Stay By My Side      Stay By My Side by ChannelD  
 

Illya struggled along the narrow dirt track, weighed down by the load he
carried, harried along by shouts and the occasional lash of the whip
around his bare legs. He had no idea how long he had been walking, where
he was going, or who the men around him were. Why they had him was also
not clear. 

He had first been captured an unknown time ago in New York by one of the
few remaining Thrush satraps. His years in Enforcement behind him, he
supposed he had been less than vigilant, and he had been caught and
sedated, transported while unconscious to a white, featureless room where
he woke up, strapped to a hospital bed with two IV lines running. 

They tried a variety of drugs on him while they interrogated him around
the clock. A minor project he had been working on in his spare time had
suddenly assumed great importance to someonehe couldn't think why and
didn't really care. It was work information and therefore secret. He
wouldn't tell them. He wouldn't answer their misleading questions,
wouldn't go along with the little dramas they set up, trying to fool him
into talking to them, wouldn't say a word. He closed his mouth stubbornly
and kept it closed. The drug dosages grew with their frustration and he
combated it as best he could, as he had been taught. And they were getting
careless; ignoring their doctors, who hovered around Illya's bed,
monitoring his heart rate, oxygen level and blood pressure, keeping him
conscious, keeping him aware. Keeping him alive. But despite their
ministrations he had twice now been thrown into violent convulsions and
once into deep coma and now he couldn't have told them anything if he had
wanted to. He barely remembered who he was, and that there was another
life beyond these walls. 

One night there had been a series of shattering blasts, then three
monstrous explosions, one after the other. Everyone had fled and Illya had
struggled against the restraints. Was he being rescued? He had held onto
the idea of rescue through everything. Napoleonhis former field partner
and still closest friendwouldn't let them abandon the search. He would
push them as he used to push Alexander Waverly, and then he would come and
take Illya away from here. It was his only hope, his final hope. When
things got really bad, when they had been shining the lights in his face
and shouting at him for so many hours that his head spun and his eyes
closed despite it all and he couldn't be sure whether he was asleep or
awake because it was all the same nightmare, he would think about Napoleon
with all his might, picture him laughing, talking, serious with
concentration or smiling at Illya in the way he had, gently, as if bemused
by his own foibles. 

"I trust you," he'd said once after a particularly harrowing mission. They
were relaxing by the pool at their resort hotel where they had been
granted one night of luxury before being summoned back to New York. "And
you know I'm not supposed to." 

"I know. I trust you too." 

"Totally against procedure." 

"Yes." 

"And I like you. I like you enormouslyfar more than I should." 

"Thank you." He'd been shy of revealing so much, but how could he leave
Napoleon without a response? "I like you too. Moremuch more than is
approved." 

"You want to hear something truly reprehensible?" 

"Yes." 

"Sometimes I even find myself thinking that your life is more important
than some of the fool's errands they've risked it on." 

"High treason." But Illya was smiling, and Napoleon smiled back. "I won't
tell if you won't." 

"Deal." Napoleon had extended his hand and Illya had taken it. They shook
solemnly, then Napoleon's expression had changed. He had held on to
Illya's hand, thumb making slow circles on the back. "You know," he'd said
and Illya had swallowed, met his eyes. "The field assignments won't last
forever." 

"No." Illya remembered wanting to hold on to this moment forever, for
Napoleon to stay just as he was, caressing his hand, watching him with
that look that said his thoughts were deep, and private. Then Napoleon had
released him, lay back against the chair and put his sunglasses on. Illya
had done the same, and they had not spoken of it again, but in the year
since the fieldwork was indeed ended for both of them, they had spent a
great deal of time together, and Napoleon's romantic liaisons had
diminished in frequency. It had seemed clear that they were heading for
somethingsomething Illya couldn't even really picture but Napoleon had a
plan, he was confident, and he would follow Napoleon's plan willingly, he
wouldHis foot caught a tree root and he fell, face down in the dust. 

They were on him instantly, kicking him and beating him, pouring a torrent
of abuse over him in a polyglot of tongues that he had never let on he
understood. They had come into his blank white room, these rough men,
dirty and dressed in tattered uniforms and pulled him from the bed, yanked
the IV lines from his arms and pushed him out ahead of them. The violence
had dissolved Illya's hopes of rescue, so he was not surprised when they
tied him up outside the deserted building and tortured him for information
as to what the foreigners had been up to. Of course Illya didn't know, and
the fact that he had been left behind indicated as much but they gave him
several jolts with the cattle prod one of them carried anyway, and put
cigarette burns on his stomach and the inside of his elbow. He wanted to
keep quiet but cried out in pain despite himself and a filthy rag was
jammed into his mouth, smothering the sounds he couldn't help making. 

On the trail, he found his silence again. They loaded him down with their
packs and tied his hands behind his back, shoved him forward and he went
with them, still stupefied by the drugs and lack of sleep, still wearing
only the green hospital gown and slippers. 

It had been many days now. He had no idea. Every day was a torment of
walking and falling and beatings, insects and heat, thirst and pain. At
night, when they made their camp, they tied him to a tree. They raped him
with the same indiscriminate greed with which they ate and drank; it was
nothing personal, he was there and available so they used him, grunting
and sweating as they drove into him and then left him, always, always
making sure his bonds were secure. 

It worried him, that his mind was still affected. It seemed the drugs
should have worn off by now. But he couldn't track timesometimes losing
whole stretches of the day, sometimes seemingly trapped in the eternity
between one step and the next. He didn't know that he was deeply in shock.
He only knew that his mental confusion seemed to be getting worse, not
better, that there was an odd surrealism to every waking moment, that
sleep eluded him even when he was left alone, finally, for the night. He
was jittery, and jumped at every unexpected sound, flinched from every
touch. Sometimes he couldn't be sure of the path ahead of him as it
flickered and shimmered like a heat mirage, making him irrationally
convinced that the very next step would plunge him into an abyss, balking
and refusing to move on until jolted forward by the cattle prod. He didn't
connect any of that with the crumpled leaves they stuffed into his mouth
several times a day, telling him to chew. His throat was always parched
and at least chewing provided some moisture. And it did seem to give him
strengthso he was grateful for the coca leaves without recognizing them,
and took them without protest. 

He protested nothing. He withdrew further and further inside his mind as
his senses became increasingly unreliable. At night he kept his eyes
tightly closed until whoever it was finished, and during the day he stared
fixedly at the trail and waited for rescue. 

 

They were drinking tonight. They had stopped earlier on the way and waited
while four from their party had gone to trade. Illya lay on his side in
the dirt, hands still tied behind him, and was thankful for every moment
that he didn't have to walk. Another of those odd blanks in time had
occurred then and the next time he was fully aware of anything, he was
being dragged across a clearing by two of them while the rest waited by a
large flat rock, drinking and talking and laughing. Illya closed his eyes
when they threw him onto the stone, on his stomach. Someone was holding
his arms twisted up behind his back and someone else covered his mouth. He
tried to turn his head away because it was dreadful, breathing that hot
sweaty palm but the hand only tightened and the whip came down on his
back, reminding him to be still. 

A shot rang out, and another. Something heavy crashed onto his back,
making it hard to breathe but his face and his arms were released. He
struggled to get out from under the body because he couldn't catch his
breath, he couldn'the writhed and twisted and suddenly was free. He fell
off the rock, landed hard. All was quiet around him, then Napoleon's voice
came out of the darkness. 

"All righttoss that gun into the clearing. You too." 

Napoleon was here! Right here, rescuing him! Illya stood up, looked
around, and there he was! Standing at the head of the path where it opened
into their campsite, wearing black pants, black short sleeved shirt and
sturdy walking shoes, and holding a lethal looking weapon. With safety in
reach, Illya stumbled out from behind the boulder and started towards him.


"Illya! Down!" Illya obeyed the shouted order without thought and
something sang over his head. 

Napoleon fired again, rapidly, raking the trees and bushes with a
withering line of bullets because someone had shot at Illya and now that
he was exposed, the time for surrender had passed. When he was satisfied
that nothing lived within the clearing besides he himself and his partner,
he ran to him. "Illya." He couldn't get over the way Illya had just stood
up in the middle of a firefight and started walking. He had known that
Illya had been drugged and interrogated at Thrush headquarters"Another
Thrush plaything," Alexander Waverly had said of another agent long ago
and the phrase had tormented him after Illya's disappearance. Illya was no
one's plaything. Illya washe was special. Brilliant. Courageous. Napoleon
had argued until his voice was hoarse against the decision to step down
the search. He had cited Illya's record, his scientific achievements, his
years of service. His loyalty. The long string of successes he and
Napoleon had shared. But Illya had been gone for twelve weeks with not a
hint of an information leak. The projects he had been working on had been
shut down. 

"Policy," Burton had said curtly, "is there for a reason. If they get
information, it is within the first few weeks. After that the agent in
question is either dead or sufficiently damaged as to be irrecoverable.
The very process necessary to protect secured information is traumatic to
the brain. You know that." And nothing Napoleon could say would convince
them. So he had defied them. 

"I'm going after my partner," he'd said finally, bitterly regretting the
wasted weeks. 

"Permission denied." 

"I am not asking permission. I am telling you. Gentlemen..." He rose,
bowed slightly and left the room. He had ignored the messages that came in
over his radio, over his telephone, via computer. So they suspended his
privileges. They closed down his expense account, and his radio frequency.
They barred him from headquarters until a disciplinary meeting could be
held. He left his radio and his ID card on his dining room table, along
with his standard issue gunindependently wealthy, he could do without
them, could buy his own weapons and transport. He had his own lines of
communication too; had his reputation, which was formidable and opened
many doors. The last thing he had done before confronting them that day
was to get papers for himself and Illya, papers that would let them ride
public transportation, cross borders and, hopefully, return to the United
States without incident. 

It had been a difficult search. He used old contacts both legal and
illegal, spent a great deal of moneybut there was always more money and
finally he found his way to the Thrush satrap in the South American
jungle. He had stood in the middle of a vast complex, deserted now and
stared at the narrow bed with the heavy restraints, two IV poles lying on
the floor and thought of how Illya hated being confined, how he loved the
outdoorshow he detested being drugged. His eyes hardened as he looked at
the bed and pictured Illya on it, suffering and looking to Napoleon to
save him. And he would. The hoodlums who had trashed this facility would
have left a trailand they had. 

He followed that trail into the mountains, tracked them for days, looking
for and once finding a sign that Illya was still with thema pair of
hospital slippers, abandoned in a mud puddle. Napoleon ground his teeth
and continued. How could headquarters write Illya off? He didn't
understand it. Illya was the best in his field. He was irreplaceable. And
Illya was more than a top agent. Illya was smart, and funny, and sweetwith
an engaging smile and wide blue eyes, skin as soft aswell, he couldn't
think of a comparison but it was soft, it wasand Illya's hair was a golden
flood when not prudently restrained in the neat ponytail usually hidden
away under his jacket. He and Illya had been moving towards one another
since their first meeting and close as they had become there were still
new depths to explore. Napoleon knew it and he had made sure Illya knew it
too. The biggest mistake he'd ever made was in assuming they had all the
time in the world. So they had moved slowly, too slowlyand now Illya was
gone. What else could Napoleon do but go after him? Even if it meant his
job, his life as he knew it. 

He had come upon the campsite at nightpitch-black night and all should
have been quiet on the mountain but it wasn't. The men he was tracking
were celebrating. They were shouting and singing and laughing and it had
been an easy matter to approach unobserved. They were roughing Illya upit
was hard to see details by the torches they were using but Illya's hair
had caught the light, and he was surrounded so Napoleon had shot the men
closest to him. The rest had scattered, looking for their discarded
weapons and Illya had taken cover behind the boulderor so Napoleon had
thought. But he had been wrong, so he had killed them all and now he was
crouched beside Illya, cutting the rope that bound his wrists, checking
him for blood. 

"Did it hit you?" 

"What?" 

"Are you shot?" 

"I don'twhat? Napoleon!" Illya clutched at him, pulling himself to his
knees and throwing both arms around Napoleon's shoulders. "Napoleon,
Napoleon. I knew you'd come." 

"Good." Napoleon patted his back awkwardly. "Illyaare there more of them?"


"What?" The only fact he knew was that Napoleon was here, right here,
right in front of him. His hands tightened on Napoleon's shirt. 

"We need to move," Napoleon said grimly. "I'll find you something else to
wear. Let go." 

"No." He didn't. Napoleon couldn't leave him again. His fists closed on
the cloth he held. 

"Let go," Napoleon repeated, not wanting to push Illya away, wanting him
to understand. "We have to get out of here. We just made a great deal of
noise and I want to put some distance between them," he indicated the
bodies sprawled on the ground, "and us. Illya. Let go of me." 

"No!" Illya clung harder, because only with Napoleon's scent right in his
nostrils, Napoleon's body solid against his, was there safety. But
Napoleon reached behind him, gripped Illya's wrists and pulled his hands
free. He rose. 

"Are there more of them?" he repeated. 

"What?" 

"Never mind. Wait right here." He started to move towards the tents, out
of Illya's immediate range of vision and into the haze that surrounded
everything. Illya struggled to his feet, ran forward and caught Napoleon's
arm again. Napoleon turned to look into his face, for the first time and
his heart sank. He had assumed that once they were together, they would
escape togetheras a team. Despite the dire predictions he hadn't believed
that Illya would bedamaged. But he hadn't even returned a coherent answer
to any of Napoleon's questions, had he? No, he hadn't. And he looked so
frightenedNapoleon sighed. "All right," he said gently. "But stay right
beside me so I know where you are. And don't grab my gun hand." 

"I won't." Illya wound both arms around Napoleon's own arm and pressed his
forehead to Napoleon's shoulder. "I'll do whatever you say. Just don't
leave me again." 

"I won't." He turned his arm so he could take one of Illya's hands in his
own, and squeezed it reassuringly. In the biggest tent, he found clothes
for Illya that were better than the shreds of hospital gown he was
wearing. When Illya fumbled and dropped them, Napoleon first stripped then
dressed him with impersonal efficiency because they had to move, they had
to. Illya's feet were bare and Napoleon winced, thinking of the
rock-strewn path. It took more time with the bodies but he managed to find
a pair of sandals that fit. Illya smiled at him. And Napoleon, who had
seen the terrible bruises mottling Illya's fair skin, had seen the whip
marks, the cigarette burns and the other burns, the ones that looked
electrical and probably werehe had seen the cattle prod, too, propped
against one of the tent postsmanaged to smile back. He rose, helped Illya
to his feet. He didn't really know what to say. 

"It's all right now." 

"I know." Illya watched Napoleon shoulder his own backpack. "I can carry
something," he offered, because for Napoleon, he wouldn't mind, for
Napoleon, he would do anything, and Napoleon shook his head. 

"Better not. It's a long trip home and you don't look very well." 

"I'm not well." Tears filled his eyes, Napoleon's sympathy cutting through
his defenses. "I'm thirsty and I'm tired and hungry and I can't think." He
looked at Napoleon expectantly, waiting for him to fix it all and
Napoleon, who felt dangerously close to tears himself, took his hand
again. 

"I'm sorry. But we have to leave now, and it's a long walk. Here." He
handed Illya the canteen, waited while he drank, then gave him a chunk of
bread he'd found in the tent. He could fix the hunger and thirst, anyway.
"Maybe this will help." He started down the trail and Illya followed,
clutching the bread in his free hand. 

"Wait," he said and managed to break the loaf in half. He gave a piece to
Napoleon. "You must be hungry too." 

He wasn't, but was encouraged that Illya had thought to share it, so
accepted it and they ate as they went, which precluded conversation but
Illya's fingers never loosened their grip on Napoleon's hand which stayed
comfortingly closed around his too. 

 

Napoleon hurried, wanting to get far away from the carnage at the
campsite. He was fairly pulling Illya along, but Illya made no protest
until the path narrowed down, began to drop at a precipitous angle and
Napoleon tried to pull his hand free. "Let go," he said. "We'll have to
walk single file here." 

"NoI don't want to let go of you!" 

Napoleon was at a loss as to how to cope with a partner who couldn't seem
to control himself at all. He was clutching at Napoleon's arm with both
hands now, bringing them to a stop. But someone had to be in control. "Let
go," he repeated, more forcefully this time and Illya's hands dropped.
"Stay right behind me." He turned without waiting for an answer and set
out again, hearing Illya dutifully fall in. "Good," he said, without
turning. It had been a grueling ten days chase up this mountain but he had
taken heart from the fact that whatever had befallen him at Thrush
headquarters, Illya was keeping up with the rest of the group and
therefore must be in decent physical condition. But now he faltered,
dragged his feetdropped behind again and again and Napoleon waited,
concealing his impatience because he wasn't impatient with Illya, not
really, just with the situation. With the narrow trail and its steep
descent. With the insects that buzzed around and stung them. With the dark
night, with the distance still ahead of them before reaching civilization.


"Napoleon?" Illya's voice was too distant so Napoleon spun about, strode
back to where Illya had stopped. 

"What?" 

"I'm tired." 

"Hang in there," he said gruffly, taking Illya's hand because there was
room here, starting to walk again. "We'll stop when it's too light to
travel safely." 

"They traveled during the day," Illya pointed out, stumbling over a rock
in his path, making Napoleon stop again and wait while he righted himself.
If Napoleon hadn't been holding on to him, he would have fallen. 

"Yes. And we will too. But not yet." 

Illya made his legs move. He was beyond tired. His whole body hurthis
lungs burned with each breath and the mists were closing in, making it
impossible to see Napoleon in front of him, or the ground at his feet. He
followed the tug of Napoleon's hand blindly, not noticing when the tree
branches began to whip his face again, the jungle closing in, crowding
them. 

"Behind me," Napoleon said and Illya did because Napoleon was to be
obeyed, he knew that, Napoleon was his senior partner and moreover... but
as soon as they separated, he was lost again, lost in the shifting scene
around him. He couldn't tell where he ended and the dizzying void began
and he cried out, terrified. He had lost Napoleon and was once again alone
in this vivid landscape that made no sense. 

"What?" Napoleon gripped his shoulders and Illya clutched at him, wrapped
his arms around Napoleon's neck and held on with all his might, determined
not to lose him again. "Illyawhat is it?" 

"Don't leave me! I'm sorry I'm tiredI'll keep up, I willdon't leave me
again, Napoleon, please!" 

"I'm sorry you're tired too." Trying to be firm, knowing they needed to
keep moving. "I wish this weren't so hard for you. But we need to travel,
Illya. It's not safe here. I won't leave you. You just keep right behind
me, and" 

"I can't see you! Everything's moving and it's not separate, it's all
together, the path and the trees andand you andand me! It's all the same
and when you let go of me, I lost you!" 

"All right. I'm sorry. I didn't knowall right. Take my hand." He held it
out and Illya regarded it dubiously. It seemed much better to just keep
his arms around Napoleon's neck so he did, buried his face in Napoleon's
shoulder. "Take my hand," Napoleon repeated patiently. "I promise not to
let go again." 

"I don't want to walk any more." Illya's voice was muffled in his shirt.
"I'm tired." Maybe Napoleon didn't understand. "I'm very tired." 

"That's why I want to get you to a safe place. We'll rest all day long,
Illya, now come on. Let go of my neck and take my hand." He began inching
backwards and Illya reluctantly took one step, then another, then yielded
to Napoleon's urging and unlocked his arms, grabbed onto Napoleon's
outstretched hand with both of his. Napoleon faced front again, Illya
behind him still clinging to his hand and they were moving again. 

 

Tired. He was so tired. He'd walked all that day as every day with a
crushing weight on his back and no food; whipped, beaten, his body driven
far beyond its resources by fear of the goad, and by the coca leaves, the
drug only adding to his mental confusion. Now he forced his legs to move,
one step at a time, feet dragging and then he couldn't feel them anymore,
and he fell. "Illya." Napoleon, who had been nearly yanked off his feet,
bent over him. 

"I'm sorry." He tried to get up, or thought he did but his body wouldn't
obey him. His legs twitched but that was all and Napoleon, seeing it, knew
they would go no further tonight. They would just have to stop here. Illya
was in the last stages of exhaustion and he was angry with himself for not
seeing it sooner. He looked around for shelter and saw a tree with wide
branches, tall, disappearing into the canopy over their heads. Could Illya
do it? Perhaps with a little rest he could, so Napoleon sat cross-legged
on the ground beside him and waited. After about half an hour Illya
stirred. "Thirsty..." 

"Come on then," Napoleon said firmly and stood up, sliding an arm under
Illya's shoulders and bringing him along. "We're going up there." He
pointed to the tree. "We can bring our backpack and canteen with us." 

"All right," Illya agreed and when Napoleon gave him a boost, he did a
creditable job of tree climbing. Napoleon maintained his grip on him, not
trusting him, doubt confirmed when he yawnedand let go of his hold to
cover his mouth. He would have pitched over to the ground, which was
already well below them, if it weren't for Napoleon's arm clamped around
his waist. Unaware of his danger, he only smiled drowsily. "This is nice,"
he said, and put his head on Napoleon's shoulder. 

"Yes." Napoleon abandoned the idea of climbing any higher, and settled
them as best he could in the branches. He gave Illya a drink, and had one
himself, and before he finished putting the canteen away, Illya was
asleep. Napoleon watched him for a long time, his face white with fatigue,
smudged with bruises. We'll slow down, he thought. There were no signs of
pursuit, after all. We'll slow down and I'll hold your hand all you want,
and stop whenever you need to rest. He sat there, alert to any sound
around them, and allowed himself to realize his success. Illya was safe,
alive, relatively whole and back with him again. The mental effects were
disturbingsurely any drugs Thrush had given him had worn off by nowbut
there had been more than drugs involved. Illya's mind, like his body, had
been pushed to the breaking point and, like his body, needed time to
recover. Napoleon brooded over him, restless even in sleep, hands opening
and clenching on Napoleon's sleeve, eyes moving constantly under his
closed lids, breath coming unevenly. He would recover. Surely he would.
And if he didn't, if the gloomy prognostications of UNCLE's board were
correct, then he was still safe, and they were still together, and that
would have to be enough. 

 

Illya slept for about five hours then woke again, restless despite his
fatigue. He opened his eyes and looked up at Napoleon. Dawn had come,
brightening the world around them, making it easier to see Napoleon's
face, his dear, familiar face, stern now and a little distant as he kept
watch. Before Illya could say anything, Napoleon turned to check on him,
and smiled. "Well. Good morning." 

"Good morning. I can go now, if you want." 

"Yes. If that camp is discovered, the natural assumption will be that the
perpetrators continued on, over the ridge to cross the border there, where
there are no checkpoints. If we stay alert, we should be all right by day,
and it will be faster." He bit his lip. Damn. He had just promised himself
he would let Illya take whatever time he needed and here he was urging
speed again. "Not that that matters," he said lamely. "I meanthere's no
hurry." 

"Good," Illya said, and pushed himself into a sitting position, reached
for Napoleon's sleeve and nearly fell out of the tree. Napoleon grabbed
him, pulled him closer. 

"Illya!" His voice was sharper than he meant it to be and he softened it.
"We are in a tree. Pay attention." 

"I'm sorry." Illya put both hands over his face. "It doesn't get better,"
he whispered. "It doesn'tI had to lose so much, Napoleon, to keep it from
them. They kept pushing for more and I kept burying it and wiping it out
and all those other damn images they give you and now I've lost
everything. What am I without that? Who am I? I don't even know myself
anymore!" His fingers dug into Napoleon's arms. "Help me, NapoleonI'm so
lost!" His voice broke and Napoleon held him, stroking his hair, rubbing
his back, offering reassurances. 

"It's all right, Illya, it's too soon, that's all. It's too soon and you
had all this..." He gestured widely at the tree, Illya's battered
condition, the wilderness around them "... on top of it. Once we get back
to New York, it'll be fine, you'll see. And I'm here now. You're not
lostI've found you. And I will stand between you and anything that might
harm you. You know that." 

"Yes." Illya leaned his head on Napoleon's shoulder. "I do know." It was
so good to see Napoleon again, he had missed Napoleon so much and now he
was here, right here, holding Illya in his arms and that warm, sweet tide
was rising again, as it had before he had been taken. Their faces were
very close, and it was an easy thing for Illya to lift his just a little,
and kiss Napoleon on the mouth. 

A violent shock went through Napoleon's whole body at that touch, so
tentative, and so sweet. Illya's lips were cool, and soft, and when
Napoleon traced them with his tongue, they parted. Illya's mouth tasted
like honeyed wine and it was only with the greatest effort that Napoleon
drew back. He drew back becausebecause his whole body was on fire, just
from that touch of mouth to mouth, his heart was pounding and he was
shaking. He drew back because Illya felt so thin in his embrace, so
fragile and Illya had been through so much and... and they were in a damn
tree to top it off. So he drew back and looked into Illya's face. 

Illya was weak with desire, his arms too heavy to lift, his legs useless.
When Napoleon stopped kissing him, he moaned, unable even to hold on to
him, able only to whisper, "Don't stop. Please, don't stop." 

"Are you sure?" He didn't even see how they couldwell, yes he did. He
could pull Illya all the way onto his lap, facing himonly realizing he was
putting action to the thought when Illya's head was tucked into his neck,
their bodies pressed together. "Are you sure?" he repeated because he
should, he should think of his partner and not just his own need which was
painful now. Then Illya moved against him and they were clutching and
gasping, Napoleon trying with all his might to remember where they were
because Illya had already forgotten twice and if they felland then all
thought left him. Passion was a raging torrent that took them both with
it, buried them deep in the waters and released them, letting them float
back up, drifting and smiling and happy. 

Illya stirred finally and kissed Napoleon's cheek. "I love you, Napoleon."
The truth came easily. "I love you with my whole heart. I've always loved
you." 

This was moving so fast, so very fast after all those monthsyearsof build
up. But Napoleon didn't hesitate because it was true for him too. "And I
love you, Illya. All the best that is in me, is in my love for you." Illya
kissed him, at that, and they kissed for a while longer in their tree,
slow gentle kisses that spoke of love, and trust and the joy both were
feeling because it had happened after all, against all the odds, they had
come to one another at last. A new life was opening up to them, both knew
it. As Napoleon rummaged in the pack and found cheese and fruit, as they
ate, and drank from the canteen, as they packed up again, each one kept
stealing looks at the other and on the frequent occasions when their eyes
met, they smiled. When all was ready, they kissed once more before
climbing back down to the ground. 

On the trail Illya took Napoleon's hand without question. Napoleon led
them to a small stream and they washed up, refilled the canteen. Napoleon
added a water purification tablet and tucked it away. "Ready?" 

"No." Illya sat down by the water's edge and began throwing pebbles into
it, one at a time. His expression was troubled so Napoleon resisted the
urge to hurry him along and sat beside him. 

"What?" 

"What if I neverwhat if I can't work when we get home? What if I never get
my mind back at all? Ever?" 

"I don't believe that will happen." 

"But what if it does? I'm your partner, I'm supposed to be helping you and
I'm not, I'm holding you back, I know it. What if Ihow will weI don't want
to hold you back your whole life!" 

"Listen to me." He took Illya's face between his hands, looked hard into
his eyes. "I love you. You. Not the job you do. You. And while I think you
will get better, if you don't, or if it takes longer than anticipated, it
will still be all right. We will bewe are, together. No matter what." It
was the truth, his heart was given and that was irrevocable, but he missed
his partner, too. Missed that sharp inventive brain, that sly sense of
humor, that stubborn streak. He kissed Illya and they rose, started off
again. 

They made better progress than Napoleon had hoped. It was far easier in
daylight to follow the rocky trail, and Illya seemed better. When the path
narrowed down, he was able to release Napoleon's hand on request and
twined his fingers in Napoleon's shirt instead. He was keeping up, too,
with none of the complaints of the night before so Napoleon took heart and
kept on. 

 

He was so tired. His whole body ached and throbbed and he hurt inside,
too, where those men hadhe pushed the thought away. He would lose that
too, he wouldhe would bury it, erase it, throw it away. He would think
about Napoleon and what they had done that morning and how wonderful it
had been, and how wonderful it would be when they stopped for the night.
If only he weren't so tired. He knew they hadn't been walking for very
long unlessunless he had lost time, the way he sometimes did? But he
didn't think so. He had been trudging along in Napoleon's wake for a few
hours, no more. Napoleon wouldn't want to stop so soon. If onlyand then he
saw the leaves they had fed him and remembered how they were sharp and
bitter in his mouth but good, too, and how he had felt able to keep
walking without falling, so he reached out with his free hand and pulled a
clump of leaves free, brought them to his mouth. 

Napoleon grabbed his wrist hard, twisted it. "Ow!" He dropped the leaves
and pulled his hand free. "Napoleon whyow." He rubbed his wrist. "You hurt
me!" 

"Sorry." Napoleon picked them up. "What the devil are you doing?" 

"They help, Napoleon. They used to make me eat them because it keeps me
from being so tired. I don't want to hold you back. It's all right, I'm
used to them." 

"Are you." And that explained a lot. Napoleon threw the plant from him.
"Illya. These are coca leaves. Drugs. Do you understand?" Without waiting
for an answer, he drew Illya after him and they were moving again. "That's
why you still don't feel like yourself. A narcotic on top of everything
Thrush gave youno wonder you can't think straight." 

"You think so?" 

"I think you may have a rough day or two ahead of you, but the raw leaves
aren't very potent. Just tell me when you need to rest, and we'll rest." 

"All right. Can we rest now?" 

"Yes, we can." He looked sharply at Illya's pale face. "We certainly can."
They found a comfortable niche off the road, under a rocky ledge and Illya
leaned against him. They sat quietly and several times Napoleon thought
Illya was about to fall asleepand he would let him, would stay through the
afternoon and into the night if need bebut each time he started awake
after only a few minutes. 

"I can walk now." 

"Hungry?" 

"No." His stomach hurt, was cramping. 

"It's the drug wearing off," Napoleon said comfortably. They had come to a
wide stretch in the path so he dropped back, beside Illya, smiled down at
him. 

"It is?" 

"Yes." 

"You knowI could keep eating them until we get to the rendezvous point. I
don't mind. After all this time, another few days won't matterand I could
keep up better. We could make better time." 

"No." 

"Oh." He was disappointed. His body craved the stimulant and his mind
craved the false sense of alertness it gave. But Napoleon's voice had been
firm so he abandoned the idea and concentrated on putting one foot ahead
of the other. 

"And there is no rendezvous," Napoleon was saying. He stopped to hold some
branches aside for Illya. "There's a bus station." 

"And that's where they're picking us up?" 

"There is no they, Illya. There is only us. We are walking down to the
highway, and taking a bus to the city. From there we will fly out." 

"UNCLE isn't coming to get us?" 

"No." 

"Oh." That was puzzling. "But you're bringing me back to New York?" 

"Yes. Straight to the door of UNCLE headquarters." 

"And in." 

"Wellthat may be a problem." 

"Why?" 

He sighed. "I am currently on disciplinary referral. All my privileges
have been suspended." 

"What? Why?" 

"Insubordination and refusal to obey a superior." 

"You were insubordinate?" 

"Yes." He had to smile a little. "Extremely." 

"And refused an order?" 

"Yes." 

Illya was quiet for a moment, thinking about that. "It must have been
something very important to you," he ventured, and Napoleon squeezed the
hand he was holding. 

"It is. It is a subject very dear to my heart." 

"I won't go in without you." 

Napoleon wasn't at all sure Illya would be given that choice. UNCLE needed
to know what had happened at Thrush headquarters, what questions had been
asked, whatif anythingIllya had revealed. But that was a problem for the
future. "Don't worry about it now. First let's worry about getting off
this mountain." 

"But" 

"Then we can worry about a six hour bus trip through the countryside in
plain view." 

"Napoleon" 

"Then we can worry about getting on a plane without our false documents
being detected." 

"I'm not" 

"Then we can worry about finding a cab driver at LaGuardia who speaks
English." Illya laughed, and Napoleon went on. "I mean it, Illya. There is
a whole lot of travel and danger between now and then. By the time we get
back to New York, you'll feel better. The cocaine will have worn off,
you'll be used to eating regularly and sleeping enough" 

"And not being hit or kicked or shocked," Illya said and Napoleon stopped,
and turned. Hugged him. 

"Yes. You will have grown accustomed to being loved, and taken care of.
Trust me." 

"I do, Napoleon." Illya lifted serious eyes to his face and Napoleon
swallowed. "I do trust you." He was adorable, suddenly, with his face so
solemn and his eyes shining, a smudge of dirt on one cheekbone, his hair
tumbling over his shoulders in a mass of tangles and Napoleon kissed him,
tasting that sweetness again but briefly, just a promise for later before
taking his hand and leading him onward once more. 

 

They took their time, as Napoleon had resolved and the trek that had taken
him ten days on his own took twice that. He had begun to wonder if he had
taken a wrong turn when they rounded a bend and saw Illya's hospital
slippers, lying in the dirt. 

Illya looked at them, remembering when he had lost them, falling on his
face in what was then an enormous mud slickdry and parched now, after many
days without rain. He had fallen and they had laughed, and laughed harder
when it became evident that with his hands tied behind him, he couldn't
rise on his own, that the load on his back had him pinned in the mud,
choking and strangling. They had their laugh out before they pulled him up
and sent him on his way with a kick on his backside that made sitting
against the tree that night pure agony. He looked at Napoleon gratefully
and squeezed his hand. Napoleon squeezed back. 

"We are at most two days from the highway. I remember passing what sounded
like a good sized stream close to here." 

"You came this way?" 

"Yes." He looked at Illya with compassion. "I was following them," he said
gently. "Remember? I told you I followed them from the installation." More
than once, he had said it, more than once and again he was discouraged. He
shifted from hope to despair several times a day. 

"Yes..." Illya recognized the look. He knew his memory was faulty, still,
he could remember that moment in the mud much more clearly than a
conversation he'd had with Napoleon only the day before. But Napoleon
looked so worried. Illya smiled at him. "Were you glad, when you saw
them?" 

"Yes." He gathered Illya into an embrace and they stood there, surrounded
by jungle, and held on to one another. "I was very gladbut I was sorry,
too, that you were barefoot on this trail." 

"I knew you were coming," Illya whispered against his neck. "The whole
time, no matter what, I was waiting for you." 

"I'm sorry that it took me so long." 

"It must have been hard finding mefinding that installation. They
certainly weren't worried about anyone following them." 

"Obviously they were wrong. Because, after all, I was second." 

"Yes. But that's hardly the same thing. Those men live here. Of course
they noticed new construction." He sounded so much like himself that
Napoleon laughed, hope rising again. 

"True. But I wish I'd found you sooner, before you suffered so much." 

"I do too." Illya's eyes were very dark, suddenly, and Napoleon caressed
his face, watched the shadows lift under his touch, watched them
disappear. Filled with tenderness, he ran his thumb along Illya's mouth,
which curved upward. Napoleon smiled back. "Let's go find that stream and
clean up. We can't sit on a bus with people like this." 

"All right," Illya agreed, and fell in behind again, following Napoleon. 

The long journey had been good overall, Napoleon thought, forging steadily
ahead, ears alert for the smallest change in the sounds behind him. The
burns were healing, the bruises faded. Both men were brown and lean from
the long days walking. But Illya was too quiet, still. He couldn't bear
Napoleon being out of his sight, and preferred to be right up against him.
In a crisis, Napoleon had thought, forcing himself to be dispassionate,
Illya couldn't be relied upon. His behavior would be unpredictable, he
would be slow to react, and his judgment was not to be trusted. It hurt
him to think these things, and made him guard Illya ever more carefully. 

"Right about here," he said aloud and took Illya's hand again, led him off
the path. They made their way through the undergrowth, the sound of the
water growing steadily. Finally they emerged from a thicket to find
themselves on the shore of a fast running river. They followed it upstream
for a little ways and it opened out into a pool large enough for swimming.
They stripped and waded in, hand in hand, ducking under and scrubbing
themselves with their clothes, which they then rinsed off and laid in the
sun. Illya swam across to the other side, then back. He looked so happy
that Napoleon was happy too, seeing it and they swam together around the
edge, dove deep in the crystalline waters, met near the bottom. Illya's
hair was floating all around him and his eyes were so blue... Napoleon
kissed him, kissed him as they ascended, hands clasped, kissing when their
heads broke the surface, separating to gasp for air. It pleased them both
so much that they did it again, and again, the water bitingly cold, their
mouths and hands the only warmth, rising from dark into light, into the
sun. 

A small waterfall fed the pool at the upper end and Illya swam over.
Napoleon watched him floating on his back, holding on to the rocks above
his head. The water washed through his hair and when Napoleon joined him
and put his hands in it, it clung to his fingers, moving constantly with
the flow, wrapping around his wrists and forearms. He stood up, the water
falling to his hips and waded closer, between Illya's legs and looked down
into his face, running with water, his lips blue, his teeth chattering.
Napoleon took him, right there, the first time for that, took him hard
because he was so ready and Illya arched his back, weightless in the
water, cold everywhere except for the secret place where Napoleon and he
were joined. It was warm there, pulsing, sending waves of heat through
him. He gasped out Napoleon's name and then there was a brilliant flash of
heat. He sank into the cold water. Napoleon pulled him upright, and kissed
him some more, and warmth surrounded them both. 

 

They stretched out full length on a sun heated boulder, both flat on their
backs, hands linked. After an endless time Napoleon turned his head and
found Illya looking at him. He hadn't realized how dirty they had been,
had grown accustomed to seeing Illya that way but now his skin was fair
and touched with sunburn, freckles showing across his nose, pale gold hair
soft and loose around his face. There was a faint bruise still, on his jaw
and Napoleon kissed it carefully, apologetically, before moving on. He
kissed the welts on Illya's shoulders, and the small round burns across
his ribs, his stomach. On the inside of his elbow. Kissing that spot made
Illya shiver so he kissed the other one, even though it was uninjured,
kissed it slowly, lips hot and leisurely, drifting down. Whip marks
crossed Illya's legs, wrapping around them and he laid a trail of kisses
there instead, smiling when they parted. Napoleon winced at the same marks
on his inner thighs, brushed his mouth across them, and across the other
bruises too, still dark and painful looking after all this time, finger
marks, they had to be. Napoleon drew back a little and looked at them
again. Both legs, upper inner thighs. Someone had laid brutal hands on
Illya there, had grabbed his legs andwhat? "Illya," he said in a carefully
neutral voice. 

"Yes?" 

"Roll over for me, please." 

"All right." He did, stretched and closed his eyes again. Napoleon looked
at the other bruises, nearly identical to the first set, on Illya's
buttocks. Deep, angry looking marks where he had been gripped and .. like
a slide dropping into place, the scene he had interrupted at the
encampment made sense. Illya, pinned on that rock, them surrounding him.
"Napoleon?" 

"What?" 

"I like what you were doing. I'm not asleep, if that's why you stopped." 

And he wavered, not sure what to say, if he should say anything at all.
Illya had been raped. Raped. Andhad said not one word about it. Why should
that be? Illya turned then, propped himself up on one elbow and Napoleon
looked searchingly into his eyes. No hint of guile. Illya smiled at him. 

"Do we have to leave now?" And how could Napoleon bring him right to the
very edge and then abandon him there? But he wouldn't hold Napoleon back,
he wouldn'tso he waited and after another few minutes, Napoleon shook his
head. 

"No," he said finally. "We don't." Maybe Illya had forgotten. Maybe he had
blocked it out, as being too terrible to remember. It certainly wasn't
inhibiting his lovemakingeven now he was reaching for Napoleon, pulling
him down and touching him too, touching him intimately, already knowing
what he liked and the rock made a hard bed so they had to be careful and
they were, they were very careful. 

They camped there, that night, beside the little pool, sleeping on the
ground as they had been, covered with the thin blanket Napoleon had
snatched off one of the sleeping bags at the encampment. It was cold, and
they would have slept close even if their relationship had not changed.
Napoleon remembered sharing a sleeping bag one night on assignment, bitter
cold and they had huddled together, shivering abating as they warmed up.
They had both slept well that night and woke smiling at each other. Had
that been the first sign? He thought it went back even further than that,
back to the very beginning when he took Illya's hand in his and was struck
by those long, cool fingers, that perfect composure that did not waver
even in the face of this first meeting with his formidable older partner.
And he had held Illya's hand a fraction of a second too long, and Illya
had slanted a look up at him through his lashes and the spark had been
lit. And smoldered, no matter how much they tried to ignore it. Had
smoldered all those years and nowNapoleon looked at Illya's profile,
serene in sleep, and smiled. He let himself doze then, never too deep,
floating just below the surface of sleep, part of his mind always on
watch. 

 

They reached the road while it was still early. Napoleon pulled Illya
back, put a finger to his lips and retraced their steps until they were
well out of sight or sound of anyone passing by. He sat down and Illya did
too. He didn't questionhe never questioned Napoleon anymore. 

"I need to brief you as to our cover and situation," Napoleon said. He
hoped that Illya had recovered enough to be of help. They were about go to
out among people now, and they would have to fit in as best they could.
"Here are your papers." He handed the bundle to Illya, who took it.
Napoleon helped him tuck it into his belt. "Produce it when required."
Illya looked blank. "When I do." He put his own packet away. "When I take
mine out, you do the same. Got it?" 

"Yes." 

"I did not change our names, but our documents now indicate that I am your
older brotherhalf brother. You were backpacking across the country when
you got sick. I am here to bring you home. Got it?" 

"Yes." 

"We are going to go back to the highway and begin walking south. Say as
little as possible and stay close to me. We will catch the bus a mile or
two up the road. It is a six hour ride to Jackahar, where we will fly
home. With me?" 

"Yes." 

"All right. Let's go." They walked back to the road and crouched beside
it, under cover of the bushes. Napoleon watched, and waited, and when
there was a break in the foot traffic, he grabbed Illya's arm and pulled
him out. They kept a steady pace and maintained silence. 

Illya watched his feet on the worn blacktop and went over the plan again.
Walk, bus, plane. Walk, bus, plane. Home. He smiled and stole a look at
Napoleon, whose face had that stern expression again. Illya wondered what
he was thinking about. Was he worrying about the mysterious matter of his
disciplinary referral? And how could they suspend Napoleon? Napoleon was
the best agent they had. Napoleon's record was impeccable. Napoleonand
then it hit him. He came to a stop in the road and, when Napoleon stopped
too, looking at him inquiringly, he pointed a finger at him. 

"It's because of me, isn't it." 

"Excuse me? Come on, Illya, we'll attract attention." He took Illya's arm
and pulled him along. 

"That you're in trouble. That you're suspended. Because you came after
me." 

"Illya, I don't" 

"Isn't it." 

"Yes." He tightened his hold on Illya's arm, both keeping him moving and
offering reassurance. "But I don't count the cost, Illya, you know that." 

"I know, but..." 

"You would do it for me." And to that, of course, there was only one
answer. 

"Yes." 

"Well then." 

"But I don't want you to be in trouble because of me." 

"I know." They walked on in silence for a while, then Illya looked up at
him. 

"I'm glad you did," he whispered. "Thank you so much. When I heard your
voice that night Iyou don't even know, how terrible it was, what you saved
me from. I was nothing to them. It amused them to hurt me, and they liked
me carrying their packs and they liked" He stopped and Napoleon, who had
been holding his breath, released it. "I was less than nothing. But to
youto you I was..." 

"Everything." 

"Everything." He moved closer. "So you came and you just took me back.
Away from them. And when they tried to stop you, you killed them." 

"Yes." 

"I thought about thatabout you. I'd look at them, enjoying their power
over me and thinkyou're all dead men. Because Napoleon is coming, and
he'll kill you for doing this to me. And you did." 

"Yes, I did." 

"And now you're in troubleand I can't even pretend to be sorry you came. I
love you so much, Napoleon." 

"And I love you, Illya." He smiled down at his partner. The emotional
roller coaster was up. Illya had remembered that earlier conversation, had
clearly been thinking about it and had come to the correct conclusion. It
was the clearest thinking he'd shown yet. Napoleon smiled at him,
encouraged again. "Now we're coming to the bus stop. It might be crowded.
If we get separated" 

"Separated!" Illya came to an abrupt stop in the middle of the road. "What
do you mean, separated? We're not gettingI'm not letting go of you!" He
wrapped both arms around Napoleon's arm again, as he had in the beginning.
Separated? From Napoleon? Lost againno! He pressed even closer, oblivious
to the people detouring around them, eyeing them curiously as they did so.


As quickly as hope had risen, it was crushed. Napoleon began walking
again, fast, forcing Illya to come along or lose his grip. "Quiet," he
rasped. "We're attracting attention and we can't afford that. Stop,
Illya." 

"I won't stop! Why would you even say such a terrible thing? We can't be
separated! I won't know what to do! I'll be lost againNapoleon, please!"
His voice was climbing, and Napoleon ground his teeth. He pulled Illya
over to the shoulder and shook him, once, very hard, snapping his head
back and causing him to bite his tongue, stopping the flood of words. 

"Be quiet," he hissed again. "Be quiet and listen to instructionsAgent
Kuryakin!" He hit Illya's title hard. "Am I making myself clear?" 

"Yes." It was all he could say. It felt as though Napoleon had slapped
him. His tongue was bleeding and Napoleon handed him a handkerchief. 

"Good." He started walking again, deliberately not looking to be sure
Illya was following but acutely aware of his presence. "We cannot afford
to attract attention. Our papers are good, but will not stand up under
investigation. Now I will do my utmost to be sure we are not separated,
but if we are" Illya opened his mouth and Napoleon silenced him with a
curt hand gesture. "You are to find the nearest secure spot and wait for
me. I expect you to weigh distance and cover while choosing that spot
because those are the criteria I will use to locate you. Stay there. I
will come back for you. Do you understand me?" He had never had to address
Illya this way, not even on their first mission. Like a civilian, he
thought suddenly. It's like having a civilian along. And I am responsible
for him. 

"Yes." Illya was hot with shame. But what if Napoleon never came? He was
afraid to ask, but Napoleon went on, spelling it out the way he would for
anycivilian. 

"Two hours. No more. If I have not returned by then, something is
preventing me." 

"Then what?" It burst out, he couldn't keep it in but Napoleon didn't seem
angry, in fact the smile he turned on Illya now was very gentle. 

"Thenwell, I suppose I will need rescuing. I'll be counting on you." No,
he wouldn't, he'd be frantic wondering what had become of him but Illya
nodded, face very serious. 

"Oh, yes, Napoleon, I will. I mean I would." He would. "I promise." 

"I know." Hope rose again, just a little. 

"But pleaseplease don't let us get separated." 

"I'll do the best I can," Napoleon promised him. "Here's the bus stop. The
bus should be along in about thirty minutes." 

 

It came much later than that and Napoleon queried the driver as he counted
out their fare. Illya was standing on the step behind him, clutching his
shirt with both hands. "You sure? To Jackahar?" 

"Yes. Move on in." They did so and the bus started up, spewing clouds of
blue smoke. Napoleon eyed the inside of the shabby coach with dismay.
Every available seat was jammed with people and animals and childrenhis
head spun at the noise and heat. There were no rails or straps, only the
press of other standees around them kept them on their feet. He was openly
holding on to Illya now, because the possibility of separation in this
crowd was suddenly very real and what would Illya do then? Illya was
clinging to him as well, arms around his waist and Napoleon had no idea
how it looked but maybe no one was paying any attention to them. Then
someone poked his knee. He looked down at the woman sitting on the bench
in front of him. 

"Was the young man ill?" she wanted to know, indicating Illya and Napoleon
looked at him. Illya was alarmingly pale as he struggled to keep his
footing and breathe in the crush. Even his lips were white. 

"Yes," Napoleon answered honestly. "He's been very sickmy half brother,"
he explained, hoping that would justify their embrace. "I'm bringing him
home." He saw the pity on her face and felt a surge of hope. Women did
like Illyafrequently wanted to mother him. He shook his head. "He
shouldn't be standing like this." He nudged Illya as he said that and to
his relief, Illya responded, legs buckling so Napoleon had to grab him
with both hands to keep him on his feet. The woman clucked and began
talking volubly in Spanish to the woman next to her. The man across the
aisle took up the conversation and it became too fast and many sided for
Napoleon to follow. Illya sagged against him, head drooping on his
shoulder, a truly pitiable figure and before Napoleon knew it, they were
being moved towards the back of the bus, pushed through the crowd which
parted for them as best it could until they reached the back and an
incredible empty seat. It was tight quarters for two and people crowded in
on both sides but it was much more secure as well as more comfortable and
Illya's sigh of relief was real. The woman nodded and smiled at them and
Napoleon smiled back, and then she returned to her private conversation
and Napoleon relaxed. It was crowded and hot and noisy, the air full of
the smell of too many people crowded too closely together, but they were
moving forward as planned. He had one arm around Illya's shoulders and
Illya's own hands were locked together where they circled his waist
andIllya had understood him and followed his lead and that was perhaps the
most encouraging thing of all. 

 

They weren't going very fast, and had stopped twice while the driver
worked under the hood. Napoleon frowned and looked out at the sun, now
near the horizon and no sign of a town. He hoped they wouldn't get in too
latehe and Illya had not eaten since early that morning and he had no
provisions with himunlike their traveling companions. All of them were
eating fresh breadlong, crusty loavesand cheese, meat pastries and fruit.
Just as he thought that, his nostrils twitching as the man across from
them unwrapped a dripping sandwich, Illya, who had been sleeping against
his shoulder, stirred and sat up. "Where are we?" 

"We are still on the bus, somewhere between where we were, and where we
are going," Napoleon answered, and smiled into Illya's eyes. "Feel
better?" 

"Than what?" Illya rubbed his eyes, tried vainly to push his hair back
behind his shoulders. 

"Thanbefore you went to sleep." 

"Not as tired, but I'm hungry, Napoleon." He too had caught the scent of
their neighbors' food. "I thought you said we'd be there by now." 

"I thought so too." He addressed the group of women who had found them
their seat. "Ahexcuse me." He switched to Spanish and they turned his way.
"We seem to be running a little behind schedule. Can you tell me when we
will arrive at Jackahar?" 

All three of them burst out laughing. "Signor," one finally said, "this
bus knows no schedule. It travels as it will, breaks down often and
arrives when it arrives." 

"I see." He was dismayed, and angry too, that his information had been
unreliable. He would take care of that when they arrived home. Until
thenhis stomach growled and he ignored it. He was worried about Illya
though, and just then Illya put his mouth to his ear. "It's all right,
Napoleon. I can wait until we get there." 

"Excuse me," Napoleon said again to the women. "My brother and Iwe didn't
knowwe thought we could buy dinner at Jackahar." 

"And you still can!" the old man by the window said in delight. "Tomorrow
morning, or the next day perhaps!" He laughed at his own joke and the
others laughed too. 

"He needs to keep up his strength," Napoleon went on. "I don't mind about
myselfbut he's been so ill. Can anyone spare him something?" 

A chorus of assent went up, women searching through their bags, pressing
food on both of them, leaning forward to pat Illya's cheek and tell him to
eat up, urging Napoleon to eat too, so he could care for his younger
brother. When it all subsided, Napoleon had two loaves of bread, a round
cheese and three meat pastries balanced precariously on his lap and Illya
was already halfway through his first sandwich. A jug of milk came down to
complete the meal and with many thanks, Napoleon ate and stored the rest
of the food in his pack. "Illya," he said when he had finished eating. 

"Yes?" Illya wiped his mouth with part of the wrapping and bundled it all
up. 

"I'm going to sleep for a while. Can you stay awake and keep watch?" It
was safe enough, he sensed no threat from their fellow passengers and any
change in the bus' speed would wake him. 

"Yes." 

"Now if you get sleepy, wake me up," Napoleon warned, sliding down a
little in his seat, stretching his legs as far as they would go without
kicking the man on the other side. 

"I won't get sleepy." Illya looked at the dark circles under Napoleon's
eyes and sat up straighter. 

"But if you do..." 

"If I do, I'll wake you," Illya agreed and after a moment Napoleon's eyes
closed and he relaxed. It was his head on Illya's shoulder now and Illya
sat very still. He was filled with tenderness for Napoleon, who drove
himself so hard, who had sacrificed his career and risked his life, who
was so good. 

"He is a good brother," the woman who had given him the milk said. 

"Yes." 

She shook a finger at him. "Now you be a good boy and stay home instead of
causing all this worry and bother. Where are you from?" 

"New York," Illya said because he didn't know what Napoleon had told them
and in that case, sticking close to the truth was best. 

"New York!" There were exclamations of surprise and wonder. The woman
shook her finger at him again. "Rich like that, living in New Yorkfrom now
on you stay there. A boy like youwho knows what trouble you could get into
here? You could get hurtor killed in this jungle." 

"Yes ma'am," Illya said and she gave him a pastry, dripping with cream,
covered in honey. He ate it in three quick bites and smiled at her
gratefully. She smiled too and leaned her own head back. Illya looked
around. Nearly everyone was asleep. He yawned, then caught himself. It was
the heat and the crowd on top of the heavy meal that did it. He looked
wistfully at the window and wished he could open it but he would have had
to leave Napoleon and crawl across six people to get to it and then
probably they'd make him shut it. So he stayed where he was, listening to
the even breathing all around him while struggling to stay awake himself. 

I will stay awake I will stay awake I will... The thought trailed off into
dissolution and his head nodded. Jerked upright. He pushed himself up
again. Napoleon needs his sleep, Napoleon needs his sleep... to the rhythm
of the bus wheels. The sun had long setthe six-hour journey now stretched
to twelve and no sign of a destination. He pinched himself, hard, blinked
against the pain, pinched again. I won't wake Napoleon up, I won't wake
Napoleon up. It seemed a very long time that he struggled against sleep
and then the bus came to an abrupt halt, throwing everyone forward. Illya
landed on the floor and then when the bus lurched ahead, he slid back,
under the seat. 

"Illya!" Napoleon, yanked from a much deeper sleep than he'd intended,
groped for Illya who was no longer beside him, was no longer in sight.
"Illya!" He had never known such fear. Had Illya been taken while he
slept? Perhaps Illya had fallen asleep after all and someone had snatched
him up, left the busa tug came at his pants leg and he kicked backward
sharply. He hadn't actually seen any rats on the bus, but with the food
all over, he wouldn't be surprisedhe kicked again. 

"Ow! Stop kicking me, Napoleon!" Illya's voice was coming fromHe bent
over, reached behind his feet and dragged Illya out, pulled him up. The
bus lunged forward, depositing Illya on his lap and Napoleon wrapped both
arms around him, hanging on for dear life as the bus screeched to a halt
and the people who had been standing all this way sprawled in every
direction. The door opening punctuated the driver's announcement. 

"Jackahar." He got off the bus then and went into the little tavern
nearby. Napoleon exhaled with relief and scooted Illya off his lap and
back onto his seat. 

"Here we are. Let's go find ourselves a room." 

"No one else is getting off." 

"Hmm." Illya was right. Napoleon asked out loud and was told that no inn
would take guests this late. The airline offices were closed, the banks
closedso they spent one more night on the bus with everyone else. Quarters
were closer than ever, with the addition of early arrivals for the return
journey the next morning so Illya was back on his lap but everyone else
was equally cozy so no one paid them any attention. Illya snuggled closer,
head tucked into Napoleon's neck, arms loose around his waist and Napoleon
kept watch all night long, over the bus full of snoring passengers, over
the deserted concrete streets around him, over his partner, safe in his
arms, smiling in his sleep. 

 

The sun in his eyes roused him and everyone around them began stirring as
well. When the line had moved enough for them to stand up, they did so,
stretching and yawning and exchanging greetings with their neighbors. They
made their way up the aisle, down the steps and out into the morning. 

The station was packed with people. No sooner had they moved away from the
bus than an announcement came over the speaker system. The express train
for the coast was boarding on Platform 12 and suddenly it seemed that
everyone on the small platform began running at once, sweeping them along,
pulling them apart. 

Separated. Separated after all. Where was Illya in this mobwas he all
right? Napoleon fought his way back, scanning the area, looking for a
flash of blond hair, or the vest Illya was wearing. 

Illya had been swept towards the side of the courtyard despite his frantic
attempts to make his way back to Napoleon. He called his name but the din
around him took the sound away. Panic was very close but he refused it,
concentrated on Napoleon's orders. 

Find a secure spot, Napoleon had said. Weigh cover with proximity. Well,
he didn't need any cover, this was not a hostile situation, and he needed
to be very close so Napoleon could find him. He saw a bench bolted to the
concrete out of the corner of his eye, and he twisted sideways, ducked
under somebody's arm and was on it. The crowd engulfed it but he curled up
on the seat, feet tucked under him and held on with both hands, determined
not to be swept away again. People swarmed over him but he only ducked his
head and clung tighter. 

When it quieted down a little, he got up on his knees, gripping the arm,
and scanned the crowd. Napoleon would come back for him, he wouldand there
he was! It was only an instant of contact, their eyes meeting over a
stranger's head but it was electric. Illya's heart jumped in his chest and
he gasped with relief. And Napoleon put his head down and shoved his way
through, able to now, most of the crowd having squeezed onto the train
that was even now pulling out. He swung himself onto the bench next to
Illya and grinned at him. Here Illya was, safe and sound and moreover he
had remembered the plan, had understood and chosen the perfect location.
He beamed at his partner. Illya smiled back. 

Napoleon looked so happy! He must have been very worried. Napoleon caredso
much. Loved himso much. And he loved Napoleon. His love was written across
his face, and Napoleon cleared his throat. "Well," he said. "Come on." He
got up and Illya followed, managing not to hold his hand now because they
were surrounded by strangers and it would look oddwould attract attention
and the first thing they taught you was how not to attract attention. He
followed Napoleon to the nearest inn, a cheap, noisy, dirty place whose
sole distinction was its proximity to the station. They had emptied out
with the train's departure so were glad to accept Napoleon's money and
give them a room on the second floor. Inside, Napoleon checked security
and was pleased. There was a good sturdy bolt; a great bar of wood that
dropped down and wedged snugly across the door frame, and heavy shutters
over the one window, which he closed and fastened. Relieved, he sat Illya
down on the bed and put both hands on his shoulders. He would do this
fast. 

"I need to go out for a while. I need you to stay here." 

Illya paled, and Napoleon's hands tightened. He had a new confidence in
Illya now, and tried to convey that with his voice and his eyes, even as
his hands promised safety. 

"The bathroom is down the hall, so use it now while I'm still here." He
stood up and brought Illya across the room, gave him a push. "Go." 

And Illya went, despite the fact that the very last thing he wanted to do
was leave Napoleon, go out into the open without Napoleon's protection but
he went, stopping to knock at the bathroom door. When no one answered, he
opened it, gave a longing look down the hall towards their room. Napoleon
was lounging in the doorway, seemingly relaxed, actually watching him
sharply. Relieved, Illya went into the malodorous little room. Napoleon
was right there, had been right there the whole time. It cheered him, to
think of it and when he washed his hands as best he could and came back
out into the hall, Napoleon was still there. He waited until they were
again in their room to speak. 

"Now you lock up after me and don't open up again until you hear me speak
to you. There is still plenty of food in the pack. Don't worry. I promise
I'll be back before dark. Yes?" 

"All right." Where was Napoleon going? Why was he leaving? Howhow could he
go? But he held back his questions, and nodded obediently. Napoleon kissed
him once, lightly, and left, pausing in the hall until he heard the bar
drop into place. 

 

He went back to the station, nearly deserted now, and up to a row of
battered lockers. He had a key around his neck, concealed under his shirt
and now he used it, removed the parcel inside. It contained his other
identification, the cards that said he was a wealthy man, a very wealthy
man. With them, he went to the nearest bank. From there he went to an
exclusive men's clothing store where the proprietor, long accustomed to
the rich and their habits, never blinked an eye at Napoleon's travel worn
clothes but sold him a new suit, a set of underwear, and pajamas. Napoleon
estimated Illya's sizehe had lost weight, during his ordealand ordered the
same for him. He requested, and received, permission to use the store's
lavish rest room where he stripped down and washed himself all over, dried
off with the linen hand towels provided and, dressed again in his new
finery, discarded the old in the trash can. Carrying the rest of his
purchases, he bowed graciously to the store's owner, who bowed in return,
and went out into the street where he hailed a taxi and told the driver to
take him to the station. 

 

Illya waited, telling himself that he was safe enough here. There were no
enemies left to pursue him. Napoleon had killed them all. He was safe. But
he wished Napoleon would hurry, he wished Napoleon would come back, he
wished... "Illya." 

He leapt from the bed and ran over to the door, wrestled with the bolt and
opened up. Napoleon came in and Illya threw both arms around his neck.
Napoleon hugged Illya in return. "Now go back into that bathroom," he
directed. "I know it's a styclean up as best you can anyway. Go." He
opened the door and, as before, watched Illya safely into the bathroom,
waited, watched him come back, locked up behind him. His face was scrubbed
and shining with cold water, his hair damp. "Good." Napoleon pushed the
new clothes into his hands and waited while he dressed, then tied his hair
back again with the string that had closed the parcel. He led Illya out
and down the hall. He had left their pack, with its hard won bounty, and
now he only carried one paper bag, containing papers, cash, and their new
pajamas. 

At the station Napoleon handed Illya into another cab, got in beside him
and gave an address to the driver, who pulled away with alacrity. 

He let them off in front of the city's most expensive hotel. A uniformed
doorman bowed them inside, a haughty front desk clerk, resplendent in
brass and buttons, lost his hauteur after scanning Napoleon's credit card
and welcomed them warmly. He didn't blink at the paper bag, taking it from
Napoleon with a bow, handing it to the bellhop who, with equal gravity,
carried it upstairs for them. Napoleon accepted it with thanks, dipped
inside and produced a generous tip. Downstairs the bellhop and the desk
clerk agreed that Americans were crazy altogether but this one, at least,
was a generous man. 

 

Inside the penthouse suite, all was silence and luxury, the carpet soft
underfoot. There was a living room, a bedroom with a king sized bed, and
sliding glass doors onto a balcony. The bathroom boasted a hot tub. After
weeks on the trail, it was overwhelming. They walked around, hand in hand,
investigating the comforts with barely restrained glee. Napoleon filled
the tub; Illya bounced on the bed before going outside on the balcony.
Napoleon joined him. "We have plane tickets for tomorrow morning," he
said, staring out over the city. "Nonstop to New York and home." 

"Home," Illya echoed. 

"But meanwhile, here we are in the lap of luxury. It's a big tubwant to
join me? Room service will take at least forty-five minuteswe can order,
bathe and be in our pajamas when it arrives." 

How you like to plan things out, Illya thought, smiling up at Napoleon.
Without knowing it, Napoleon had answered a question that Illya had not
dared to ask. He had wondered if this new thing between them was for
always, or only for this part of their lives that was so different,
walking all day, barely finding enough to eat, dirty, tiredand madly,
passionately, in love. He had worried about that, but now here they were,
back in their own world and Napoleon wanted him naked in the bathtub and
they were still madlyHe slid down into the hot water, down into Napoleon's
armspassionatelyNapoleon kissed him, opened his legs, took himin love. 

 

They ate ravenously, barely restraining themselves while the waiter set up
the table. As soon as the door clicked shut behind him, they fell on the
food, on the good steak and tossed salad, the baby tomatoes and fresh
bread, the onion soup and shrimp cocktail. Replete at last, Illya lay back
on the sofa and stretched, listening to Napoleon stack their dishes on the
tray, put it out in the hall. Then Napoleon returned, smiled down at him
and began to undress. 

"I'm sleepy." Illya put his head back and yawned, covering his mouth. 

"That's all right." Naked now, he bent over, began to remove Illya's
pajamas. "I like you sleepy. All soft," he tugged Illya's pants down, off,
"and warm," pulling Illya to a sitting position, pulling his shirt over
his head, "and sleepy." Illya leaned on him all the way into the bedroom
and they fell together onto the mattress, both groaning aloud in pleasure
as they sank into it, then Napoleon was whispering Illya's name and their
lovemaking was warm, and sleepy, and then darkness covered them and they
slept, wrapped in each other's arms, surrounded by a strange city, a
strange country, in a world of their own. 

 

As the cab pulled away from LaGuardia Airport, Illya looked at Napoleon
and his face had darkened. "It's time now, Napoleon." 

"For what?" 

"To worry aboutyou know. We're in the taxi." He forced a smile. "Now what
happens?" 

He had no idea. "Do as I tell you," he answered finally because he still
didn't trust Illya's judgment and this could all work out, if handled
carefully. And Illya, relieved to think Napoleon still had a plan, nodded,
but his hands closed around Napoleon's arm and he moved closer. 

 

He followed Napoleon into the old tailor's shop, still clinging to him
because he couldn't bear the thought of separation now, now when he didn't
know what to expect. He was very afraid. Why he should be afraid of UNCLE
he didn't know but he was, he was cold and sick with fear and only the
strength of Napoleon's body next to his kept him on his feet, only
Napoleon's forward motion moved him. They were in the fitting room now and
Napoleon reached out, pulled the lever and the doors opened. 

It was too much, those sliding steel doors, too much like the other place
and he hid his face in Napoleon's shoulder, moving again because Napoleon
did and he couldn't let go of Napoleon so he moved and the doors closed
behind him. He squeezed his eyes shut. 

"Agent Kuryakin." They had used his title, those cold smooth men and women
who had handled him with such efficient cruelty; had called him the same
thing and he hadn't answered them so he didn't answer now and after a
moment, he heard the same voice say "Medical, Entrance 4." He shuddered at
that, because that was what they always said when they had pushed him too
far, they said "Medical". He shook his head against Napoleon's shoulder. 

"No." It was a fruitless plea, he knew it, events were happening too
quickly and any minute now they'd come in and grab him, strap him down...
"No." He turned all the way into Napoleon, clinging to him, feeling
Napoleon's arms close around him. More doors slid open, he heard them but
he was safe now, Napoleon had him. Napoleon wouldn't let them take him. 

Napoleon backed up a step, to buy them time. His eyes met Burton's in an
open appealPlease, he thought, it's not Illya's fault I went against you.
Please don't frighten him more than he already is, please don't have him
pulled from me, and Burton nodded his understanding. "Agent Kuryakin," he
repeated quietly. "I have sent for your own physicianhere he is now."
Napoleon recognized Dr. James Holt, Illya's own primary care physician.
Illya liked him, he knew and dared to hope that this wouldn't end in
catastrophe. 

"Illya?" Holt came closer but didn't touch his patient. What had been done
to reduce Illya Kuryakin to this he didn't like to think but Illya,
clearly terrorized by his surroundings, was clutching Napoleon Solo like a
drowning man with a life preserver. "Can you hear me?" 

"Yes." The voice was muffled against Napoleon's jacket. 

"It's Dr. Holt." 

"Who?" 

"James Holt. Your doctor." 

"James?" Illya turned within the circle of Napoleon's arms and Holt smiled
at him. 

"Hey, Illya. We've missed you Wednesday nights." 

"Wednesday... oh. Poker." 

"Yes." Good. Illya knew him and moreover remembered their regular poker
group. It was more than he'd dared hope for. 

"You missed me?" 

"Sure did. Everyone missed you. Now I want you to come with me to my
office." 

"Your office?" That wasn't so bad, it wasn't that bad, he knew James, had
been in his examination rooms many times. 

"That's right. I'll check you out top to bottom, no waiting. You're my
number one priority case." 

"I don't want you to tie me down." 

"I don't want to have to do that either," Holt agreed. "How long since
they stopped drugging him, Solo?" 

"Over twenty days." 

"Well, good. IllyaI recommend a light sedative. Just to take the edge off
during your exam." 

"No!" He recoiled against Napoleon so hard he almost knocked him off his
feet. "I won'tI won't let you! And I won't go with you either! I'm notnot"
He retreated back to Napoleon's shoulder. Napoleon raised his eyebrows at
Holt. 

"He needs it, Solo. His body's dumping adrenaline into his bloodstream
nonstop. He's shockyhe needs some help. Maybe he'll let you give it to
him." 

"Get it," Napoleon said after a moment's thought and Holt nodded. He went
out, returned almost immediately with a syringe, which he handed to
Napoleon. 

"It's all right, Illya," Napoleon said. "Roll up your sleeve." Illya did,
because he trusted Napoleon but he was afraid, too, shivering as if
standing in a cold wind, his fingers white where they gripped Napoleon's
jacket. He turned his face away as Napoleon first tested the syringe, then
tucked Illya's arm under his, holding it still. "Illya is coming home with
me," he said while he injected the sedative, pulled the needle out,
applied the Band-Aid Dr. Holt provided. "That means I need to be at his
discharge conference." He said that blandly, not looking at Burton, who
answered just as smoothly. 

"Of course, Agent Solo. Our Board meeting should be ready to break for
lunch right about then. You can attend the conference and then escort
Agent Kuryakin to the Executive Dining Room. We would very much like to
buy you lunch," he said to Illya who had calmed visibly. 

"All right." He felt better. It was good to see James. He liked James very
much. He smiled at the doctor, who beckoned. 

"Come on, Illya. Sooner begun, soonest done." 

"And you won't tie me up." 

"No." 

"All right." Immediately Napoleon slid his hand free and turned him into
Holt's extended arm. James draped it companionably across Illya's back and
they were walking, they were leaving and Napoleon was staying behind! It
had never occurred to him that Napoleon would stay behind and he stopped,
stiffening his whole body against James's urging. "Napoleon?" 

"It's all right, Illya," Napoleon said steadily. "I'll meet you there when
he's through." Illya deserved privacy during his physical, and Napoleon
was aware of Burtonand the rest of the Boardwaiting to give him hell. He
didn't mind. It made him furious to think that they had abandoned Illya to
torture and death. Rape, torture and death. He was ready to give it right
back to them. 

"But, Napoleon" 

"It's all right," Napoleon repeated patiently. "Go." 

Illya bit his lip, wanting to protest further even as he obeyed, but his
physiological systems were quieting despite his fears; the trembling gone,
the sick churning in his stomach gone and he felt pleasantly drowsy. Halls
and elevators seemed to float past with no effort on his part and after
all, Napoleon had promised... When Holt steered him into the familiar
examination room, the bed with its crisp white sheets was a welcome sight.
Even the hospital gown didn't arouse the pounding terror he would have
expected. It was just easier to let the nurses help him undress, fussing
over him, tying the cord in the back, kissing his cheek and exclaiming
over and over how glad they were to see him. Then he was flat on his back,
floating while Holt went over every inch of him with his hard, trained
fingers and his stethoscope, probing and pressing, asking sharp questions.
It was easier to tell the truth than to try and make things up so he
answered willingly enough about the long walk, and what he and Napoleon
had eaten on route, and the coca leaves. He talked about the Thrush
satrap, and the drugs there, and the way the doctors had worked with his
interrogators and James listened and was gratifyingly angry on his behalf.


Illya was more reluctant to talk about his time with the rebels and Holt
didn't press. He could tell for himself that it had been brutalthe whip
marks and burns still faintly visible as well as assorted bruising, but
Illya had been a field agent for years, harsh treatment no novelty. He
sent his patient down for several scans, and drew blood for the lab and by
the time he escorted Illya, fully clothed once again, into his office, the
sedative was wearing off. Napoleon was there, as promised, and Illya went
straight to him, sinking onto the sofa beside him, dropping his head onto
Napoleon's shoulder, wrapping himself up in the security of Napoleon's
ready embrace. 

Physically, Illya was fine. Napoleon had already thought as much but it
was good to hear Dr. Holt confirm it. He had been in robust good health to
start with, and his body had withstood the traumas it had been subjected
to with no permanent harm done. The mental effects were more problematic
and Dr. Holt recommended a long vacationsix to eight weeks, he
suggestedfar from medical complexes and jungles and anything else that
might remind Illya of his ordeal. Napoleon listened, and nodded, and
wondered about the other injuries, the ones Illya had never spoken of.
Evidently Dr. Holt had not noticed any sinister pattern in those faded
bruises. Was hecould he be wrong? Because if it had happened, and Illya
not reported itthat would be bad. But maybe he was wrong. And maybe Illya
didn't remember. Napoleon looked at him, nodding at Holt's admonition to
take his antibiotics faithfully. He certainly didn't seem to be harboring
any dark secrets. Napoleon set it aside until later and then he and Illya
were out in the hall. He smiled at his partner. 

"Hungry?" 

"No." 

"Come on anyway." They walked together to the elevator that would take
them directly to the executive dining room. All along the way people
stopped to exclaim over Illya's returnhe was hugged and kissed, his cheeks
were pinched, his shoulders punchedit was a joyful tumult all the way to
the elevator and by the time they got on, he had a little more color and
was smiling. Napoleon smiled too. "You've been missed." 

"I see that." He was pleased. "It's nice. I forgot I had friends here. I
thought" he broke off when the doors opened onto the lavish room with the
floor to ceiling windows. Napoleon rather wished Illya had been able to
finish that sentence, but Burton was rising to greet them and there were
two other board members there as wellHercut and Waters. They all shook
hands and then everyone sat down. 

Illya studied his menu, at a loss. The variety of choices made him dizzy
and when Napoleon ordered, he asked for the same without having heard what
it was. But it must have been all right because no one looked surprised so
he sipped his ice water and pulled a roll apart until he saw Burton's eyes
on him. He flushed, and dropped it. This was part of the test, he
knewJames had looked him over, and later the psychologists and other
brainwashing specialists would have their turn but right now they were
watching him to see how he would conduct himself and it made him so
nervous, he could barely think. So he said nothing, and when his steak
came, he cut it all up and pushed it around his plate. Waters made small
talk with Napoleon, and Hercut asked Illya how he was feeling, and Burton
made a little speech welcoming him back and Illya nodded, or shook his
head when it seemed appropriate. When they all prepared to leave, he had
the dubious satisfaction that while he had not allayed their concerns, he
hadn't added to them either. But the thought of the upcoming debriefing
undid him. He didn't know what to expect, but he feared something similar
to what he had been through before; he was afraid they'd strap him down to
a bed, give him more drugs, shout endless rounds of questions into his
faceso before getting in the elevator, he stopped, turned to face Burton
and gathered all his courage. 

"I want Napoleon with me," he said. "I want" he reached out, gripped
Napoleon's sleeve. "I want him there. When they ask me questions." 

Burton regarded him for a long time and his rather austere expression
softened. "If you like," he answered finally. "He cannot participate." He
gave Napoleon a hard look. "He is clearly far too personally involved. But
he can be present." 

"Thank you, sir," Napoleon said and meant it. 

"Thank you," Illya echoed, weak with relief. Napoleon wouldn't let them do
anything terrible to himhe wouldn't let them tie him up, or give him drugs
against his willhis fingers tightened and Napoleon patted them. 

"Let's go," he said and Illya nodded. "I'm sure it won't be as bad as you
expect." He patted Illya's fingers again and drew him onto the elevator. 

It wasn't bad at all. Instead of a hospital room, there was a conference
room, just like the one used for staff meetings. Everyone sat around a
table and Dr. Block, head of the department, made sure Illya was
comfortable, that he had water and a tray of assorted cookies, that he
wasn't too tired. "Because if you are fatigued, Agent Kuryakin, we can do
this tomorrow morning." 

It was a tempting thought, to leave right now, to go home with Napoleon,
but then it would be hanging over him still. So he shook his head no and
moved his chair a little closer to Napoleon's so their shoulders were
brushing. Napoleon looked at him sharply and reached out, took both
Illya's icy hands between his own, warming them. 

Their questions covered every moment of time between Illya's disappearance
and the destruction of the Thrush satrap. Like Holt, they were less
interested in what came after. Even this low key interrogation was almost
too much for Illya, his thin body quivering with the strain of repeatedly
going over the same ground, his voice speeding up, climbing when his
agitation grew but they were courteous, and carefulstopping frequently to
let Napoleon talk to him and rub his back, refill his water glass. That
helped, and after a while Illya had to concede their good intentions. He
did his best to satisfy them and found he had observed more than he would
have believedknew how many doctors, and what their schedules were, how
many guards and the size of their shifts, their chain of command and their
organizational structure. When they probed for any information he might
have given out, he shook his head. "I wouldn't talk to them. I didn't say
one word the whole time I was there. Even when they set up their little
plots, to trick me..." 

"Can you give us an example?" 

"They'd pretend to rescue me. They'd rush in wearing different
clothesdifferent people, so I wouldn't recognize them, and untie methey
told me I had to report on the information I'd kept secret, that lives
depended on it." 

"But you were not fooled?" 

"I wanted it to be true." He had wanted it desperately. "I wanted to be
rescued. But I thought it might be a trickand I didn't see Napoleon. I
knew if anyone was looking for me, it would be him. I thoughtwell, I'll
report to Napoleon when I see him." He rubbed his cheek against Napoleon's
shoulder. "But he never came and after a little while, they gave up and
tied me down again. YouI thought maybe that's what you were going to do.
Tie me down and drug me." He trembled as he said it and Napoleon squeezed
his hands comfortingly. "Areare you? Because Napoleon won't let you." 

"No," Dr. Block answered gently. "There is no need. What you are telling
us confirms what we already know. No information has leaked out. You did
very well. You should be proud." 

Proud? Was he? No. It was pleasant, hearing the words, but it didn't touch
him at all. Dr. Block was continuing. "What did they want to know so
badly?" 

"I don't remember." It frightened him, admitting that, because now they
might... but Napoleon was talking to him again, and Napoleon's arms were
strong around him... He ventured to explain further. "I had to hide it so
now it's gone. I thought about the sea rising and covering it, and about a
mud-slide burying it, and about a computer being erased" Dr. Block was
nodding approval and he was able to continue. "I did that as hard as I
could and now it's gone and how can I work not knowinganything?" 

"Some of it may come back on its own, once you are among familiar
surroundings again. But practically speaking, we have of course closed
down all the projects you were working on. So you won't need that specific
information again." 

"But I don't remember anything! I don't remember our procedures, or our
security codes oror even where we keep the coffee maker! I should just
quit." He put his head down, forehead resting on their joined hands. "I
should just quit and never come back." He sounded so desolate that
Napoleon swallowed. 

"Illya..." 

"Agent Kuryakin." Dr. Block was leaning across the table, face earnest.
"It is perfectly normal for you to feel this way. But please believe me. I
have done this work all my professional life and I am telling you that you
have come through splendidly. The day to day information you need to
perform your job will return and what does not return on its own, can be
taught. Please do not distress yourself like this. I see that medical has
recommended an eight week leave." Medical had recommended more than
thatDr. Holt had made it very plain that Illya Kuryakin was to be handled
with kid gloves, that he had been emotionally as well as physically
battered, and that his future productivity depended heavily on his
treatment now. Burton had seconded all that in his quick call after lunch.


"This is a man we want to keep," Burton had said. "Give him whatever he
needs to continue doing his job. If he's ruined for the fieldand he may
bewell, he hasn't done that in over a year anyway. But the science
department hasn't been the same since he left. We need him." So they had
proceeded carefully and now, watching Solo soothe him once more, Block was
glad. 

"Yes," Illya was saying without looking up. "But James called it a
vacation." 

"You may certainly consider it one if you like. When you return, you will
need to report back to Dr. Holt, of course, to be sure you are physically
fit for duty. But we will wait another twelve weeks beyond that before we
meet again. We will see what rest and a return to your normal working
environment will do. All right?" 

"Yes." He still hadn't lifted his head. 

"Very well. Agent Solo" He rose and Napoleon tugged Illya to his feet,
shook Block's outstretched hand. 

"Is that it?" Illya looked dazed. He had been dreading this for so long
and now it was over? Just like that? "I can go home now?" 

"Yes. And once againyou have done very well. UNCLE is grateful." 

"It is? I meanyou are?" 

"Yes." 

"Oh." He didn't say anything else, and Napoleon took him out the back way,
back through the tailor shop, out onto the street where he hailed a cab,
put Illya in it and took him home. 

 

Napoleon's apartment: familiar, quiet, spacious. Safe. Illya stood in the
entryway and looked at the expanse of beige carpet, the sunken living room
with its fireplace and large screen TV, the sofa that opened into a double
bed. When he stayed over, that was where he slept. Now he would share
Napoleon's bed. Napoleon had gone into the kitchen and after a moment,
Illya followed him, sat at the table. 

"I noticed you didn't eat anything at lunch," Napoleon was saying as he
took out a bowl and mixing spoon. "And it's almost eight o'clock now. How
do you feel about pancakes?" 

"Pancakes?" Illya, who had been about to say no, thank you, he wasn't
hungry, felt his interest stir. "Like the ones you made last time I was
here?" 

"I could do that, or I could add blueberries..." 

"Yes, please." 

They said nothing more as Napoleon poured and stirred, measured batter,
put it on the griddle. He was pleased with himself for thinking of the
pancakesthere was something cozy about them, domestic. They had talked, on
the plane, about their new shared lifeNapoleon wanting to give Illya
something to look forward to, Illya, very serious about the details
Napoleon was imparting to him. He kept nodding as Napoleon expounded on
joint bank accounts and changes to their personnel records, explaining
just how they would blend their possessions, all the while looking into
those blue eyes and wanting to kiss Illya right there, right there on the
plane. Now he slid Illya's plate over and sat down opposite him. "Well."
He smiled. "Here we are." 

"Yes." It was such a relief to be here, in Napoleon'stheir apartment. It
was as if he had been returned to the time before his abduction, a time
when he wasn't frightened of every new thing, a time when a simple lunch
meeting didn't make him cling to Napoleon for dear life. A time when he
was himself. "Thank you so much." 

"You don't have to keep thanking me, Illya. I wanted to do it. I
wantedneeded you back in my life." 

"I need you too." 

"Want more pancakes?" 

"Yes, please." He passed his empty plate over, waited while Napoleon went
to the stove and refilled it. "Thank you." 

"You're welcome." He sat down again and pushed the glass of orange juice
closer. "Here." 

"I had some." 

"Have some more." He waited until Illya was finished, then cleaned up
before going into the bathroom. "Bath or shower?" 

"Shower." Illya came in behind him. "I've always liked your shower." He
did. Napoleon's stall shower took up nearly half of the bathroom. It had
four showerheads and two contoured seats. 

"Your shower too, now. This is your home, remember." 

"Yes." He could feel himself settling down. "Our shower." They undressed
separately, folding their garments, tossing underwear and socks into the
hamper. In the shower they embraced, finally, and Napoleon ran his hands
down Illya's back, sighing with pleasure, feeling Illya sigh, too, against
his neck. 

"Illya." 

"Yes?" 

"Heads up." 

"What...?" Then the water poured down, soaking his hair, running down his
back, hot and steaming and completely wonderful. He tipped his head back
and let the water cover his face, looked up at Napoleon and he too was
standing under the spray, rubbing at his hair. "Let me," Illya said and
washed Napoleon all over, washed his hair and his face, his chest and his
back, scrubbing with Napoleon's long handled brush, hearing Napoleon's
grunt of pleasure. He finished it on his knees, washing Napoleon's feet
and his legs, washing him intimately and then drawing him deep into his
mouth. Napoleon sat down abruptly, gripping Illya's shoulders, then his
fingers loosened and he just sat, watching the drops sparkle in Illya's
hair. Finally he placed a kiss there before pushing himself up. 

It took longer, to shampoo Illya's hair and Napoleon smiled. "I like
this," he said aloud and Illya sighed with pleasure as Napoleon's strong
fingers rubbed his scalp. 

"Me too." 

"See how that works out?" Napoleon said and washed Illya's face, putting
an extra dab of soap on his nose and kissing it off. Where Illya had been
serious, and engrossed in his task, Napoleon was more playful, teasing him
and tickling him and then he knelt and the smile faded. 

The bruises were still there, barely visible even after all this time. He
reached out, ran a finger over Illya's hip, to his back. Illya whispered
something but Napoleon didn't hear him. He stroked Illya's buttocks,
lightly, wanting to take the hurt away, and leaned down to press his lips
to Illya's inner thighs. 

"Tell me about these," he said finally, hands pausing in their caress,
fitting right on the bruised places. 

And desire was gone in one cold rush ofwhat? Illya couldn't begin to
identify the emotion. Not fear, he wasn't afraid of Napoleon. Not anger
even though he wanted to be angry. He didn't know what he felt. But he
wished Napoleon hadn't said that, wished Napoleon hadn't noticed those
bruises, wished... and Napoleon was standing up now, looking at Illya with
somber eyes. How long had he known? Had he just now... 

"I've wanted to ask you since that night by the river," Napoleon said in
answer to the unspoken question. "But it never seemed the right time. And
now..." Now, he meant, when they were home and Illya had not reported it
so no one knew except for the two of them. He turned off the shower and
there was silence while they both dried off. 

Illya was watching Napoleon. I'll never know you, he thought, and accepted
the robe Napoleon handed him. All this time you've been waiting for the
right time, and I had no idea. I will never know you. He saw the anxious
look Napoleon sent his way and realized that Napoleon felt unsure too,
that Napoleon wondered why Illya hadn't confided in him, that Napoleon was
worried about his response now. "I don't like to think about it," he said
finally and they stood there and looked at one another. Illya said nothing
further. He had nothing more to add. He didn't like to think about it.
That was the truth. That was why he hadn't told Napoleon before. That was
why he hadn't told James, or Block. That was why he wasn't going to talk
about it now. 

"I suppose that's understandable," Napoleon said finally. He looked
searchingly into Illya's eyes. They were wide, and clearand he couldn't
read one thing in them. "I justyou should have made a full report." 

"No." Illya walked away, out of the bathroom. He shrugged off the heavy
robe and turned to face Napoleon again. "I'm not reporting that. Why
should I? It has nothing to do with UNCLE. It's not as if it was Thrush,
as if that was some new interrogation technique I need to pass on. It was
those other men and they didn't take me because I'm an UNCLE agent, they
took me because I was there. They took me because I was there, they beat
me because I was there, and theydid other things to me toobecause I was
thereand helpless. It's nobody's business but mine and... and that's all!"
He had said this in one breath and now he gasped for air. "That's all," he
repeated, and set his mouth, hard. 

"Illya" 

"No." His face was closed, and Napoleon didn't know whether to be
gladbecause it was so good to see that stubborn streak again, or disturbed
because things buried seldom stayed that way. He didn't know. 

"This puts me in an awkward position," he said finally. "If I have
information..." 

"Nothing happened then. I don't know what you're talking about." He
changed direction abruptly because Napoleon was right, that wasn't fair.
"When I said other things, I meant the cattle prod. And the cigarette
burns. Andthe whip. That's all." 

"Illya Kuryakin." 

"Nothing happened." 

"Look me in the eye and tell me that." And he couldn't lie to Napoleon,
they both knew it, so he averted his face and said nothing. The obstinate
expression was still there, however, and Napoleon smiled despite himself.
"All right. I'll pretend to believe thatofficially. But
unofficiallyIllya?" 

"What?" 

"I wishI really wish that you felt you could talk to me. It breaks my
heart, that you don't." 

And that opened him up, just as if Napoleon had reached out and pulled him
apart. His eyes filled, suddenly, and his mouth trembled and then he was
in Napoleon's arms, held fast in those arms and he did talk to Napoleon,
in brief bursts of words followed by long, shaking silences. He talked
about the first time, when they had shocked him until he couldn't move and
then tied him down anyway, and beaten him before falling on him, one after
the other all through that day and night, and about the times after that,
when one or two would come after the camp was quiet and dark, sometimes
untying him from the tree and spreading him out, sometimes leaving him
there and gratifying themselves standing up. 

"And the night I came?" 

"They hadn't started on me yet. Itthey'd been drinking, that's whyit must
have seemed like a good idea, to bring me over. But you stopped them in
time. Thank you. Thank you so much, Napoleon, for coming to get me." 

"Well." He patted Illya's back. And Illya was right. Why should he report
that he had been raped? It had nothing to do with Thrush, Illya was right
about that too. And perhaps UNCLE considered it had a right to knowbut
UNCLE's position had been to leave Illya to his fate. If Napoleon hadn't
disobeyed orders, there would be no report to make. 

"You're in a bad position now, aren't you?" Illya was saying. "If youI
mean, I don't want you to feelI'll tell them." He wasn't even surprised
that he had capitulated. He had never been able to stand against Napoleon
in anything. "If you want me to." 

"No. You're right. There is nothing in any of this that need concern
UNCLE. You've done enough." 

"Oh." Napoleon had capitulated too. How unexpectedand how sweet. "Do you
really think so?" 

"Yes. It's done, now. Over and done with. And you have eight weeks off
which means I do too." He kissed Illya's cheek and felt it curve into a
smile. 

"You don't have to stay home with me, Napoleon." It was easy to be brave
here, where he was safe. "You can go back to work. Since I see they gave
you your badge back." 

"Yes, they did." It had been a brutal session, with Burton and UNCLE's
executive board but he had come through unscathed. "I told them I'd need
to be out as long as you were. I told them about us." 

"What did they say?" 

"There's very little they're allowed to say, beyond 'Congratulations'."
They had been surprisedrelieved, too, he could tell. All of a sudden
Napoleon Solo's inexplicable behavior had a cause they could understand.
Illya Kuryakin was his lover after all, not only a former field partner.
It gave them a category to fit the whole affair into, whatever their
personal opinions might be. They had said their awkward congratulations
and looked at him askance when they thought he didn't see them but he
didn't care. He would solidify his position again, regain any ground
lostand he and Illya were together now for the whole world to see. 

"You must have a lot to catch up on," Illya was saying. "You can go in if
you wantI'll be all right here." 

"No. Doctor's orders are to take you away. I thought we could go to a
South Seas island where I can indulge you to my heart's content. You're
not really yourself yet." 

"No. I know." He wasn't. He was better, but not himselftwo months on a
tropical island? Just the two of them? What was he arguing about? "Yes,
Napoleon. A tropical island sounds wonderful. But not yet." He wanted some
time here first, time at home. "I like it here." 

"Well, that's fine." He was pleased. "We can leave next week." He kissed
Illya's forehead and Illya smiled so Napoleon kissed his mouth and they
kissed for a long time and when they were finished kissing, they went to
bed. Napoleon took Illya in his arms, sinking into him slowly until his
possession was complete, then moving, slowly at first; Illya moving too
now, slow, slow, then a little faster then Napoleon was driving into him
with all his might and he was spread wide, pleasure taking them both up in
the whirlwind. After an endless time, Napoleon rolled off, gathered Illya
in, stroking Illya's hair, pushing it off his face, kissing him again. "I
love you," he said with his last conscious breath and Illya's lips brushed
his shoulder. 

"I love you too," he whispered back and when Napoleon fell asleep, so did
he, close by Napoleon's side, journey over, fear and pain, distant
memories, Napoleon's arms his only reality, and both were home at last.  


  Please post a comment on this story. 
Read posted comments.