set off the security system. However, if he decided to take Napoleon up on his offer and head for the exit, he'd soon find out just how easily triggered the sensors were. The expression on Illya's face was enough to tell him that the other man was torn - his natural reticence at war with a need to trust someone in this strange new world. "I promise the coffee's better than what you were drinking last night." "That would not be difficult," Illya said, finally. "I need you to do something for me, Napoleon." His voice stumbled over the name, as if it was still a little unfamiliar. "What is it?" Napoleon asked, turning purposefully in the direction of the commissary as if he trusted Illya to stick to his word and follow him. Which he did, even if Illya didn't know it. "Make sure they keep their needles to themselves this time." ------------------------- It was still early, even once they'd finished what was quite a leisurely breakfast compared to their normal need to discuss and eat at the same time. Illya had consumed this morning's coffee with decided relish, since it seemed he agreed Napoleon had been right about its quality. Of course, this pot hadn't been sitting there most of the night, like the brew they'd sampled the previous evening. He'd insisted on sitting with his back to the wall, though, his eyes keenly scanning every movement over Napoleon's shoulder. As far as Napoleon could tell he didn't seem to be paying particular attention to anyone, but needed to know where everyone was, just in case. The main difference between that and the Illya he knew much better was that practice meant his Illya could be aware of everyone's position without obviously trying to keep an eye on them all. It took an effort to suppress a sigh at that thought. His Illya. As if that had ever been the case, no matter how long they'd worked together and how often they'd saved one another's lives. It had taken losing his partner for Napoleon to realize just how important Illya was. The nature of their work meant that he was not just partner, but also friend. Illya couldn't have missed the looks in their direction, the whispered exchanges between other people in the commissary, but he ignored them all. Maybe he could tell there was nothing malicious about them - they were just curious, word spreading quickly inside HQ that this Illya wasn't the Illya they knew. "Has a decision been made?" Illya asked, the quietly-spoken question breaking into Napoleon's thoughts. "About what?" "What I can be told. About all of this." He gestured, a small movement of his hand, imperceptible to anyone else in the commissary. "About what has changed since what I remember. About myself." "The doctors might think I already told you too much, just to get you here," Napoleon said, though he was of the opinion he'd told Illya just enough to gain his trust and no more. "Something harmless, then." Illya picked up the teaspoon he'd been using to stir a ridiculous amount of sugar into his coffee and began to use it to draw idly in the remains of his eggs. "I must live outside these walls, or are we all required to remain on call?" He eyed Napoleon, his expression considering. "In which case, your quarters must have significant amounts of closet space." "You have an apartment," Napoleon conceded. "Stuffed full of books, of course." Illya inclined his head in acknowledgement of the comment, clearly unsurprised. "Heaven help you if you ever have to move." Unbidden, the memory of helping Illya move into that very apartment came flooding back to Napoleon. He'd had more books than anything else even then, though they were only a fraction of what he owned now, shelves full of books as thick as bricks in half a dozen languages. The only words he could find for the expression on Illya's face now was covetous - just the thought of all those books, all his though he wasn't the one who'd spent the many hours involved in gathering that collection, was enough to make him salivate. "If I have to stay here," Illya said, his tone calculating, "could you bring me some of them?" "The doctors..." Napoleon began, not really sure what the prevailing medical advice was likely to be on the subject of books. Not as dangerous as reading mission reports, surely, and at least they could help ensure Illya's tolerance of, if not compliance with, whatever tests they would want to run. "Something published since my time in the navy," Illya continued, as if he hadn't heard the half-formed objection. "Anything. Please." Put that way, Napoleon couldn't see how he could refuse. ------------------------- Dr. Jacobs was waiting for the two of them and didn't seem at all surprised when Illya apologized to him in as brief a speech as possible, before promising him cooperation. Within reason, as outlined by Napoleon, as long as that cooperation did not require the use of needles. "And he has a headache," Napoleon said, his parting shot as Illya scowled at him. It was a halfhearted effort as best, since Jacobs was already getting Illya to take a seat and asking where it hurt. Riding the elevator up, Napoleon checked his watch. Waverly wouldn't be expecting him, which meant he had time to get over to Illya's apartment and pick up some books to keep him occupied. He took his time leaving HQ, just in case, but even at his most leisurely pace his communicator hadn't beeped before he made it to the door of Del Floria's. So far, so good. Napoleon had been to Illya's apartment so many times that walking into it was almost like coming home. Not that he'd say as much to Illya, who always had a choice turn of phrase to describe the apartment that Napoleon did call home - the two places couldn't be more dissimilar. He couldn't help thinking about the last time he'd been here, a couple of months ago. That time, Illya had been too close to an explosion, with the result that he was more than a little banged up. Not enough for the medics to hang onto him, or even try, given the way he'd been scowling at everyone. But enough that he'd barely argued when Napoleon had insisted on seeing him home and buying him dinner. Illya might be many things, but he wasn't one to turn down food, particularly food he didn't have to pay for. "That was a little too close," Napoleon remembered himself saying. Illya hadn't replied, too busy in the other room rummaging through his closet in search of a clean shirt to respond. The words had been more honest than Napoleon had intended, without the joking edge they usually employed when it really had been too close for comfort. "I am fine," Illya said, when he emerged from his bedroom, buttoning up the shirt to cover his bandages. Clearly he was made of sterner stuff than he appeared, since despite the fact he'd been thrown against a wall by the blast, Illya hadn't even cracked any ribs. "I see dinner has yet to arrive," he continued, his tone returning to something more like their usual banter. What was it about that incident, more than any where they'd come so much closer to being killed, that had stuck in Napoleon's mind? Maybe it was because neither of them had taken it in their stride, that for once he'd had a sense of their mortality, that they couldn't go on being that lucky forever. He'd never realized how right he could be about that, never wanted to realize how transient everything he'd thought he had with Illya Kuryakin could be. Napoleon knew something else about that night, if he was honest. He knew how close he'd come to confessions Illya might not have wanted to hear, words he'd never planned to say but that somehow felt right then, if Illya hadn't brought things between them back to what they considered normality and rescued them both from embarrassment. ------------------------- Illya was still scowling when Napoleon got back to the infirmary, though at least he wasn't still rubbing his temple so it seemed likely that the headache was gone. At least that headache, if not the one the doctors had given him by their merciless attempts to chivy him into doing things he didn't want to do. "No needles?" he asked, glancing over at Jacobs who was pretending not to listen. "Luckily for you," Illya replied. "But I do not remember anything more than I did this morning." There was resignation in his voice, a tone that Napoleon wasn't accustomed to where Illya was concerned, and it worried him a little. Bad enough that this Illya wasn't his Illya, but if he was so easy to read then what use was he as an agent? "Dr. Jacobs?" "I don't have much to add to what I told you already, Mr. Solo," Jacobs said, making a last couple of notes on his clipboard. "There is nothing physically wrong with Mr. Kuryakin." "And yet he has a major gap in his memory," Napoleon said. "How do you explain that?" Jacobs looked down at his clipboard, as if the answer to Napoleon's question might magically appear there. "Clearly Thrush have made more progress in terms of their mind-altering procedures than we had heard," he said, when he finally looked up from his notes. "I don't know whether Mr. Kuryakin will regain his memory naturally, or whether..." His words trailed off. "We know so little about how the human brain works, really. And since Mr. Kuryakin has no wish to be our guinea pig..." "Thank you," Napoleon said, raising a hand before Jacobs dug himself any deeper and made an enemy of Illya for life. "If you'd send your full report to Mr. Waverly, Dr Jacobs..." "Of course." Jacobs nodded, made another note on his clipboard and then turned to Illya. "I'm sorry we couldn't do any more," he said, a gesture that returned him to his former place in Napoleon's estimation, and clearly also raised him in Illya's, if the way Illya sat up a little straighter was anything to go by. "Thank you for your efforts," Illya said, faultlessly polite. "And once again, I apologize for the incident last night." He inclined his head toward Jacobs - if he had been standing, Napoleon would have sworn Illya's heels would have clicked together. Jacobs waved Illya's apology away with his free hand] before turning his attention back to the pile of paperwork that still waited for him, an unspoken dismissal for both of them. "What did you bring me?" Illya asked, once they were outside in the corridor. "Patience, moy droog," Napoleon replied, knowing his smile would infuriate this Illya as much as it always did his Illya. He thought about that for a moment, wondering if he'd ever reconcile the two - this was his Illya, or would be if he ever got the chance to experience the things that had made the other Illya the man he was. Except how could that ever happen? He couldn't go back to Cambridge or the Sorbonne, couldn't return to Survival School and break all those records once again - the Illya that had done that was a younger man, one who had trained himself to accomplish the tasks he'd set himself and couldn't go back to do them again. "Napoleon?" "Wait and see," Napoleon said, as the two of them headed back towards VIP Room 3. The scowl on Illya's face was familiar, an expression Napoleon had seen so many times on his partner's face, in all sorts of situations and for a moment he could forget all that had happened. Once back in Illya's new quarters, Napoleon found himself watching with almost proprietary pride as his partner pored over the books he'd brought for him. It hadn't been the easiest of choices, and Napoleon hadn't even tried to consider something scientific, knowing he was way out of his league. Literature he could do, but physics left him cold. Still, Illya seemed pleased with the selection Napoleon had brought him, his hand lingering on one particular volume, as Napoleon had thought it might. "Pasternak's novel was finally published. I'd heard that he'd finished it but never thought..." Illya's words ground to a halt, since he'd opened the cover and found the inscription. "Christmas 1959," Napoleon said, though he knew the words were there for Illya to see. "I knew it had been published in Italy the previous year, so I picked you up a copy." "I shall enjoy reading it," Illya said. "Again." He looked thoughtful, and though he'd allowed the book to close, Illya still held it, as if unwilling to return it to its companions. "If Dr Jacobs is correct, I will not have much else to do." There was the look of resignation again, the death of hope, and it made Napoleon's heart lurch in his chest. "That's for Mr. Waverly to decide," Napoleon said, then another possibility struck him. "If you want to stay on with UNCLE, of course." Illya picked up the books, placing the Pasternak carefully on top of the pile, and moved them across to the small bookshelf that stood against one of the otherwise-featureless walls. "What alternative do I have?" he asked, busying himself with arranging the books to his liking. Napoleon could tell by the stiffness of Illya's spine that he was using this small exercise to occupy himself, as a distraction from the reality he face. He'd lost a partner, but Illya had lost a significant part of his life. He should be concentrating on helping him cope, not wallowing in what he'd lost and forgetting he wasn't the only one who was suffering because of what Thrush had done. Illya was still Illya, stubborn to the end, and he'd get through this somehow - that was an example Napoleon needed to follow, for once in his life, if the two of them were to survive at all. ------------------------- A summons from Mr. Waverly prevented further discussion and they headed up to his office obediently, arriving there a matter of minutes later. They were waved through by the latest in Waverly's secretaries, this one a curvaceous redhead who'd always had something of a thing for Illya and who seemed rather put out that he didn't even look at her. "Sir?" They paused just inside the doorway, waiting as it slid shut behind them for permission to sit. "Sit down, gentlemen," Waverly said, crossing from one of the windows to his own seat, unlit pipe in hand. "How are you feeling, Mr. Kuryakin?" "Better, sir." Illya was almost perched on the edge of the chair he occupied, looking as uncomfortable as if he expected 10,000 volts to surge through it at any moment. "Thank you." "But what are we to do with you, Mr. Kuryakin?" Waverly placed his pipe carefully on the desk, then picked up a report. "Clearly, given your current condition, you cannot continue to work for Section 2." The words, though he'd expected them, sent a cold sensation up Napoleon's spine. He couldn't have realistically thought Mr. Waverly would make any other decision, and at least he didn't seem inclined to just have Illya sent packing somehow. But hearing the words was something else entirely - out of the corner of his eye, Napoleon saw that Illya was watching him, watching his reaction, and he tried to look unconcerned at the impending loss of his partner. Even if, in reality, he'd lost Illya weeks ago. "I'm sure Illya would be a valuable addition to Section 8," Napoleon said. "They're always complaining how he doesn't spend enough time with them." He stopped, considering a dark thought as it crossed his mind. "Unless you have concerns about his loyalty." The incident in the infirmary could have been enough to make the Old Man wary of trusting Illya, which would be a mistake from which none of them would recover. "Not at all, Mr. Solo," Waverly said, dropping Jacobs' report on the desk. "Mr. Kuryakin, we would be more than happy for you to join our research team, which would also give you the opportunity to get up to speed with some of the more current developments in the world of science." He picked up his pipe again, which was a gesture Napoleon was familiar with, since it often preceded a dismissal. "Under supervision, of course. I hope you appreciate the reasons why?" "I understand, sir." Illya relaxed a little at the statement, letting himself sit back in the chair. That was the best any of them could hope for, at least for the time being. Something relatively safe for Illya to be doing, still a part of UNCLE even if his status was somewhat less liberal than the free rein given to Section 2 agents, while they figured out what to do. "Take Mr. Kuryakin back to his quarters, Mr. Solo," Waverly said, his tone gruff but the sentiment behind the words still clear, even for this Illya who didn't know the Old Man at all. That much was apparent from Illya's response - not bristling, as might have been expected at the prospect of more confinement, but something that felt almost like optimism. ------------------------- He left Illya in VIP Room 3 with a promise of lunch to come, when a summons back to Waverly sent him off to the Arctic Circle instead. It was only as he was getting on the plane for Juneau that Napoleon thought about Illya, wondering at the responsibility he felt for a partner who was more than capable of looking after himself, but not knowing how to raise the subject over the communicator. "Mandy," he finally began, once the plane had taken off and he could safely make his way into the small washroom. "I wanted to ask..." "He's fine, Napoleon," the confident voice replied. "Mr. Waverly informed Section 8 that Illya was their responsibility while you're away." "That's good to hear," Napoleon said. "You can tell them from me that I'll be checking up when I get back." "I'll make sure they walk him regularly," Mandy said, the amusement in her tone infectious. Napoleon stifled a laugh at the mental image her words conjured up - he'd never considered Illya in the same terms as a houseplant or a caged bird, but now he was well and truly relegated to something that needed looking after. That wasn't something he'd be communicating to his partner - his ex-partner, now? - any time soon but it was still funny. That exchange proved to be the high point of the affair, which ended with Napoleon getting himself thrown from a runaway dogsled and having to trudge ten long miles back into town, once he realized his communicator was somewhere in the snow. He was left tired and cold, right through to the bone, even after the longest shower his hot water tank could manage and the welcome embrace of his own bed. It was still somewhat unsettling to come into HQ via Del Floria's and see his partner's badge there, as if waiting for him to come back from a mission. The only thing that would have been worse, Napoleon realized, as he refrained from hurrying the leisurely way in which the receptionist pinned his own badge on, would have been the sight of someone else wearing it. "Mr. Kuryakin has another badge," the receptionist said, clearly having noticed the direction of his gaze. "Though I'm sure it's only a matter of time." A lower security clearance made sense, given the nature of Illya's amnesia, but that still didn't make it feel right. "Thank you, my dear," Napoleon said, smiling at her to cover the fact he'd forgotten her name. Once he would have remembered, not only her name but also as much trivia as he knew about her likes and dislikes, but over time that had seemed less important. He reported to Waverly, who hadn't seemed particularly interested in what he had to say. That wasn't much of a surprise, since Napoleon had already reported in that his mission had been somewhat less than successful - the bird had flown the coop, and not for the first time in his experience. Still, Waverly's lack of attention wasn’t all that much of an annoyance, since Napoleon could hardly claim that the outcome of this affair was all that engrossing for him, and he'd lived through it. Too much time to think, with hours of mind-numbing boredom interspersed with moments of sheer terror, which was pretty much how most missions went. Those Bond movies had a lot to answer for, when it came to portraying everyday life for the secret agent. There was no answer when he knocked on the door of VIP Room 3, and for a moment Napoleon wondered if Illya was still in residence there - he'd been gone from UNCLE New York for four days, so there was plenty of time for Illya to have been moved elsewhere in the building. Napoleon had visions of Illya moving onto a cot in the labs, given half a chance, as long as there was somewhere to put his books. Next stop was the commissary, since it was loosely lunchtime, but there was no sign of Illya there either, so Napoleon was forced to make his way down to Section 8. He was distracted by a yellowish cloud with a pungent odor that was hanging just below the ceiling as he stepped out of the elevator, but there were scientists scurrying to and fro and since none of them seemed at all worried at the color of the air, Napoleon hoped there wasn't much to be concerned about. By the time he found Illya, Napoleon wasn't so sure about that. He was able to watch Illya without him becoming aware of Napoleon's presence, so intent was he on what he was doing. Something complicated with pipettes and a rack of test tubes, his hands sure and confident about their task. It had to be whatever it was in the atmosphere that was making Napoleon lightheaded, or maybe low blood sugar, rather than seeing Illya looking like he belonged for the first time since he'd come back from that Thrush installation. When the moment seemed right, and Illya had put down the pipettes, Napoleon coughed quietly, drawing his partner's attention to where he stood in the doorway. The smile was unexpected, lighting Illya's face for a moment before he seemed to recall where he was and it disappeared as quickly as it had appeared. "They keeping you busy?" Napoleon asked, walking over to a stool and sitting down, well out of range of any chemicals. "I had forgotten how much I enjoy laboratory work," Illya said. "I haven't had much opportunity since I gained my commission." He stopped, a moment's confusion flickering across his face as quickly as the smile had come and gone. "I mean, I feel very much at home here, thank you." "Any word on when you might get let off the premises?" Napoleon asked, sure that this was a touchy subject but unable to help himself. Illya wasn't the most sociable of creatures but the relative confinement of VIP Room 3 must surely be driving him up the wall. He'd want his old apartment, some privacy and the opportunity of trying to reconcile himself with his new life. "I believe that Mr. Waverly is taking that under advisement." Illya looked at the rack of test tubes, a long moment's silence passing between them. "In some ways," he said, without looking in Napoleon's direction, "it is quite convenient." Napoleon knew what he meant by that - convenient for UNCLE, maybe, having someone who had nothing better to do than play mad scientist, here on the premises 24/7. He made a mental note to raise it with Waverly, no matter what, at the next opportunity. Even if they didn't trust Illya, that was no reason to let him work all hours, which was precisely what he would do if there was nothing better for him to occupy himself with. ------------------------- "When Mr. Kuryakin asks me, I'll give it some consideration," was Waverly's response, his tone taciturn to say the least, when Napoleon raised the subject of Illya's confinement. It probably wasn't his place to ask on Illya's behalf, even if his mind had worried at it like a loose tooth, but Napoleon wondered when it was likely that Illya would get the opportunity to ask for himself. After all, his new security clearance didn't allow him unsupervised access to the level where Waverly's office was situated. Napoleon bit back his instinctive response, reminding himself that it wouldn't do his championing of Illya any good if he got an official reprimand. He didn’t mention the request or its response to Illya either, knowing what reaction he'd get if his partner thought Napoleon was trying to fight his battles for him. Even if they weren't partners any more, which was a concept Napoleon was still struggling with. At least Waverly hadn't tried to pair him up permanently with anyone, though the Old Man wasn't above dropping heavy hints that his days of working alone were numbered. The problem was, his occasional forays with other agents aside, Napoleon didn't want another partner - he wanted Illya Kuryakin. He tried to maintain some sort of normality, in between missions at least, but the illusion was difficult to maintain. Napoleon moved in different circles from Illya now - former Section 2 or not, Illya was a lab jockey and their responsibilities didn't give much time for hanging out with enforcement agents. Not that Napoleon was monitoring what Illya did, or who he associated with, but while he was still on effective house arrest, there was little chance Napoleon couldn't find out if he wanted to. The temptation alone was almost too much to bear at times. If the shoe had been on the other foot, Napoleon was certain he'd have been flirting with half the support staff, at least. He'd have had to find some way to avoid going stir crazy, and while the setup at UNCLE New York gave little opportunity for privacy, an inventive person could find a way. And Napoleon could be nothing if not inventive, with the right motivation. Napoleon tortured himself with the thought of Illya being suitably motivated to seek out willing company when he found himself on a prolonged stakeout in Vienna, wishing he could abuse the overseas relay to check up on his former partner without it coming to Waverly's attention. There was little chance of that being successful, which was probably the only thing that had persuaded Napoleon not to try it. He wasn't sure whether to be puzzled or reassured when he finally got back to New York and Illya hardly seemed to have noticed he'd been gone. "How long is it since you last ate?" Napoleon asked as he walked into Illya's laboratory. "Hmm?" Illya blinked, then looked at the clock on the wall for a long moment. "If today is Tuesday, then I had lunch." "Considering it's past midnight now, which would officially make it Wednesday, I think it's time to take a break." Illya didn't respond, still engrossed with whatever it was he was working on, the end of his pencil tapping rhythmically on the pad as he studied the calculations written there. "Illya." "What?" Illya looked up again, and Napoleon wondered if he'd realized he was still there, waiting for a reply. "Sorry. I'm just so close to a solution..." He shook his head then, one brisk gesture. "But you're right. It's not going to happen just because I keep staring at it." Illya dropped the pad onto the workbench, disturbing a pile of papers which slid dangerously close to the edge - Napoleon reached out, stopping the papers, unsure whether Illya even noticed their movement. "Let me get my jacket." Illya got up from his chair, taking off his lab coat as he crossed to where his jacket hung. Napoleon looked down at the papers he'd rescued, seeing Illya's name scrawled across the top of one of them, in handwriting he was sure he should recognize. He separated that page out, glanced quickly at the short message written on it, then shoved it back into the rest before dropping them on top of the nearest pile of papers. Illya had a system all his own and so it really didn't matter where Napoleon put them, they wouldn't be where they ought to be. ------------------------- "Spying on your partner?" It would have to be Jenks in the Security center, of course, when Napoleon found his way down there. "He's not my partner any more," Napoleon pointed out, though he knew that was hardly news to Jenks or anyone else in the building He'd never told Illya what Waverly said and Napoleon was certain Illya hadn't asked Waverly for the chance to get out of HQ - as far as he knew, Illya's work was exemplary, the boys in Section 8 seemed delighted with him, and yet he was still there. Still running the maze, still working in the lab when he should be somewhere else entirely. He'd tried his best to keep in touch with Illya, figuring that he was one of the few familiar faces for his former partner, given the black hole that existed where his memories of the last few years ought to be. Illya seemed to be happy to eat with him whenever he turned up at the lab, usually accompanying him to the commissary without question - day or night, Illya was always there. And then he'd found the note. 3pm - okay with you? and no signature, but it had Illya's name at the top so it was clearly some kind of assignation. Napoleon hadn't wanted to put a name to the emotion he'd felt when he saw that note, pleased with his own acting ability when Illya didn’t figure out there and then that something was wrong, but he knew it for what it was. He'd missed his opportunity, waiting for a chance that never came, and then Thrush had stolen everything they'd had in common and put Illya back to square one. "There he is," Jenks said, leaning forward to tap one of the monitors, then across to the switches that linked the cameras with the screens. On the monitor, in black and white, Illya was heading out of the lab - he wasn't wearing his lab coat, so it was clearly not just work. Napoleon sat down, his eyes following the figure across a succession of screens, down the corridor and into the elevator, then out again and along another identical corridor. "Third floor," Jenks said. "No labs down there." Nowhere near the commissary, the VIP room Illya called home, or anywhere he had a reason to be. Deep in the heart of UNCLE New York, Illya chose a particular door from a series of similar ones and disappeared into the room behind it. "Well?" Napoleon asked, scanning the monitors for the next shot of Illya, the inside of the room he'd entered. "Where is it?" Jenks shrugged, flicking a couple of switches in a desultory manner. "No cameras," he said, finally. "Just storage, so there's nothing much to see. We log everyone going in and out, after all, and everything down there is tagged so it can't be removed without setting off the alarms." Napoleon stared at the screens, hardly seeing the everyday life of UNCLE New York occurring before his eyes, conscious only of what he couldn't see. What was Illya up to? What would he want with a storage room on the third floor? He couldn't go down there and check it out, not without making Illya suspicious, and that was the last thing he wanted to do, that and explain what he was doing watching Illya in the first place. "Thanks," Napoleon said, finally, after it was clear Illya wasn't going to be coming out of the room in question any time soon. He'd have to try a different tactic in order to figure out what was going on with Illya Kuryakin. ------------------------ "I came by earlier," Napoleon said, trying to sound casual, "but you weren't around." Illya was putting his jacket on and Napoleon watched him carefully, looking for any sign of hesitation that might be interpreted as guilt. Of course, he could be overreacting, but then again he might not. "I hadn't realized you were so interested in my laboratory work, Napoleon," Illya said, sidestepping the question Napoleon hadn't quite known how to ask. "Or is your little black book out of date and you have nothing better to do?" Illya walked past him, into the corridor, a too-familiar smirk on his face. Of course, the gossip was bound to get to him eventually; Illya might not remember his partner's reputation, but everyone at UNCLE New York knew Napoleon Solo's lady killing ways, and he should have realized they'd take great pleasure in recounting all of it to Illya. And some of it was even true, since Napoleon had wined and dined a significant percentage of the female support staff since he'd been posted to New York. "Is it true?" Illya continued, as they walked toward the elevator together. "Am I keeping you from more entertaining company?" The doors slid open and they entered the car. "I can't help noticing that you make, how do you say, a beeline for me whenever you're in the building." Napoleon ignored the pretended unfamiliarity with English for the distraction it was. Illya hadn't needed much coaching in slang even when they'd first met and Napoleon was certain he'd picked up more than enough over the past couple of months. "You're a captive audience, Illya, so the chances of being turned down are dramatically reduced." Napoleon decided to go on the offensive a little and get his own back. Two could play at this game, after all. "I intend to ask Mr. Waverly to reconsider my security clearance," Illya said, suddenly seeming to find the floor of the elevator car immensely interesting. "Not before time," Napoleon said. "I was starting to wonder if you liked it down here." "I enjoy my work for Section 8. But living in the VIP quarters is another matter." Illya looked thoughtful. "Besides, I understand that the rest of my books are in my apartment." Despite his concerns about what Illya was up to, Napoleon found himself smiling at that comment. "Do you think Mr. Waverly will agree?" "I see no reason why he shouldn't." Waverly was nothing if not a fair man and Illya had given no reason to mistrust him since he'd come back to UNCLE. Unless whatever it was he was doing that Napoleon didn't know about was something suspect - the thought nagged at Napoleon, try as he might to ignore it. Still, if Waverly decided to raise his security clearance, there would still be a limit to what Illya would have access to, since he wasn't a field agent. ------------------------- The next couple of weeks flew by, with the demands of UNCLE sending Napoleon to a variety of places across the globe. He managed to check in with Illya on the odd occasions when he was in New York, but those occasions were widely spaced and he knew there was little chance of keeping up with whatever it was Illya was doing. Napoleon also didn't want to broach the subject of Illya's security clearance, in case Waverly had turned him down. That would have been awkward, not to mention having the potential to make Napoleon feel he ought to intervene, and so it was easier not to mention it at all. Now that Illya was no longer a field agent, Napoleon also didn't have as easy a recourse to UNCLE's communications network, making it trickier to let Illya know when he'd be back in town. Despite that, he found that Illya wasn't far from his mind - maybe more so now that he knew things were relatively stable, and that there was no chance of Waverly doing something dramatic and dispensing with Illya's services completely. Illya had settled into Section 8 as if he'd always been there, the indefinable gulf between scientist and agent between them now in a way that had never been the case when they were both Section 2. It hadn't mattered before that Illya's background was in science, because of the things they went through together as agents. A common bond between them that had always superceded their respective backgrounds. Or at least so Napoleon had thought. Now, not only had he lost the Illya he knew because of Thrush, at times it felt as though he was losing the new Illya as well. Not that he could put that sentiment into words. Sometimes, when he should be sleeping, Napoleon found himself wondering how Illya had come to terms so easily with this new life for himself. One minute, as far as he knew it, he'd been a part of the Russian Navy and then suddenly he was in his own future, living a life that had little connection to what he remembered. It seemed a little unfair that Illya had taken this change in his situation in his stride – if he hadn't, he didn't talk about it - while Napoleon was the one struggling to comprehend it all. But then Illya couldn't remember what he'd lost. And what exactly had Napoleon lost? He'd found himself pondering that, more than once. A good friend, who he still seemed to have when they managed to be in the same country, but there had been something more. Or at least Napoleon convinced himself there could have been something more, something that would probably have waited till they were both old enough to be safely out of the field, but there just beneath the surface anyway. It was on a particularly interminable transatlantic flight that the realization came to Napoleon, striking him like a blow. He could still have that friendship, if he wanted it. Essentially, this was still Illya, even if he didn't remember much of what there had been between them. This way, Napoleon could skate around little things like his well-deserved reputation with women, which was still just hypothetical where Illya was concerned, and the times he'd done things of which Illya had disapproved, one way or another. It was like being given a free pass. A do-over. If Illya would play along, and Napoleon couldn't see any reason why he wouldn't. Just the thought of it was enough to make the rest of the lengthy flight seem somehow less endless, as Napoleon considered how he'd reintroduce Illya to New York once Mr. Waverly relented, as he must do eventually. ------------------------- Of course, shortly after that Napoleon had the first mission where he'd not emerged unscathed, after all his weeks of jet setting around the world. Napoleon limped into UNCLE New York, his arm in a sling and his cracked ribs well-strapped. For once his body had taken most of the punishment, though he did have a spectacular bruise on one cheekbone. "How are you feeling, Mr. Solo?" the receptionist asked, leaning forward to pin on his badge and give him an eyeful of her not-insubstantial cleavage as a bonus. "You look like you've been in the ring with Cassius Clay." "I would look much worse than this if that were the case, my dear," Napoleon replied. Clearly the poor girl didn't get out much, or pay attention to current affairs, if she wasn't aware that Mr. Clay had recently changed his name. Still, he'd take sympathy wherever he could get it, knowing full well that he wasn't likely to get much from either Mr. Waverly or Illya. Waverly was waiting for him, though Napoleon had already reported the success of his mission, and it was a long two hours before the Old Man finally let him go. Napoleon wasn't sure whether it was the drooping of his head or the ominous rumble of his stomach that had finally persuaded Waverly. Either way, he wasn't about to look a gift horse in the mouth and headed down to Section 8, even though Waverly's parting words had been a direction to put himself in the competent hands of UNCLE's medics. That could wait. Lunch couldn't, and neither could catching up with Illya. Which would have worked fine as a plan if, when Napoleon reached the laboratory Illya had been using for the past few months, Illya Kuryakin had actually been there. "I was looking for Mr. Kuryakin," Napoleon said, snagging the sleeve of the first person who strode by. He'd seen her around Section 8 when he'd come to visit Illya, had a vague idea she had something to do with biochemistry, but couldn't have told anyone what her name was if his life had depended on it. Considering she was just as curvaceous as the receptionist, Napoleon was certain Illya would have been surprised at his lack of reaction to her, given his reputation. "Oh, that's not his lab any more," she said, then glanced at her watch. "But he'll be back shortly. Did you want to wait for him?" Napoleon was certain the question was more a response to his obvious injuries than any kind of overture, or even the actions of a friend of a friend, but he wasn't going to complain. He followed his rescuer down the corridor, passing a couple of closed doors before they came to one that stood ajar. "If you go through the laboratory, Mr. Solo, you'll find Illya's office." Napoleon headed straight to the door at the other end of the lab and pushed it open. On the other side he found a sparsely-furnished room with concrete walls, like one of the cells in the detention center but without the ambience, furnished with a couple of chairs, a plain desk, and a small cot. The desk was piled high with papers and books, each in unsteady piles that seemed to threaten a landslide at any moment. Clearly, the woman who sent him here had been right - this was unmistakably Illya's office. Napoleon settled himself in the more comfortable-looking of the chairs and waited for Illya to arrive. Illya came into the room about ten minutes later, looking as though he'd run most of the way from wherever he'd been. Napoleon glanced at the clock which hung on the nearby wall and wondered where Illya had been, and why he'd come back in such a hurry. "I heard you were back," Illya said without any preamble at all. He looked at the piles of papers then, almost as if he expected something to demand his attention. "Were you badly hurt?" "I've had worse." Napoleon wasn't sure what made him reticent, when previously he would have been looking for sympathy, but the concern that was clear in Illya's eyes was enough for him. "The sling's just a precaution." Illya nodded curtly, but he looked less worried, the matter of fact tone that Napoleon had used being accepted at face value. "Do you have time for lunch?" Illya glanced at his desk again, then back at Napoleon. At least it was a struggle between work and food, even if Napoleon wasn't certain his invitation was going to come out on top. "My lunch hour is over," Illya said, finally. "But we could have dinner." He paused, and Napoleon waited, since the pause was clearly significant. "At my place." The grin was fleeting, but Napoleon saw it anyway, and knew that its twin was forming on his own face. "When did Waverly let you out?" "A week ago." Illya took the topmost paper from one of the piles. "Before that, I think I was using the cot in here a little too much for his liking." Napoleon glanced over at it and felt his back stiffen in sympathy. He knew from long experience that Illya could sleep on a board, or standing up if he needed to, but that cot still looked supremely uncomfortable. "It should be considered a humanitarian gesture," he said, getting up from his seat with more than a little effort. Napoleon was conscious of Illya's eyes on him, conscious too that if he'd even looked in Illya's direction his friend would have been there, helping him. That would, however, have been a little more than he could bear at this point in time, however well-intentioned. "I always knew the Old Man had it in him." "I'll get home around 7," Illya said, a little absently, his interest returned to his paperwork. Napoleon recognized a dismissal when he heard one, and headed for the door. He didn't look round, but he didn't need to - an agent's sixth sense told him he was still being watched. ------------------------- Napoleon spent the rest of the afternoon lying low in his office, wary of a summons to the infirmary that never came, and wondering just what Illya Kuryakin was up to. He'd had enough time to take a trip to Security, picking up a pile of surveillance material that only served to pique his interest. Whatever it was Illya had been doing before he left, Napoleon could see that his former partner now had quite a routine going - enough that the people who worked with him in Section 8 knew when he would and wouldn't be available for visitors. Still, the best way to resolve all of this would be to have it out with Illya himself, and he'd have a prime opportunity for that this evening. It had been a while since he'd been alone with this Illya, since there were relatively few places in UNCLE New York where the surveillance equipment didn't stray, and both of them had been busy with their respective roles. Getting to Illya's apartment before he did, Napoleon resisted the urge to let himself in and case the place before Illya got home. That was hardly civilized behavior, was it? As much as he wanted to know what Illya was up to, it was unlikely there would be anything incriminating lying around in his apartment - or at least nothing he was likely to find between now and when Illya got there. He was still considering the pros and cons of that idea when Illya arrived, carrying takeout that smelled like Chinese. Enough for an army, by all appearances, which made sense if Illya had skipped lunch in favor of whatever it was he'd been doing instead. There'd be some answer to that particular question tonight, Napoleon decided, pushing himself upright from where he'd been leaning against the wall. "I assume you haven't been here long," Illya said, shifting the takeout from one arm to the other as he searched his jacket pockets for keys. "Otherwise you would have made yourself at home?" "Here." Napoleon took the carryout from Illya with his good arm, which speeded up matters dramatically. "And I resent the accusation I'd break into your apartment solely for my own convenience." "Well, there'd be no other reason," Illya said, finally fishing his door key from the last pocket he searched. "Unless you've suddenly acquired a better taste in literature than your reputation gives you." He opened the door and gestured Napoleon in. "You seem to know an awful lot about my reputation." Napoleon unceremoniously deposited the carryout on the battered kitchen table that stood under one of the windows. "All things considered, do I need to tell you that those kind of rumors should be taken with a generous pinch of salt?" He turned to find Illya observing him from just inside the apartment. For the briefest of moments, Napoleon wasn't certain he knew this man, the well-known environment making the differences more marked than before. Then a familiar amused expression appeared on Illya's face, and changed all that in an instant. "I had come to that conclusion myself." Illya began to unpack the containers, each one releasing its own particular aroma. "Since surely it would not be possible for someone to become Chief Enforcement Agent and have the time to indulge all of the behavior I have heard recounted over the past few weeks." He'd heard the stories, of course - Napoleon had even helped to embroider them on occasion when he didn't feel they were up to par - but they'd never before been anything other than a source of amusement. Except on those occasions when he suspected Waverly had heard the latest of them, of course, which always seemed to coincide with missions Napoleon particularly didn't enjoy. "That sounds like a reasonable conclusion to draw," Napoleon agreed, oddly relieved Illya didn't believe the stories he'd heard. Certainly he had made the acquaintance of the many interesting women employed by UNCLE, not to mention a number of those employed by Thrush, but there was a tendency in those tales to make it sound like he was solely driven by his libido. "The life of an enforcement agent doesn't really allow for those kinds of encounter on that sort of scale." Napoleon took the plate Illya offered him and began to help himself to the food, before pulling one of Illya's mismatched kitchen chairs over and sitting down. He'd always considered settling down, of course, but there was just something about his current life that Napoleon intended to enjoy to the extreme for as long as he was physically able. Everything else had taken second place to that, though he'd been lucky enough with his friends, the friends he'd made through his work with UNCLE. The foremost of whom was sitting opposite him, using a fork to push the last piece of water chestnut around his plate in a desultory manner. Napoleon watched Illya, enjoying the fact that his friend was so absorbed in something, even something trivial, he was apparently unaware of his surroundings or that he was being observed. He couldn't help thinking of all the hours he'd spent, watching over Illya in the infirmary or keeping watch when they were on a mission. Not this Illya, of course, or at least not quite. Those were hours he'd never get back, a partnership that would never be rekindled. "Want to tell me what's going on?" Napoleon asked, almost startled at the words even as he spoke them. Illya's head snapped up, the fork stopping its movements with a squeal of metal against dinner plate. "Going on?" Illya echoed, though he must have known his reaction had given the game away. He'd been so startled, his eyes momentarily wide, that even someone who didn't know Illya Kuryakin as well as Napoleon did could have read him like a book. "I don't know..." "Your little disappearing acts." Napoleon looked down at his own plate, at the food congealing there, and felt his stomach roil. With a deliberate movement, he put down his fork and pushed the plate away from him. "Missing lunch in favor of what, exactly?" The very idea of Illya missing lunch once would have been sufficient to pique Napoleon's interest - there was nothing he could think of that would have engrossed his former partner to the point where he'd ignore the reminder of his stomach that it was lunchtime. And if that was true of one occasion, it was even less likely to be a regular occurrence. "Very well." Illya had already mimicked Napoleon's gesture, pushing his plate away from him, and now he got up from his chair and walked out of the kitchen. Intrigued, Napoleon followed him into the other room. "So. Spill." Napoleon maneuvered himself into the less-worn of the two armchairs, feeling it give a little under his weight, then focused his attention on Illya once more. "I had hoped to surprise you," Illya said, with a small, self-deprecating smile. "And it seems I have outdone myself." "Surprise me?" Napoleon watched Illya pace back and forth in the small room. He didn't need to move his head since there was little enough space; the movement was almost hypnotic. Illya turned suddenly, bringing his down hands on the arms of the chair and trapping Napoleon in his seat. "What is it that you want from me?" Illya asked, his question as sudden as Napoleon's had been. Illya didn't look away, though he was much closer to Napoleon than he could ever feel comfortable with. Napoleon's mouth was suddenly dry, all the fantasies he'd harbored about Illya rushing back in a torrent of too-graphic imagery. He was certain his face flushed, while other parts of his body also reacted to his former partner's proximity, and his heart seemed determined to hammer its way out of his chest. "I don't want anything," Napoleon replied, when he could find the words. That alone took some time, since it took every ounce of self-control he had not to take advantage of the current situation. Illya couldn't know what he'd done, surely he couldn't. "Really." He'd been so close to convincing Illya, even this Illya who couldn't know him as well as he'd known the one he'd spent the past few years practically living with, but that last word had still blown it all out of the water. Illya's eyes widened a little, his gaze becoming even more calculating - a thing Napoleon hadn't thought possible - and Napoleon knew he'd made a mistake. Illya nodded once, a curt movement that spoke of new-found certainty. Napoleon was about to speak, to protest this odd situation once more, when Illya moved suddenly, one knee coming forward to rest on the seat between Napoleon's legs and a hand on the back of the chair to the left of Napoleon's head. Before he could form the words, and certainly before he could speak them, Napoleon found himself pressed back against the armchair by all of Illya's weight, his mouth hot on Napoleon's, swallowing any objection he might have made. ------------------------- Illya's mouth tasted of sweet and sour sauce, and he pulled back when his weight made Napoleon wince, an unexpected jolt of pain courtesy of his cracked ribs. As far as Napoleon would let him, anyway, since Napoleon grabbed Illya's jacket with his free hand, the one that wasn't trapped between them because of the sling, and stopped him from escaping completely. "Not so fast," Napoleon said. "I think you owe me an explanation." Illya looked down at where Napoleon's fingers curled tightly into the material of his jacket, then up again at Napoleon without blinking. His face was impassive, almost unreadable for anyone who hadn't met Illya Kuryakin before, whatever he really felt almost hidden behind a façade that pretended to no emotions at all. "What makes you think that I am the one who should be explaining himself?" Illya snapped, his voice glacial even though he'd been the one responsible for what had just happened. Napoleon shrugged, trying to ignore the further pain that movement caused; the only clue that he hadn't succeeded was the slight softening of Illya's expression, a tiny thaw in the ice. He let go of Illya's jacket, wondering how far he'd run given the chance. "I know you said you were going to surprise me, Illya. But that wasn't quite what I imagined." Except that wasn't true, was it? Napoleon's conscience pricked at him for the lie, considering that this Illya wasn't someone who had years of friendship to fall back on, to base an attraction on, and yet he'd still taken a significant gamble. If nothing else, Illya had read the situation more accurately than he could have known. "I'm sure that it was not," Illya replied. At least he wasn't pacing again, though Napoleon wasn't certain that the motionless figure of his former partner, currently standing at the window as if he was uncertain if he should throw himself out, was any more reassuring. "I had planned to tell you something." Illya paused, then the words came out in a rush. "That I intend to seek Mr. Waverly's approval to return to Section 2." "You do?" Illya didn't look round, but his posture stiffened at Napoleon's response. Napoleon let out a breath, considering. "Well, I guess that explains what you've been up to." He could put two and two together as well as the next agent. That was a fact Illya seemed to have forgotten, not that this Illya had any reason to know that the man who'd been his former self's partner was no slouch when it came to figuring out what was going on. Those regular disappearances, the missed lunches, it was all starting to make sense now. "You knew?" Illya turned to look at him, his expression puzzled and more than a little uncertain. "I had a theory," Napoleon conceded. "About how you'd been occupying yourself all these months." Illya still looked like he might bolt, though there was also a familiar, resolute expression on his face. If he was honest with himself, Napoleon wasn't certain how he felt about the idea, though he guessed he should have been jumping at the chance of getting his partner back. If only this was his partner and not someone else who just happened to have the same body and the same past. "But that doesn't explain what happened just now." Napoleon knew he wasn't fast enough to intercept Illya if he did decide to leave, not in his current condition, but he had to know what was happening here. "I needed to know," Illya said, then stopped. The words had been calm, the tone measured, but it didn't take a mind reader to see the effort behind the calmness, particularly once those words had ground to a halt. "I am not the Illya Kuryakin who was your partner." Napoleon shifted uncomfortably in the armchair, wondering if he was the one who ought to be pacing now. He had a bad feeling about where this conversation might lead, if this Illya had ideas about how Napoleon felt about the man who had been his partner. Particularly since those ideas were probably going to be right. "It is the view of the doctors that I will never recover my memory," Illya said, his tone more resolute now. "So I must endeavor to make a new life for myself." He looked at Napoleon then, the same expression on his face that Napoleon had seen from much closer just moments before. The room suddenly seemed a little claustrophobic. "The only question that remains to be answered," Illya continued, "is whether that life will be in Section 8 or Section 2." "And how does what just happened figure into that?" Napoleon asked, feeling out of his depth. He thought he knew what was going on, with Illya's revelation about his clandestine activities making perfect sense, but this was the piece of the puzzle that didn't quite fit. "Not that I'm complaining," he continued, and made himself smile. "Even if I'm usually the one that makes the first move..." "I wanted to know if you could feel the same way," Illya said. "About me, as I am now, since it was obvious you were in love with the man I used to be." "How obvious?" Napoleon choked out, momentarily at a loss for words - that wasn't something which happened too often. Illya turned back to the window and Napoleon wondered if he'd seen what he wanted, if he found Napoleon as easy to read as he'd been able to interpret how Illya was feeling. That would be an irony almost beyond bearing, if he was the one being reeled in like a fish when he'd thought he had the upper hand. "I see that your reputation is well-earned," Illya said, still resolutely interested in whatever he could see from the apartment window. "It's nice to know you can still react to a warm body, Napoleon, even if it's not quite the one you really want." It took a moment for the words to sink in. Even then, Napoleon still didn't feel as though he understood what it was Illya was saying - there was definitely some kind of barrier between them, forcing him to interpret what the other man meant and struggling to make sense of it. Could Illya really believe that he'd have reacted the same way to anyone? It wasn't that simple; it could probably never be that simple where Illya Kuryakin was concerned. Napoleon struggled up from the armchair's embrace, using his good arm to lever himself up when he thought he might be trapped there forever. Illya hadn't moved. Napoleon knew he needed to say something - this wasn't the way to leave things between them, with Illya thinking the worst, even if he had a sneaking suspicion it might be closer to the truth about himself than Napoleon was comfortable with. "If you want to be my partner, Illya, I'll be glad to have you back." ------------------------- It might be considered cowardly, but Napoleon deliberately used his knowledge of UNCLE's New York building to keep a healthy distance between himself and Illya for the next couple of days. If Illya wanted to return to Section 2, it had to be better that he was approaching Mr. Waverly because of a desire to return to active duty than because he felt his former partner wanted him. Even if Napoleon couldn't think of anything better than being partnered with any version of Illya Kuryakin that would have him. Where he'd been tortured by imagination, now Napoleon's subconscious had something to work with, all sorts of fantasies based on the bedrock of that kiss, a kiss he'd been too shocked to appreciate even as it was happening. He had no intention of playing such a passive role if a similar situation ever happened again. When the summons came, calling him from his final check-up in the infirmary to report to Mr. Waverly immediately, Napoleon was already certain what it meant. He'd been wondering when Illya planned to speak with the Old Man, and now it seemed he had - all that remained was to see if Mr. Waverly trusted Illya, or felt he was ready to return to the field. Over the past couple of days Napoleon had pieced together the final pieces in the puzzle of what Illya had done; unarmed combat sessions he'd arranged to allow his mind to catch up with what his body already knew, hours spent poring over procedure manuals or reports of their former missions. It seemed obvious, now he considered it, and Napoleon wondered how he hadn't seen it before. He'd sown the seed, after all, by telling Illya he was an enforcement agent in the first place. In hindsight, that could have been a mistake. If Illya hadn't been able to prove his loyalty, if he hadn't even been allowed out of the building because it was felt they couldn't trust him, how would Illya have coped with being restricted to Section 8 work? He might explain that he enjoyed laboratory work as well, but that was surely when he had the choice - given no choice at all, Illya might feel differently about being tied to Section 8 indefinitely with no chance of reprieve. The door to the office slid open as he approached, a smile for Mr. Waverly's secretary already on his lips. Inside, as he'd suspected, Illya was already seated at one of the chairs that surrounded the circular table. "Ah, Mr. Solo," Waverly said, when he entered. "Do take a seat." He gestured with his unlit pipe toward the empty chairs and, as was his former habit, Napoleon took the one next to Illya. Mr. Waverly turned his attention to the papers in front of him, shuffling through them and then selecting a single folder before he spun the table. It stopped directly in front of where Napoleon was sitting and he reached forward to flip open the folder. "Are you familiar with the work of Malevich, Mr. Solo?" Waverly asked, as Solo found himself looking at a number of color photographs. The topmost seemed to be of a black square and he frowned at it, sorting through them until he found one that actually looked like a painting. In this case, a self-portrait of a stern-faced man wearing a red beret. "The Russian Suprematist painter?" Napoleon said, recognizing at least one of the other paintings even if the solid black square wasn't one that he'd seen before. While he was in college, he'd had a girlfriend who was obsessed with cubism and futurism, and for once Napoleon blessed the fact he'd been paying much more attention to what she said than she would probably have given him credit for. "Ukrainian," Illya said, quietly, from the next chair. Napoleon stifled a smile. Trust Illya to point out that Malevich was a fellow countryman, establishing his part in their partnership even if Waverly seemed determined to avoid telling them that was what was happening here. "Yes, Mr. Solo," Waverly continued, without apparently having heard Illya's aside. "Through a series of circumstances, UNCLE has come into possession of a previously-unknown Malevich painting, one which the Soviet Union would very much like returned." Napoleon never particularly enjoyed going to the Eastern Bloc, always a little concerned that they might decide not to let his partner return to the West, regardless of the Soviet Union's agreement with UNCLE. If they had got word of the fact that Illya had been compromised in any way, wasn't he at even more risk than usual? If Waverly was really allowing Illya back into Section 2, which he hadn't yet said he was, then surely this was a particularly dangerous way to christen their new partnership? If he wasn't going to agree to Illya's request, then what was Illya doing here? Napoleon looked down at the photographs again, seeking the right words to explain the problem, words that would convince the Old Man that this wasn't the mission for them. When he looked up, Waverly's eyes were on him, cool and calculating as ever, sharper than his age should allow. "When do we leave, sir?" Napoleon asked, sure he saw no room for maneuver in that implacable expression. "Pick a team you can trust, Mr. Solo," Waverly said, after a pause that seemed to last an eternity. "I need them ready to leave for Moscow within the hour." Waverly picked up his pipe. "And in the morning," he continued, "you can acquaint Mr. Kuryakin with the paperwork incumbent on his new position as an enforcement agent." Waverly nodded, the dismissal clear, and both of them left his office before he could change his mind. ------------------------- "You should have persuaded Mr. Waverly to let us take that mission," Illya said, as the elevator door closed and separated them from the rest of the world. At least he'd waited that long, though Napoleon had hoped they might make it all the way to his office before the subject was broached. "He'd already made up his mind," Napoleon said. He wasn't watching Illya, concentrating instead on the numbers as they lit above the doors, marking their progress down through the building. "You know that." Did Illya know that? For a moment, Napoleon's concentration wavered as he wondered whether he was taking Illya's perceptiveness for granted; the Illya he'd known would have been able to read Mr. Waverly as easily as he had, but this one? He couldn't be sure. "Perhaps." Illya sounded disgruntled, and Napoleon had to stifle a smile. "And perhaps he does not really trust me, despite everything." That statement, spoken with some petulance, made Napoleon turn to look at Illya. He'd leaned back against the elevator wall, shoulders to the brushed steel, his arms crossed in front of him as if he expected an attack. If Napoleon hadn't known just how old Illya was, the tone alone would have reminded him of a teenager who'd just been grounded. "If he didn't trust you," Napoleon pointed out, taking care to make his tone as reasonable as possible because of the annoyance he was certain it would cause, "you'd still be sleeping on a cot in your laboratory." He looked back at the numbers, the movement an unspoken warning, if Illya needed one. There were not many places in UNCLE's New York headquarters that were out of the sight of surveillance cameras, and the elevator wasn't one of them. "I'll see you at nine tomorrow morning," Napoleon said, when the elevator doors slid open at his floor. He wasn't surprised when Illya didn't move or even acknowledge that he had spoken. As he made the necessary phone calls, summoning a replacement team who could drop everything and head for the Soviet Union at short notice, Napoleon wondered what Illya thought he was playing at. Hadn't he got what he wanted? Somehow, despite the handicap presented by his memory loss, Illya had been able to persuade Mr. Waverly he was more of an asset to UNCLE in the field than in the laboratory, and yet he still wasn't satisfied. Still, that was something he could deal with tomorrow. ------------------------- The first clue something was amiss was the fact his alarm wasn't set. Napoleon pushed the door to his apartment open a little further, certain of what he would probably find but wary just in case he was wrong. He wasn't. "Perhaps," Illya said, "it is you who does not trust me." Napoleon holstered his UNCLE Special with a sigh - clearly, Illya had no intention of letting the subject drop. "After all, I have lost a significant part of my memory." "Clearly not the part that involves breaking and entering," Napoleon said, crossing over to check the alarm panel for tampering. Either Illya had learned that particular skill earlier in his life than he'd previously thought, or he was a quick study and this was another item to add to the list of things he'd managed to re-learn. "To the point," Illya continued, as if Napoleon hadn't spoken, "where you do not know who I am. You worry that I am a stranger to you." Napoleon nodded, willing to concede the point. He'd given that more than a little thought, uncertain how much of the man whose face he'd recognize anywhere, in any disguise, was now a stranger to him. "I am still Illya Kuryakin." Illya crossed to stand directly in front of Napoleon. "I know that," Napoleon said. Illya's expression told Napoleon he doubted that was true. "You've lost so much," he continued, when it was clear Illya wasn't going to say any more. "Not just things you can read about or skills you can pick up, given enough time." Illya's expression shifted a little; he was interested now, Napoleon could see that, reading him as easily as he would have read his Illya. But that Illya had never been his. He'd missed that opportunity, yet the universe had reset itself, even if Illya had been the one to pay the price. "I am here," Illya said, "and he is not." Napoleon was still considering whether to reach out to Illya and damn the consequences, uncertain if this was the invitation his libido took it for. The price for misjudging the situation seemed too high to risk. "If I am right," Illya began, then shook his head. "No, it seems that I misunderstood." He turned toward the door. "No." Napoleon reacted, finally, reaching out at last - he grabbed hold of Illya's jacket, feeling the material crumple in his grip, pulling him back to face Napoleon. "I was the one who didn't understand." His other hand was resting on Illya's shoulder now, though Napoleon couldn't have said how it got there. He slid it to Illya's neck, fingers feathering through the hair at his nape. Illya's eyes were intent on him, unflinching, as if in search of a motive. He couldn't blame Illya for that - he'd been confused about who Illya was, certain that the man he'd wanted so much was lost forever. Illya's mouth was hot under his, the skin of his neck silk under Napoleon's questing fingers, his body all muscled heat and hardness as Napoleon took a step forward, pressing Illya against the wall. For the briefest of moments, he thought Illya was resisting, worried that he had misjudged things, but then he felt Illya responding to him. His hands, those capable hands he'd watched over the years, slid across Napoleon's back, pulling them even closer. This was Illya, just as the Illya he'd fantasized about had been, just as the man he'd met still fresh from Survival School had been. They were one and the same, regardless of what they knew or what they remembered, and he'd had to be convinced of that fact. In the end, it had only been because Illya reacted as he often did, facing his problem head-on, that Napoleon had caught a clue. So, nothing had really changed. He could feel Illya's erection pressing hard against his thigh, the subtle shift of weight that accompanied his abortive attempt to grind himself against Napoleon's hip, the solidity of his own arousal. All that was real was encompassed by a small space of reality, and that was just the way Napoleon liked it. When Illya pulled his mouth away, face flushed with what had to be a mixture of embarrassment and arousal, Napoleon caught his breath for a moment, waiting to see what his partner had to say now. "Take me to bed, Napoleon," he said, "or I shall not be responsible for the consequences." ~ fin ~

Disclaimer: Man from UNCLE and its characters belong to someone or other who isn't me. This story is written for entertainment purposes only - no money whatsoever has changed hands. No copyright infringement is intended. The original characters, situations and storyline are the property of the author - not to be archived elsewhere without permission.