The Touchstone Affair      The Touchstone Affair by Graculus	 
 

They'd had close shaves before, but this time their escape seemed
different. Even as he and Illya lay in the long damp grass on the hillside
and watched the exploding Thrush base paint the sky a multitude of
colours, Napoleon wondered just how it was they'd managed to get out
before the wave of bombers came. Certainly it had been almost a matter of
split-second timinganother few minutes inside the base and they would have
been inside there forever. 

He glanced across at Illya, who was still watching the light show with an
engrossed expression, despite the exhaustion that kept pushing his eyes
half-closed. 

Illya's face was a patchwork of scrapes and bruises that was visible even
in the twilight, a testament to the rough treatment they'd both received
at the hands of their captors. Illya had spat his defiance at them, for
some reason or another only known to him, and he'd paid the penalty for it
in terms of becoming the focus of their dubious attentions. 

And all of this was mostly Napoleon's fault anyway, since he'd been the
one Illya was trying to rescue. 

Things had moved on since they'd first become partners, so much so that
Napoleon hardly remembered how it had been between them once. It seemed
ludicrous to consider how close he'd once been to losing Illya forever, or
to recall his stubborn partner's determination to ask for a transfer back
to London, let alone how much that had galled him at the time. Galled him
even though Napoleon himself had been going regularly to Waverly to ask to
be set free from his recently-acquired Russian burden. 

Now he couldn't think of life without the man who was nodding again, as he
lay beside him in the grass, hardly able to keep his eyes open. 

"Come on," Napoleon said. "Let's get down to the main road." 

They could meet the clean-up crew, come to sift through what was left of
the Thrush base, looking for information rather than survivors, and that
way acquire a lift back to the nearest UNCLE office. Their Thrush captors
had considerately stripped them of their communicators and various devices
secreted around their persons, before shoving them both into baggy blue
coveralls. If he regretted anything about the destruction of the base,
Napoleon regretted losing his suithe knew there was no way Mr Waverly
would agree to replace it, he rarely did. 

Someone had been watching over them. 

Napoleon thought back to his grandmother, remembering her insistence that
they light a candle and ask for the saint's protection before every
journey, every change in routine. He could still remember helping her do
the same, his hands wrapped around her arthritic ones, carefully guiding
the lit candle into its holder, before he would step back to kneel by her
side as she crossed herself. Following her example even as he doubted her
beliefs. 

Even now the smell of melted wax made him think of his nonna. 

Perhaps he'd light a candle to St Michael Archangel when they got back to
New York. Not that he'd tell his sceptical partner what he planned to
dothe kind of teasing he was certain he'd get from Illya would be all but
intolerable. But he had a lot to be thankful for. They were both alive,
both in one piece. 

Napoleon didn't want to contemplate the alternative, and whatever edge he
and his partner could get was absolutely fine by him. 

 

As usual, Napoleon was hovering over him, treating him like he was a small
intractable child rather than a capable agent. It annoyed Illya and warmed
him in equal measureit had been so long since anyone had cared enough for
him to nag. His partner's words washed over him, their tone enough even as
he tuned out the words themselves, his inattention turning them into a
comforting stream of nonsense. 

His partner's luck had struck again. 

Illya had dismissed the stories at first, mentally labelling the tales of
Solo's miraculous escapes and split-second opportunities as tales expanded
in the telling. It hadn't been until Napoleon was actually his partner,
giving him the chance of a front row seat to see it all, that Illya had
begun to wonder. 

But he was still, after all, a realist at hearta firm believer in the idea
that an agent made their own luck. Illya wouldn't trade the hours of
practice he put in for even the slightest sliver of good fortune,
preferring to rely on the cleanliness of his gun and the strength of his
own muscles. Those were tangible, reliable, and if something went wrong
there was no-one else to blame. 

Not that his attitude stopped the stories about his partner. If anything
the casual approach he took to them seemed to Illya to exaggerate things.
As if people suspected he was hiding something, that his denial luck
played a significant part in their missions was some kind of subterfuge. 

And had it been luck, or fate, or merely the whim of Alexander Waverly
that had partnered the two of them? 

Some might say, Illya knew, that there were greater forces at work, some
kind of destiny that dictated the fate even of those who didn't believe in
it. He'd never been a subscriber to that point of view, thinking that a
future in which everything that must happen was already dictated was a
bleak prospect indeed. 

He had no idea what Napoleon thought of it all. 

Despite the long hours spent together, there were some things they didn't
talk about, and his partner's much vaunted luck was one of them. He'd
tried once, soon after they'd actually become partners and the expression
on Napoleon's face had been enough to make Illya's already-uncertain words
grind to a stumbling halt. It had been an almost horrified look, as if to
talk about the good fortune would drive it away foreverperhaps that was
what Napoleon believed, he couldn't tell. 

By the time he was allowed out of the infirmary after being given a clean
bill of health, finally escaping the prying eyes and prodding fingers, all
Illya wanted to do was sleep. 

It was ironic really, that he'd lived much of his life alone yet still
found some kind of comfort in solitude. Even on those rare occasions when
he shared some physical pleasure with another, he never stayed the nighthe
couldn't actually sleep with someone else there, someone he couldn't trust
not to slit his throat in the middle of the night no matter what they'd
experienced together only hours before. 

"Let's get you home," Napoleon said, and Illya found himself agreeing with
his partner's words wholeheartedly. 

His tiny apartment was his haven, the one place on this planet where Illya
was the person who controlled everything and chose what happened. It was
his sanctuary, in so many ways, the place where he licked his wounds and
mentally prepared himself to face the coming day. Inviolate, for all but
his partner. 

Who never failed to scowl at it when he entered through the apartment
door, a reaction as comforting and reliable to Illya as the rising sun. 

"Illya, how do you live like this?" Napoleon always asked, before the door
was closed behind him. 

He didn't visit Illya's apartment often, and most of the time when he did
the visit was related to some injury or other and his partner's need to
look after him. Guilt, he supposed, most of the time, was the strongest
motivator Napoleon knew. 

Illya shrugged. 

The first few times Napoleon had asked, he'd tried to answer, before
realising the question was rhetorical at best. He'd seriously given it
some thought, mentally compared his basic yet cluttered living quarters
with the almost-sterile luxury in which his partner lived, before coming
to understand that it was part of what made them who they were. 

Illya had never clung to material things, had always prioritised doing
over havinghis upbringing had never given him the opportunity to learn the
fine art of acquisition after all. The few things he had of his family
were treasures indeed, all else was dross. Books could be bought again,
records replaced with a marginally greater difficulty, useable furniture
was available everywhere. 

"I like it," had become his stock reply. 

Illya had also learned that, rhetorical or not, a failure to answer that
question would lead Napoleon to look at him. He'd discovered early on as
well that he didn't like that particular look, the examination his partner
subjected him to, so he avoided it however possible. There was always the
chance, after all, that one day his partner would see something Illya
didn't want him to, and that could never be allowed. 

And, after all, Illya did like his apartment, his life, like that. If all
else, it was his. He didn't dare ask for more. 

 

They were lucky to be alive, yet Illya came home to thisan apartment
barely big enough to justify the name. Meagre possessions, almost the work
of a pack-rat, if such a creature were specifically interested in books
and records, hardly what Napoleon would call 'home'. 

His own family hadn't been wealthy, despite the façade he liked to project
that he was the scion of old money, but he'd learned the value of
everything when he was young. And, if nothing else, Napoleon had never
wanted for anything, no matter what his extended family had to do in order
for him to have it. Instead they'd almost stifled him with their care,
would probably be providing for him still if he hadn't flown the nest when
he went to Korea. 

In some ways he'd never really gone home. 

Napoleon had thought himself a man when he enlisted, had admired himself
long moments before the mirror in his military uniform, and had no idea
whatsoever of what he was letting himself in for. 

How could he? 

His experience of war was formed from movies, movies where no-one ever
really suffered, where nobody died in your arms as their blood bubbled out
from a gut wound that no amount of trying could close. He'd never realised
before that life itself was so fragile. 

Some days he felt as if his hands had never been clean since. 

How had he survived when so many of his friends, his brothers in arms, had
died? It had to be luck, he couldn't put it down to anything else. 

Before he'd left for Korea, his nonna had pressed a coin into his hand,
muttering something about it protecting him from the evil eyehe'd laughed,
but his hand had tightened around the token regardless. Somehow he'd
managed to hang onto it, despite everything, his fingers coming to know
every line on the Good Luck Coin, trusting and believing in that when he
felt he had nothing else to believe in. 

He still had it, somewhere. 

He was still searching for something, Napoleon knew that, but he had no
idea what that 'something' was. He'd sought a touchstone once, something
to rely on, at a time when he wasn't even sure he could rely on himself.
He'd left his young bride behind, deaf to her pleas as he sought that
tenuous something he neededhad he ever really known anything about her? 

Only that she wasn't able to give him what he needed, that was all. 

Napoleon wondered what she would think of him now. Would she even be able
to recognise the man he'd turned himself into, or would she walk past him
without knowing who he was? Some days he barely recognised himself, so
nothing would surprise him. 

"Go home, Napoleon," Illya said. "Or sit down. One or the otheryour pacing
makes my head ache." 

Was that really a choice? 

Napoleon sat on Illya's small over-stuffed sofa, listening to the sounds
of his partner making tea. He'd almost come to like the stuff the way
Illya made it, even if he did suspect it was stripping layers of enamel
from his teeth every time he drank it. It gave him an excuse to stay
though, an excuse to watch over his stubborn and intransigent partner, and
that was enough to risk anything. 

After all, if it were not for him then Illya would keep going till he fell
down. Napoleon had learned quite early on in their partnership that this
was the literal truth, so now he made plans that involved him being there
to break his partner's fall. 

"Here," Illya said, shoving the hot glass of tea into Napoleon's hands
without any pretence of courtesy. "Drink this, Napoleon. And then go
home." 

The brusqueness was as warming as the tea itself. Illya was rarely that
rude with anyone he didn't likeinstead he resorted to an icy civility that
was almost ruder than real rudeness could be. Words that were in truth as
sharp as knives and as cold as a glacier, despite the thin veneer of
politeness that covered them. 

"Spasibo," Napoleon said, as his hands closed on the warmth, with a small
smile. His partner's cool façade cracked a little when he spoke, as he'd
known it would. "Sit down before you fall over." 

Illya snorted at Napoleon's peremptory tone, as he'd knew he would, but
then did as he was bid. 

There was silence for a while, the only sounds in the apartment those of
Napoleon breathing on his tea to try and cool it to below scalding, and
Illya contentedly drinking his regardless of the temperature. 

"I'm going to bed," Illya said, then drained the last mouthful of tea from
his glass. "Let yourself out." 

Napoleon watched as Illya leaned over and put the empty glass down on the
threadbare carpet beside the sofa, then headed for his bedroom without a
backward glance. His own tea was still hot enough to scald the tastebuds
off his tongue, so he waited and drank cautiously. The sounds from inside
the bedroom were faint, indications that despite his tiredness Illya still
moved with his usual grace and economy of movement, and then faded to
nothing. 

Napoleon took another mouthful of tea and thought about the overall
strangeness of his life. His parents, were they alive, would think he was
crazy. Sitting in the dingy living room of a tiny apartment as he
seriously contemplated going in there and climbing in bed in order to wrap
himself around his irascible partner. It would be nice, that closeness of
skin on skin, at least in the few seconds before Illya killed him. 

He smiled at the thought, at the likely mixture of surprise and dismay
he'd see on his partner's usually stoic face. 

It was starting to get dark now, the long summer day almost over, and
Napoleon felt the familiar post-adrenaline tiredness creeping up on him.
If it wasn't for the phenomenal bumpiness of the sofa, he'd be inclined to
set up camp herethat way, at least, he wouldn't be risking life and limb
in an attempt to share his partner's bed. 

Just as he was making up his mind to rouse himself, in order to go home
like Illya had told him to, movement at the corner of his eye made
Napoleon's head snap round. There, in the gathering dusk, fluttering at
the grimy sitting room window, was a small bird, dark and inconspicuous. 

He watched it for a moment, as cold fingers seemed to caress his spine and
his nonna's raspy voice came back to him, clear as if she stood by his
shoulder. 

"Nothing good can come of this." 

Was the omen for him? Birds, he knew, were bad luckhe'd heard his nonna
and his much less-superstitious Zia Antonia discussing them on more than
one occasion. A bird coming to the window was in search of a soul to take.
The bird in question seemed to fix him with its beady eye for a second,
settling for the briefest of moments on the sill, before Napoleon's
getting to his feet was enough to startle it away. 

Whether the soul the bird was in search of was his or his partner's, he
didn't like the idea of its appearance one tiny bit. 

 

Illya almost expected to find his partner asleep on his sofa the next
morning when he awoke, but instead the apartment was empty. Napoleon had
set the alarms before he left, at least, as a cursory glance across the
control panel indicated, but he'd expected nothing less. 

By the time he got into work, Napoleon was already in the office they
shared. He barely looked up from his desk to acknowledge Illya's tardy
arrival. 

"Yes, Napoleon," Illya said, as his partner turned his attention back to
his work. "I'm feeling much better this morning, thanks for asking." 

Napoleon looked up properly this time. "You still look like hell," he
said, though his expression was almost sheepish for a moment, in strange
contrast to his tone. 

Illya shrugged. All he knew was that the aches and pains were fading in
comparison to the previous day and, though his face was still somewhat
multi-coloured, that was a temporary matter and barely worth worrying
about. And besides such visible reminders of his dangerous status usually
got him larger helpings in the commissary. 

He was safely past his partner's mother hen stage by now. Once Illya was
actually out of danger, Napoleon's nurturing instincts tended to go
dormant once more, or till the next time anyway. 

What happened next was usually just what he was experiencing now.
Pretended lack of concern, as if Napoleon was embarrassed to have shown
any semblance of worry for his partner, as if it somehow weakened him in
Illya's eyes. All completely predictable and just as completely
ridiculous. 

"You could get to work on your report," Napoleon said, leaning back in his
chair. Illya scowled at him. 

"Our report, you mean," he replied. "Even though I was unconscious for a
good part of it." 

"I can fill in the blanks," Napoleon said, his tone edging past helpful
and off towards over-obliging. Like there was nothing in the world that
would give him greater pleasure, though Illya knew without a doubt that
nothing could be further from the truth. 

"Or I could just make it up," Illya said. "How would Waverly know?" 

There was always that temptation. After all, they were somewhat selective
a lot of the time when they did the write-ups, sketching over the things
that didn't quite fit comfortably with UNCLE policy and procedures,
glossing over the incidents where one or other of them didn't quite do
things by the book. 

"He'd know," Napoleon said. "Because I already saw him this morning and
gave him the verbal summary." 

"You didn't wait for me?" 

Napoleon shrugged. 

"What was the point? Like you said, you were out of it for a good period
of what I had to tell Waverly about, and even by the time the bombers came
you were barely conscious." 

"Still," Illya began, then stopped. Something niggled at him, some
uncertainty about the whole situation. "Did Waverly make any comments?" 

"Comments?" 

Damn him. Damn Napoleon and his over-protectiveness. 

"You know what I mean," Illya said. "Did he say anything about my being
beaten up?" 

Napoleon had sat forward once more by this point, all four feet of his
chair now firmly on the ground. 

"He'd seen the reports from Medical, Illya. How could he not comment?" 

It was worse than he'd thought. Every paranoid notion he'd ever held
concerning Waverly's views of him as an agent seemed to rush to the
forefront of Illya's mind all at oncehe could be on the next plane back to
Moscow before he knew it. And his partner, the one person he was meant to
be able to rely on, hadn't ensured he had the chance to defend himself. 

"I see," Illya said, as non-committal as he could manage. 

It was ridiculous really, and he knew that if he gave it any conscious
thought. After all, he was partnered with the heir apparent, so if all
else failed would Waverly want to upset Napoleon by separating him from
the one agent who he seemed to have been able to create a working
partnership with? Illya thought not. 

 

"Relax, Illya," Napoleon said, as he saw the tension flood his partner's
body. He was able to recognise the signs of impending explosion quickly
now, the familiarity their partnership had bred a useful tool, their
unspoken communication almost as accurate as any words that passed between
them. "Waverly was happy with the end result of the mission, that's what
matters." 

He hadn't realised Illya was still so uncertain about his place within
UNCLE, after all this time. 

"Besides," he continued cheerfully, in an attempt to break Illya's mood,
"you only got into that mess because you were trying to rescue me,
remember? If Waverly's going to comment on anything, it would be that. And
my latest futile attempt to claim back the cost of another suit." 

Illya considered that for a moment, his fingers still clutching the pen he
seemed to have forgotten he was holding. Then his body relaxed a little,
infinitely small movements nobody else would have noticed, and Napoleon
let out an inaudible sigh of relief. 

When had he grown so adept at manipulation, anyway? Somehow Napoleon
always knew the right things to say to calm his partner, or chide him out
of one of his odd moods, prompting more than one fellow agent to comment,
when he thought the CEA was out of earshot, about how little he'd like to
work with that temperamental Russian. 

They had no idea of the side benefits of such a partnership, that was all
Napoleon would have replied. If it was any of their damn business. Which,
of course, it wasn't. 

If anyone couldn't appreciate Illya for what and who he was, then they
certainly had no right to criticise himgood partners were hard to find in
the first place, Napoleon had worked his way through enough abortive
pairings to know that for certain. There was something intangible about
what he and Illya shared, something Napoleon would be hard pressed to
describe to anyone else, some kind of connection beyond the norm. 

He was firmly convinced that it was luck, not Waverly alone, which had
given him the opportunity to forge this partnership, which had forced the
two of them to make it work despite their individual determination to go
their separate ways. Not that he'd ever mention this to Illya, of course,
since he knew what reaction he'd get, the healthy dose of scepticism he
was sure to encounter. 

He'd keep his beliefs to himself, use them where he could, relying on the
lessons learned from years as an active agent and trusting destiny to give
events that extra spin on which he could capitalise. 

That was how it worked, after all. The luck people spoke of in connection
with his name wasn't the explanation for everythingat times he resented
the way it was mentioned, as if that explained all his and his partner's
hard work away, glossing over the sheer grind of an agent's life. 

One glimpse at the bruises currently marring Illya's face, even as he
laboured over the exact wording of his report once more, reminded him how
close the line was between success and disaster. And how high the price of
disaster could be. 

 

"The gentleman in the picture," Waverly said, as he spun the revolving
table in his office to deposit the file in question neatly between
Napoleon and Illya, "is Emile Benoit, assassin for hire and currently top
of the Sret's most wanted list." 

Illya picked up the photo resting on top of the closed file. 

"That's a familiar face," he said, then showed the picture to Napoleon,
who took it with a frown. 

"Too familiar," Napoleon said. "Where was that taken? That doesn't look
like San Francisco and I wasn't aware Ward Baldwin had made any out of
town trips recently." 

"It was taken in London, Mr. Solo," Waverly said. "Two weeks ago. You and
Mr. Kuryakin were in Bangkok at the time, if I recall correctly." 

Solo didn't even bother to run over the events of the recent past in his
mindif Waverly said they were in Bangkok, that was where they were. The
man had a mind like a recently-oiled bear trap, nothing passed him by. 

"What is Ward Baldwin doing meeting with a hired killer?" Illya asked,
taking the photo back from Napoleon's hand as if it contained the answers
he was looking for. "And in front of the St. Paul's Cathedral, of all
places." 

"That is what UNCLE would like to know, gentlemen. The rumour has it that
Benoit is now in the United States working for Thrush, specifically in a
certain ghost town in Nevada. Which is where you will both be going this
afternoon." 

The words were a clear dismissal. Napoleon found his hand straying to his
jacket pocket, to the worn Good Luck Coin he'd had to turn his apartment
upside down to find. He'd been certain he had it somewhere, had known he
couldn't possibly have thrown it away when he returned from his time in
Korea. Something told him Illya would have need of that extra protection,
the memory of the bird he'd seen still fresh in his mind. 

The two agents met in the doorway out of Waverly's office, Napoleon
brushing past his partner almost casually, the ideal opportunity to
secrete the token in Illya's pocket. One swift yet subtle movement and it
was done. 

 

One side effect of their lifestyle was that all the sitting around gave
you a lot of time to think. Time to consider just about anything, the
choices made, the annoying habit your partner seemed to have picked up
that made you want to rearrange his face with your fist, just what it was
that made you do the things you did. 

And in this case, anyway, on the plane west from New York, for Illya
Kuryakin to contemplate just how dependant he'd become on his partner. 

He hated the idea of it. That was one of the reasons he'd never really
tried all that hard to get along with whoever he'd worked with, seeing
that kind of friendliness as the first step on the slippery slope to his
present position. Wanting Napoleon to cluck over him, yet vexed by it in
equal measure. A sad situation for someone who'd always prided himself on
his independence to find himself now. 

It was bad enough that they were linked inexorably in people's minds; they
were Solo-and-Kuryakin, rather than individuals, a fact which irritated
Illya as much as it reassured him. After all, his partner was tipped for
the top job, heir apparent to Alexander Waverly himself, even though the
old man was likely to outlive them both. And Solo's partner, should
Napoleon survive to reach that lofty position, would be able to have just
about anything he wanted. 

Except Solo's partner wasn't at all sure what that anything might be. 

He'd never given his future much thought. Surviving in the here and now
had so often been more than enough to contend with, the likelihood of even
having a future such a tenuous possibility that it was never at the
forefront of Illya's mind. But now, now he was no longer alone, now he had
a partner, Illya couldn't stop thinking about it. About what he wanted,
allowing himself the luxury of the dreams he'd never previously permitted
himself. 

Dreams about his partner, for one. His
obliviously-flirting-with-the-stewardess partner, who would doubtless be
horrified enough by any thought that Illya might be interested in him that
way to change his mind about wanting to work with him. Who would probably
go straight to Waverly and request that Illya's world, so steadfastly
revolving at the moment around the very idea of being Napoleon Solo's
partner and Number Two of Section Two, be turned upside down. 

The risk was too great, that much was certain. Illya pretended to be
engrossed in his book, even as the words on the page danced before him,
making no sense at all. Not that Napoleon seemed to notice he had less of
an audience for his performance than usualas if he ever did. 

Even if his partner didn't throw up his hands in horror at the idea of
Illya feeling more than partnerly feelings for him, there was always the
possibility one or other of them might die at any time. Theirs was hardly
the best career to pursue if you wanted a stable relationship, and the
thought of commencing such an undertaking and then having it ripped from
him by his partner's untimely death was more than Illya could contemplate.


A poet might once have said it was better to have loved and lost, but
Illya had no intention of losingif that was the choice, he'd rather not
love at all. 

 

It was a long drive to Paradox, Nevada. Illya took the wheel, as usual,
insisting that Napoleon navigate the dusty roads leading to the ghost town
where Benoit had last been located. He couldn't figure out what an
assassin might want, in what effectively seemed to be the middle of the
middle of nowhere, but on the other hand, where better to work undisturbed
if you were Thrush? 

The dust was everywhere, pernicious in its attempts to infiltrate their
clothes, their hair; it was in every breath they took. 

Nobody talked about that kind of thing when they spoke about the romance
of the old west. 

Napoleon paused for a moment in his navigating duties to consider the idea
of his partner in the wild west. His thoughts turned to bandannas and
chaps, to the fabric of tight faded jeans curving as it encompassed and
delineated one of the finest asses he'd seen in a lifetime's examination
of those of both sexes. 

While it was a pleasant thought, it was one he could never speak out loud.
There was no way Napoleon could pass that away as an innocent pipe-dream,
not if his body's instinctive reaction to the mental image was anything to
go by. He shifted uncomfortably in his seat. 

"Well?" 

Napoleon was jolted back to reality, back from a world where a
buckskin-clad Russian slouched his way across the boardwalk towards him,
eyes alight with invitation, realising that his not-so-inviting partner
was asking him a question. 

"This turning or the next?" 

Napoleon glanced down at the map. 

"This one," he said, using the futile act of brushing of dust from his
face to cover his momentary embarrassment at almost being caught out in
his fantasy. "Slow down, Illya." 

Illya flicked a glance across at him, annoyance written large on his
equally-dusty face. 

"How much further?" he asked, his voice terse. 

"Another couple of miles," Napoleon replied. In his mind, he was already
there in Paradox, wishing fervently that the man of his imagination,
rather than the man with whom he currently shared this hot and dusty car,
was waiting for him at their destination. "We ought to be able to see it
when we reach the top of that rise." 

 

The ghost town itself looked just like a movie lot. 

Illya had become unexpectedly fond of westerns in his time living in
America, relishing the battle of good and evil that he himself played a
part in real life. There was a starkness to many of the stories, the hero
often being called upon to sacrifice himself for the good of the town's
people in many cases, that struck a chord with him. 

That was what he had always expected for himself, after all, a nameless
grave, with no-one to mourn his passing. 

Instead of which, joining UNCLE had made him part of a family. His
surrogate father, while he might not openly express any emotions on the
passing of an agent, was known by all to be deeply affected by those
events. And then there was his partner, an unexpected relationship indeed.


UNCLE's London headquarters had been different, Illya had chosen to hold
himself more aloof there and hadn't allowed anyone to break through the
walls of self-sufficiency both habit and history had erected. New York had
been something else altogether, his unwanted partner somehow breaching
those self-same walls, creating something new for both of them. 

His death would be noticed now. Illya knew without a doubt that he would
be mourned if Napoleon outlived him, and the idea unsettled him. 

True to his partner's word, the abandoned town had been visible from the
top of the rise, and the car swept down the hill towards it, past a
cemetery ringed with a rickety wooden fence, and dotted with tombstones
that leaned against one another like lazy drunks. Scoured clean by the
winds, one lone tree stood by the graveyard fence. There were few other
signs of habitation before they entered the town itself, which looked as
empty as its reputation. 

But Benoit had been here, they had information to that end, so their job
was to check things out. 

Illya wrenched his mind back from the contemplation of his own mortality,
from wondering just how Napoleon would react to his passing. It wasn't a
comfortable thoughthe'd never wanted to be the cause of pain to another
person, unless it was absolutely necessary, in which case he could be as
ruthless as the next agent. More so, in fact, at timeswhen Napoleon was in
danger, for example. In such a situation, the kid gloves were definitely
off, and Illya walked a fine line in the ostensible service of the agency.


The idea of his partner grieving shook him a little. He knew Napoleon was
a man of strong emotions, even if those emotions were usually masked by
the façade he presented of a flippant playboy. Illya had seen the reality
and knew just how Napoleon was likely to react. 

 

If he could have crossed himself when they passed the cemetery without a
response from his partner, Napoleon would have done it without a second
thought. It had been years since that had been his instinctive reaction,
something he'd learned from seeing his nonna do just that every time they
rode the bus together into townNapoleon had discovered that he could
almost set his watch by her reaction as they neared the local graveyard. 

It seemed a reasonable thing to do, he supposed, an instinctive reaction
to those tangible reminders of death, calling upon some higher power for
protection. Even if he wasn't totally sure he believed in any higher
power, not any more. 

That ability to believe was another thing he'd lost in Korea, along with
his innocence. 

But Illya would comment if he did so, his eyes bright with amusement even
if he didn't laugh out loud, he wouldn't be able to help it. His sceptical
scientist's mind would ensure he had to say something, and that couldn't
be borne. 

They peeled out from the car, both moving almost before it stopped,
heading for what little shelter the run-down buildings provided. Their
approach would have been noted by anyone there, the dust cloud they'd
generated visible for milesdriving into the main street was hardly the
subtle approachbut there was no sign of life. There were no other tyre
tracks in the dusty main street, no signs of recent habitation as far as
Napoleon could see. 

He didn't need to be in earshot of his partner to be able to imagine what
Illya would say to that. They'd been sent on a wild goose chase, or so it
seemed, with a long flight and an even longer-seeming drive, and for what?


The distinctive creaking sound of wood under strain made Napoleon turn
suddenly, his instincts making him leap out of the way as the heavy sign
adorning the former Paradox grocery store came crashing down where he'd
been standing just moments before. Even as the dust billowed and swirled
around him, Napoleon turned to yell to his partnera warning, a cry for
help, he wasn't completely sure. 

But the other side of the street was empty, as if Illya Kuryakin had never
been there. 

 

His head ached. It was a too-familiar feeling, one he'd lost count of the
times he'd experienced it long ago, and one that he wished fervently never
to experience again every time it happened. Not that Illya ever got what
he wanted, not where that particular wish was concerned, anyway. 

At least this time he wasn't tied up. That was something he'd grown
accustomed to as well, on waking up, but that didn't mean he necessarily
enjoyed itby the look of it, this time round he'd just been dumped in a
small room and left. There were worse things that could have happened, so
Illya decided to count his blessings and make a hasty exit. 

The fact that he was alone worried him a little; being separated from his
partner always worried him. 

The door was locked, which was no surprise. He rattled the handle
experimentally, pushing against the wood with his shoulder, but it didn't
budge. 

There was always the possibility that he wouldn't see Napoleon again, that
whatever words they'd previously exchanged would be their last. Sometimes
that thought made Illya hold his tongue, biting back words he didn't want
to be the final things his partner remembered him saying, but he didn't
always manage to control himself that well. Not that there was any way of
predicting their eventual fate. 

There were no other ways out of the room. No sign of a handy air vent, no
convenient heating duct, nothing but smooth grey wall. 

It was the idea of never seeing Napoleon again that was the hardest thing
to deal with. Not that working for UNCLE gave any kind of guaranteeshe'd
lost enough people he knew in the service of his country, let alone
sincebut his relationship with his partner was different. 

Not as different as he wanted it to be, though, if he had the nerve to
risk everything. 

Time to try the door again. 

 

He'd been right, then, to believe that coming to this place would put the
two of them in danger. Though in some ways that was a sucker betwhen did
they ever go anywhere that wasn't dangerous in some way? Even the most
innocent of faces could hide evil intentions, the most ordinary place hold
some hidden hazard, Napoleon knew that by now. 

And now Illya had disappeared. 

If only this wasn't an all too familiar scenario. One or other of them
would end up in the hands of the bad guys, forcing the other one to come
to the rescuesometimes it would work out, sometimes they'd both end up as
prisoners. 

The only problem this time was the lurking memory of the bird he'd seen at
Illya's apartment, the evil omen that it represented. Napoleon didn't want
to believe in it, everything that he knew told him it was nonsense to do
so, but what if it was true? What if his nonna had been right all along? 

He'd slipped the Good Luck Coin into Illya's pocket on the off-chance that
there was something in the whole idea. And Illya hadn't mentioned it, not
even in passing, though he was still wearing the same suit. That meant, he
hoped that his partner was still under its protection, and would be so
until their mission to Paradox was over. 

If the two of them survived long enough for him to check that this was the
case, of course. 

He could almost hear Illya's reproach in his mind if his partner ever
discovered he'd been harbouring those kind of thoughts. Waverly's tongue
could be sharp at times, the vehemence of the dressing downs he gave his
agents disguised a little by his bluff demeanour, but he had nothing on
Illya in full flow. At first he would probably make some joke about how he
was supposed to be the dour one of the partnership, but there was little
chance Illya would stop there. 

"So," he said to himself, brushing the dust from his sleeve as he
contemplated the best way to search the small town, "where exactly are
you, Illya?" 

 

He'd been searched, methodically, while he was unconscious, his gun and
other devices removed or else he'd have been out of his makeshift prison
within a matter of minutes. Of course, that realisation was no comfort,
and neither was the thought of how worried Napoleon probably was by now. 

Illya had given up trying to force the door openit opened the wrong way,
so there was no chance of using brute strength to force the lock, even if
he was inclined to do so. 

But so far his consideration of the fabric of the room itself held no
possibilitiesno secret doors, no hidden compartments that would
conveniently fall open to Illya's probing fingers. Nothing but scraped
fingertips and broken fingernails. 

It wasn't like this in the movies. There was always a loose board, or a
heating duct with a loose cover, a hidden weakness that would allow the
hero to force it out, thus permitting his timely escape. 

He was standing in the middle of the room, wondering just exactly what he
was expected to do next, when he heard the footsteps coming closer. There
was nowhere to hide, no point in trying to arrange an ambush from behind
the door and take his captors by surprise. Illya waited as patiently as he
could, listening to try and gauge just how many visitors he was about to
receive. 

When the door opened, he wasn't surprised to see four men standing there,
the foremost among them holding what looked very much like his own UNCLE
Special, its barrel pointed directly at him. 

"No funny business, Mr. Kuryakin," he said. 

For a moment, Illya considered non-cooperation but decided that might be
considered an attempt at being amusing. There were, after all, more of
them than there was of him, and they were armed. 

He needed to stay alive and in one piece long enough to get his gun back,
at least, that was a matter of pride. The last thing he wanted was for it
to become some kind of Thrush trophy, on a mantelpiece somewhere for the
ignorant to gawp at his initials on the butt as they listened to an
exaggerated recital of his final moments on the planet. That just wouldn't
do at all. 

He raised his hands, trying to look as inoffensive as possible. It wasn't
likely to succeed, considering the fact that his captors clearly knew
exactly who he was, but any potential advantage was better than none. They
might think he was one of those agents who, when disarmed, just gave up
and went along with anything. If, of course, they were stupid enough to
think such a thing, then in Illya's mind they deserved whatever violence
he would be likely to inflict on them in the not-too-distant future. 

The one in front beckoned him out with a twitch of his gun, and Illya
obeyed. Not quickly, lingering enough to try and gauge his potential
opponents likely weaknesses, his eyes watching them as intently as they
ought to be watching him. 

As he passed them, the one on his right grabbed his upraised hand,
twisting it behind his backeven though he pulled it a little too hard,
Illya didn't struggle. The other hand soon joined it, what felt like a
loop of untanned leather being pulled tight over both his wrists. He gave
the bonds an experimental tug, but it was clear he wouldn't be getting his
hands free without assistance any kind soon. 

"Come on," said the one who had spoken previously, his words punctuated by
one of the others giving Illya a hefty shove between the shoulderblades so
that he took an involuntary couple of steps forward before he caught
himself. "Time's wasting." 

Something about the tone of the other man's words gave Illya the
impression he didn't want to ask what might happen next. 

 

In the end, Napoleon had decided the simplest thing to do was to search
Paradox from one end of town to the other, working his way from building
to building in as methodical a manner as his concern for Illya would
allow. 

As he moved on from grocery store to chandlers, from the telegraph office
to the jail, that concern grew. Here and there Napoleon found signs of
habitation, a carelessly-discarded cigarette pack, footprints in the
otherwise undisturbed dust, but still nothing that would conclusively lead
him to his partner. Even where they had clearly taken Illya, while
Napoleon was distracted by the falling sign, there was only signs of a
scuffle, with no indication where his attackers had taken him. 

And there was no sign of Benoit either. 

Though this clearly wasn't quite a ghost town, in the literal sense of the
term, it was as close to being deserted as it was possible to be. No-one
had actually lived here for a very long time. The research they'd managed
to get their hands on before they left New York had said that the water
had run out at the turn of the century and the townspeople had been forced
to move on. It wasn't hard to believe. 

It had been almost an hour, Napoleon discovered as he checked his watch,
since he last saw Illya. Sixty minutes of worry on his part, a familiar
experience that didn't get any easier. 

If anything, it was this kind of thing that he'd wanted to avoid, had
sought to avoid before Waverly had forced him to consider a variety of
possible partnerships. It was so much easier to rely on himself, to only
have to worry about himself, even if that existence had been much lonelier
than Napoleon had ever cared to admit at the time. 

Even now, proud as he was about what he and Illya had achieved, it was
difficult for him to say that this was better than working as a sole
operative. 

It was only as Napoleon reached the end of the dusty street that an
unexpected movement from up the hill in the cemetery caught his eye. 

 

"Mr. Kuryakin, how good of you to join us." 

They were in the graveyard, the four men who had come to remove him from
his makeshift prison having taken turns to shove and jostle him along
passageways and into an elevator that led up to the cemetery. It was
fitting, if somewhat macabre, Illya supposed, that an assassin should set
up business in a graveyard. There, under the lone tree, they met another
man, one whose face Illya recognised immediately. 

"Monsieur Benoit," he said, enjoying the momentary unsettled look that
flitted across the assassin's face. "I was wondering when our paths would
cross." Benoit scowled, the expression causing his already plain face to
become even more so. "Tell me," Illya continued, "just exactly what are
you doing here in the middle of nowhere?" 

There was one subtle difference in the way Benoit was dressed from the
othershis clothes were immaculate, as if he'd just stepped out of a Paris
couturiers, rather than caked with dust the way Illya and the others were.


"In this instance, Mr. Kuryakin," Benoit said, gesturing at one of the men
to bring Illya forward to the base of the tree, "I am arranging for what
the Americans call a neck-tie party." 

Illya didn't twitch as the noose was arranged round his neck. Clinically
he noted that the knot was placed at the back, rather than under one ear,
ensuring that he was likely to strangle to death rather than have his neck
broken. There was also little chance, with where this scenario was being
set up, of a suitable drop, making it even more likely that his end would
be prolonged. The thought didn't appeal to him and he wondered, not for
the first time since making the trip to the cemetery, just where Napoleon
was. 

"And the rest of the time, M. Benoit?" he asked. He had to concentrate on
something to push back the mixture of emotions he was experiencing. 

He wanted to be rescued, wanted more than anything to see his partner come
sauntering in and take control of the situation, but he also realised how
unlikely this was rapidly becoming. He knew more than anything that he
didn't want Napoleon to see him like this, not as he knew he was shortly
going to beif his partner was going to mourn his passing, he should at
least not have to deal with the grisly reality of it all. 

"The rest of the time," Benoit replied, taking Illya's gun from one of the
Thrush goons, "Thrush are paying me a very great deal of money to train
their assassins. And I dare say they will pay richly for the body of two
top UNCLE agents as well." 

It was bluster, Illya knew that. If they had Napoleon he would be here
now, another sacrifice to Benoit's egotistical need for a performance.
He'd read the assassin's profile, carefully compiled from Interpol and the
Sret's incident reports, and that streak of theatricality ran through all
of Benoit's hits. Illya's death in this manner would amuse him greatly,
and he'd doubtless have some similarly bizarre fate in store for Napoleon,
should his partner not manage to wreak his revenge on the assassin. 

"No last words, Mr. Kuryakin?" Benoit asked, as two of the other men
picked Illya up and deposited him on a small box at the foot of the tree,
each with a tight grip on an arm as he found his footing. A third
disappeared from his view, but his role was doubtless to tighten the
ropeIllya could feel the slight pull even if he shifted his weight on the
box from one foot to the other. 

"Last words?" Illya found himself frowning as he looked down at Benoit
from the slight height advantage his position gave him. "Give me an hour
or two and I'm sure I can come up with something memorable." 

 

The information they'd received had been good, then, as far as it went.
Benoit was in Paradox, it was just that he wasn't alone and the facility
he was probably running for Thrush wasn't in the ghost town itself. The
lack of signs in the dusty street, the run-down state of the buildings in
Paradox itself, combined with the presence now of people in the cemetery,
argued for an underground installation somewhere close by. 

Napoleon made the most of the minimal cover the abandoned buildings
allowed, coming closer and closer to a sight that sent a shiver down his
spine. His missing partner, strung up from the lone tree in the graveyard.
Not alone, his only visible companion a man whose very demeanour
advertised how dangerous he wasNapoleon couldn't see the stranger's face,
but he was more than willing to bet that it was Benoit. The assassin
they'd been looking for, gloating over Illya. 

He'd have to take a chance on a run to the cemetery, the open ground
between the last building and the rickety wooden fence gave Napoleon no
option. He couldn't think about Illya, forcing himself to focus on running
as fast as he could, hopeful that Benoit, if that was who it was, wouldn't
spot him till it was too late. 

Was there anyone else present? He couldn't see anyone, though he doubted
that Benoit alone could have hogtied his partner so easily. Napoleon
crossed himself, the action almost complete before he realised it. 

All he could hope was Illya would spot him first, that he would keep
Benoit occupied and give both of them a fighting chance. 

 

They were alone now, trapped in this bizarre tableau, assassin and victim,
executioner and prisoner. 

He wanted to close his eyes, deny the reality of what was about to happen
to him, but that would give Benoit a victory over him that Illya could
never allow. He could feel his legs start to shake, the tautness of the
rope pulling him onto the balls of his feet and creating a responsive
quiver in his calf muscles. There was no chance he could keep this
position for long, even if Benoit intended to prolong the agony. 

Illya forced himself to concentrate on Benoit, pushing back all thought of
his impending death, focussing instead on the lifeless eyes of his
would-be executioner. 

"Couldn't Thrush find anyone else for this job?" he asked, taking a
desperate jab at Benoit's ego even as the other man turned towards where
Illya knew the entrance to the facility was. He wouldn't be complicit in
his own demise, not if he could force Benoit into action, one way or
another. 

"Who better to train assassins than one who is a master in his craft?"
Benoit replied, coming closer to where Illya stood. 

Illya measured the distance between himself and Benoit. His feet were
untied, even though his hands were bound tightly behind his back. If he
did this right, he could take Benoit with him, fulfill the mission
objectives one way or another, even though it would certain lead to his
death. But if he was going to die anyway... 

Out of the corner of his eye, Illya noticed a small movement, down towards
the last building in town. 

The relief was overwhelming. 

"A master?" Illya forced mockery into his tone, though he knew what a
dangerous game he was playing. Still, if he could get Benoit a little
closer... "I've read the reports on that Bucharest job, it was hardly
anything to boast about." 

Ignore the movement, ignore the possibility of rescue. 

"There were unexpected difficulties," Benoit said, his face darkening. He
took another step closer to the tree as he spoke. 

"A 'master' should be prepared for such things." He knew his voice was
scornful, that tone which had so infuriated Napoleon when they'd first
met, and still did if his partner would ever admit it. "The Bucharest job
looked like the work of a bungling amateur." 

More movement, keep him distracted, keep him talking. Closer, Benoit,
closer... 

Benoit's face grew very still at those words, and Illya took a deep
breath. This was it, he could tell with certainty, the assassin's foot
coming out to kick away the box Illya was perched on, even as Napoleon's
first gunshot snapped out. 

 

He was too far away, moving too slowly, but there was nothing else he
could do. 

Napoleon's first shot missed, not by much but by enough, taking a chunk
out of the tree branch over which the rope hung, rather than severing the
rope neatly as he'd hoped. It always worked in movies, so why not in real
life? 

Illya had kept Benoit talking, must have seen his partner making as
stealthy progress as he could manage across the bare ground between the
town and the graveyard, only for that progress to be too slow. 

Benoit had kicked the box on which Illya stood, turning and pulling his
own gun in one smooth movement that reminded Napoleon just what the
Frenchman did for a living. Behind him, Illya jerked and swung, like an
obscene marionette. 

If the distance meant he'd missed, it also meant, Napoleon reflected as he
dived behind a gravestone for cover, he didn't have to see Illya die up
close and personal. Benoit had him pinned, each shot slamming into the
brittle stone and sending chips of it into the air. What the hell was he
going to do? 

Then, suddenly, there was a single gunshot, an odd cracking sound and then
silence. 

Napoleon peered around the ragged edge of the gravestone, every instinct
telling him to look to his partner. To where his partner was probably
slowly strangling to death, no thanks to the great Napoleon Solo. To where
his partner... wasn't... 

The entire limb of the tree was gone, rope and all. Benoit was laid out on
the ground, as was Illya, the remnants of the rope leading to where he
lay, the noose still around his neck. Napoleon was at his side within a
couple of strides, pulling his partner's body around and removing the
noose with hands that trembled from the adrenaline aftermath. 

"What the hell..?" 

Illya coughed, swallowing tentatively as Napoleon freed his hands. 

"I.. I'm okay," he croaked, once he could speak again. "Benoit?" 

Napoleon left his partner, unwillingly, to check on the assassin. Who was
out cold, Illya's UNCLE Special still gripped loosely in his hand, a
bruise already forming on his temple. 

"Are you wearing lead-soled shoes, my friend?" Napoleon asked, returning
the gun to its owner, who received it with a grimace that passed for a
smile. 

"Technique," Illya said, gesturing in a pre-emptory manner for Napoleon to
help him up. 

 

He could hardly believe it himself. It was a story worthy of the great
Solo luck, if such a thing existed. And there was no doubt that Napoleon
would believe that was what had happened, rather than crediting the
proceedings to chance or expertise on the part of his partner. 

There was little doubt that Napoleon didn't want to let him out of his
sight, and the bruises that Illya could feel forming on his neck and
throat argued that a liquid diet would be a very good idea for quite some
time. He could almost list the mother-hen behaviour his partner would
shortly be indulging in, once they'd cleaned out the Thrush school for
assassins. 

"We need some back-up," Napoleon said, placing himself in a direct line of
the entrance to the facility and eyeing Illya as if he expected an
argument. 

Illya nodded, trying to hide the wince even that slight movement created. 

He concentrated on tying up Benoit as his partner called for back-up,
smiling to himself as the assassin still showed no sign of regaining
consciousness. 

"Want to tell me what happened?" Napoleon asked, not looking round, even
though his conversation with the local UNCLE office was concluded. 

Illya coughed, hardly having to force the cough at all. He knew he'd have
to talk about it some time, but now it was just too raw, all the panic
he'd felt when Benoit kicked the box away too real, too immediate. If he
could appeal to Napoleon's sympathy for his injuries, at least he'd get
some breathing spacea chance to come to terms with what had almost
happened, to put the fears that had been brought to light back into the
darkness from which they'd escaped. 

Napoleon's face, when he did look round, told him everything he needed to
know. His partner understood how he felthe wouldn't push, at least not
now. That was the other side of the mother hen persona, knowing when
silence was for the best. 

 

He was more conscious now of every breath his partner took than he had
ever been, knowing just how close Illya had come to taking his last.
Napoleon watched as the final Thrush operative was escorted from the
underground facility, still reeling a little from the knockout gas they'd
used to take the would-be assassins unawares. Benoit had regained
consciousness, glaring at Illya as if he considered it a personal offence
that he still lived, but Illya had studiously ignored him. 

Now, as the UNCLE raiding party drove away and the clean-up crew began its
work, Napoleon slapped his partner on the shoulder and headed back towards
where they'd left the car. He didn't bother to look round to see if Illya
was following him, because there wasn't really anywhere else for his
partner to go. After a couple of strides, Illya caught up with him, and
the two of them walked down the hill into Paradox in silence. 

By the time they got to the car, Napoleon was thinking up excuses for why
Illya shouldn't drive, but a single glance at his partner's face told him
voicing any of them wouldn't be a good idea right now. 

The bruises were beginning to show on Illya's neck, livid blue and purple
marks peeking over the edge of his turtleneck, vivid reminders of what had
almost happened. Napoleon knew his shot had missed, Illya's hands had
still been tied behind his back, the noose around his neck when he landed.
It was a mystery, and one which Illya seemed unwilling to shed any light
upon. 

Not that Napoleon could blame him. 

Death by slow strangulation hardly featured high on his own wishlist in
terms of means of death. He'd thought about it, of course, decided he
wanted to die in his own bed surrounded by nubile companions (of either
sex, he wasn't particularly as choosy in that matter as some people
thought he might be), at an extremely old age. Preferably from having had
one too many orgasms, if his entire dream ending could be fulfilled. 

As the car turned, climbing up the hill past the graveyard and out of
Paradox, Napoleon looked at the tree. They'd come so close, much closer
than he cared to think about, to their partnership being broken forever.
Perhaps the omen had been true after all, as far as it went. 

 

He'd insisted on returning to New York, turning a deaf ear to Napoleon's
comments about getting medical attention in Reno. He was fine, just
bruised and banged about; the soreness of his throat made the resultant
argument with his partner both more difficult and more certain to end as
he wanted it to. Napoleon could see he was fine, other than that, and
could also see that Illya had no intention of backing down. 

He just wanted to get home, down a few medicinal shots of iced vodka and
go to bed. 

On the plane, he'd flatly refused to say anything at all, leaving it to
Napoleon to charm the stewardess into producing cups full of ice. If he
could just continue to wear turtlenecks, he'd be fineif Napoleon would
stop glancing across at his bruises when he thought Illya wasn't looking,
he'd be better than fine. 

"Stop fussing," he said, turning his attention to the magazine he'd bought
before they boarded the plane. 

"Considering what just almost happened," Napoleon said, handing him yet
another cup of ice, "I think 'fussing' is a perfectly understandable
response." 

"'Almost' being the key word here," Illya said, turning in his seat
slightly to put his back to his annoying partner. He chewed thoughtfully
on an ice cube, before crunching it maliciously. Napoleon hated that, it
was something he'd discovered early on in their partnership. "I'm fine." 

The rest of the flight passed in silence between them, Napoleon dozing
lightly in his seat for a little while, even as the stewardesses hovered
attentively. Illya took the opportunity to study his partner, noting the
small smudge of dirt on Napoleon's forehead that his usually
scrupulously-clean partner had clearly missed on his last trip to the
restroom. Along with the innocent expression Napoleon's face fell into
when he was asleep, it gave him the appearance of a roguish schoolboy.
Illya wanted to wake him, somewhat unsettled by this stranger sitting in
the place of his partner. 

If he knew who Napoleon was, then his partner couldn't surprise him. His
emotions concerning Napoleon couldn't surprise him either, if that was the
case, no unexpected tenderness towards his partner sneaking in under
Illya's radar and taking him unawares. He had to keep reminding himself
who Napoleon was, and why getting involved with him any more than he was
necessarily involved already, was a very bad idea. 

He couldn't live with that kind of entanglement, neither of them could. 

 

"Home," Napoleon said, hustling his partner into a taxi at the airport.
"No arguments." 

Illya's face showed just what he thought of that idea, the mutinous
expression more telling than any words, but he didn't say anything.
Napoleon gave Illya's address to the driver, slipping him a couple of
notes when he seemed a little reluctant to head into that part of town.
The two of them sat back then, watching the lights of passing cars, saying
nothing until they arrived. 

They were both travelling light, as usual, each with a small suitcases
containing the basics, nothing that would be mourned if lost in transit.
Once on the sidewalk, Napoleon made a move towards Illya's case but his
partner's scowl warned him off. 

 "I'm not an invalid," Illya rasped. 

"Of course not," Napoleon said, following him into the apartment building.
The elevator, as usual, was broken, forcing the two of them to climb the
stairs to Illya's floor instead, but it was exercise both of them were
well used to by now. 

Heading into Illya's apartment, following his partner in as he dropped his
suitcase by the door, flicked on the light and headed for the alarm
control panel, he was about to make some comment on the state of the place
when Illya's expression stopped him cold. For once, the words died on his
tongue. 

"Vodka?" he asked, instead, dropping his suitcase beside Illya's and then
turning to shut the apartment door. 

If his partner chose to live this way, it was up to him, after all. He'd
never been able to get much information out of Illya concerning his
upbringing, or what life had been like in Russia before he'd left to study
at Cambridge and the Sorbonne, but what little Illya had let slip had told
Napoleon that even this spartan life was richer than the one most ordinary
Russians enjoyed. 

He snagged two glasses from the side, wrestling for a moment with Illya's
antiquated icebox which almost refused to relinquish its grip on the
bottle of vodka it held. He could tell his partner was watching him, that
sixth sense agents so relied on warning him he was being observed, and he
redoubled his efforts. After a brief struggle, the bottle was freed, along
with a substantial amount of ice that crusted its surface. 

When he turned, Illya was sitting on the sofa, his shoes kicked off and
socked feet resting on the coffee table. His head was resting on the back
of the sofa, the long line of his neck showing more bruises than Napoleon
cared to think about, along with a lower red mark that looked like a
ropeburn. 

As Napoleon headed across, Illya shifted, sitting up a little, one hand
rearranging the neck of his sweater to cover the marks. 

"Here," Napoleon said, handing him the glasses. "Make yourself useful." 

Illya took the proffered glasses in one hand, sitting up to clear a space
on the cluttered coffee table with the other hand. Napoleon winced as his
partner basically swept a pile of newspapers and magazines onto the floor,
before kicking them to the side of the sofa. 

"It's the maid's day off," Illya said, placing the glasses down on the
spot he'd cleared. 

"Inconsiderate of her," Napoleon said, as he opened the vodka and poured a
hefty measure into each glass. 

It was only as he reached for his, having handed a glass to his partner,
that he saw it. Had it been covered by the material Illya had moved, or
had it been casually tossed on top of the newspapers, only to slide off
when they were shoved off so abruptly? 

There was no doubt about it, Napoleon decided, as he picked it up from the
coffee table. It was definitely the Good Luck Coin he'd slipped into
Illya's pocket at Headquarters. 

 

"I found it when I was packing for the trip to Paradox," Illya said,
taking a mouthful of vodka to lubricate his words and sighing with
pleasure as the ice-cold liquid slid down his throat. 

He'd been puzzled, to say the least, finding something unexpected on the
floor beneath where he'd thrown his jacket while packing hastily for their
trip to Nevada. There had, of course, been no question in his mind where
it had come from, only why Napoleon had surreptitiously placed it in his
pocket. A question he could ask now, if not at the time. 

"I suppose you want to know why," Napoleon said, holding the token between
his fingers, his thumb running over the crude stamping in the metal. Illya
nodded, and said nothing, letting his silence speak for him. "I had this
feeling you'd need it." 

"For good fortune?" 

Napoleon threw the coin back onto the coffee table, sitting back on the
sofa and raising the glass of vodka to his mouth. Illya wasn't convinced
his partner was actually drinking it, just keeping him company, but it
didn't matter. 

"Perhaps you were right," he said, after a moment. "What happened in
Paradox..." The words trailed off, the memories of choking, struggling to
breathe, flooding back in all their horror. 

"If you're not ready to tell me." 

"No." Another mouthful of vodka. It was a good thing his tolerance for
alcohol was quite high. Illya reached out his glass and watched as
Napoleon filled it for him once more. "It was quite bizarre, I'm afraid. I
kicked Benoit in the head, he jerked and the gunmy gunfired, the bullet
hit one of the tombstones and ricocheted, shattering the branch. Simple as
that." 

Napoleon began to laugh, his hand shaking momentarily and splashing the
vodka from his glass, before he managed to get it under control. 

"So much for the lucky coin." 

"Lucky coin?" Illya picked it up and looked at it, examining the words
pressed into its surface, the shininess of the edges where they had
rubbed. "What's so lucky about it?" 

"It kept me safe all through Korea," Napoleon said, looking down at his
glass. "You left it behind, and it didn't matter after all." 

Illya laughed, his sore throat making the sound into an odd croak. Did
Napoleon really think a small piece of metal, crudely stamped with some
kind of sigil, would protect him? The quick glance he stole at his
partner's face showed him evidence that this was just what he had
believed. His laughter stopped as suddenly as it had begun. 

"I am a scientist, Napoleon," Illya said, as earnestly as he could manage.
"You know I am also something of a sceptic." 

Napoleon nodded. "I know." 

"But even a sceptic can understand the thought behind your actions," Illya
continued. 

His partner's face brightened a little as he spoke, while Illya worked to
relieve some of the embarrassment he'd caused by his reaction. Even if he
himself didn't believe in such talismans, Napoleon obviously didit was
important to him, therefore it was important to Illya. It was as simple as
that. 

"So, I thank you," he said. Illya picked up the Good Luck Coin again and
studied it for a moment, before placing it back on the coffee table. He
looked at his partner, wondering if he was seeing Napoleon as he really
was for the first time, elements of him that Illya never allowed himself
to recognise before. "But you will forgive me if I do not carry it with
me, for fear it might be lost." 

Could Napoleon accept that compromise? It was Illya's most fervent hope
that he could. He appreciated the thought behind the gesture, the concern
that Napoleon had shown for his well-being, but he couldn't be ruled by
such gestures himself. 

"I understand." There was a moment's silence between them, and Illya found
his eyes straying to the Good Luck Coin once more, where he'd placed it
back on the coffee table. "We should go and report in," Napoleon said.
"Before Waverly sends out a search party for us." 

Illya nodded. There would be time for more talk later, their lifestyle
dictated that there was always timethe waiting and watching was as much a
part of being an agent as the sudden bursts of action. One way or another,
he told himself, he would come to understand his partner. 

He wasn't sure how Napoleon would react on being compared to a puzzle,
though he thought that his partner might preen a little at the idea
someone could be so interested in him, but that was what he was. One part
ruthless agent, one part a believer in old superstitions, one part
compassionate friend. How did those elements fit together and make
Napoleon who he was? 

It was a puzzle Illya intended to turn his mind to solving. 

 

"Wait," Illya said. 

Napoleon stopped, obediently, and watched as his partner crossed from the
kitchen to the living room window and opened it. 

"What're you doing?" 

"What does it look like?" he asked, without turning round. "We never know
how long we'll be gone, and I hate to see good bread go completely to
waste." 

It figured. Of all the things Napoleon should have thought of at the time,
if his head hadn't been messed up from the adrenaline of coming so close
to being spread across the landscape. 

"You feed the birds regularly?" 

Illya was closing the window now, having dusted the last crumbs from his
hands, and it grated a little as he did so, the wood swollen and warped
from the heat. 

"When I remember to," he said. "I forgot before we left for Nevada. Why do
you ask?" 

"Oh, no reason."  


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