It was so dark Napoleon couldn't see his hand in front of his face. There wasn't a hint of light, nothing. For a long moment he lay there, staring up at what his senses told him the ceiling was, waiting for his night vision to kick in. It never did. Wherever they were, it was darker than the Black Hole of Calcutta, which was really a misnomer, since he'd actually been there and it wasn't all that black.
His head felt like the top of it had been ripped off and he gingerly touched his forehead. There was some sort of bandage there and the area beneath it was tender. Must have whacked my head somewhere along the way.
So instead he lay quietly listening, logging sounds and smells as they came to him. They had been en route, one of several teams assigned by the London office to take down a particularly nasty and well-entrenched THRUSH satrap. Napoleon frowned. He remembered the explosion and the shouting. The vehicle in front of them was suddenly airborne and they had slipped free of their truck just before the two made contact.
He remembered looking over at the debris and then at his partner. Illya was dirty and one cheek was scraped, but he seemed otherwise fine. He pushed Napoleon and shouted something that was lost in a second explosion. Napoleon remembered the sensations of his partner's body slamming into his with unusual force and of brilliant lights and pops of gunfire.
There had been another explosion, this one practically on top of them, and that had been it.
A rustle of clothes told him he wasn't alone and he reached out. After a moment of groping, he felt material, rough against his fingertips, then skin, warm to the touch, and finally hair, as familiar as Napoleon's own, and he smiled. At least Illya was still with him.
"Illya, wake up, partner." Napoleon nudged him gently. In the darkness, he couldn't tell if the Russian was badly hurt. A moan told him the man was coming around and the soft grumbling that followed told him Illya might be bumped and bruised, but not seriously injured. "Welcome to THRUSH Sheraton."
"Gee, thanks, let's have the valet bring the car around, shall we?" Illya's voice was husky. He coughed and spit. "Can't say much for the accommodations."
"Not that we can see anything." Napoleon sat back and gave him room. He could hear Illya get to his feet and start to move around. The man did have much better night vision than Napoleon.
"What do you mean?" A sharp rattle told Napoleon that Illya had found and tried the door.
"Well, for those of us who don't have a cat's nighttime vision, it's pretty dark in here."
"Napoleon, there are three 100 watt bulbs burning. If anything, it's too bright in here." He jumped as Illya grabbed his shoulders, then he felt a hand on his face and his head being tipped back. As the fingers came closer to his eyes, he instinctively drew away. "It's just me, Napoleon. Sit still and let me look."
And he tried, but panic was starting to set in. He could feel fingers holding back his eyelids, breath on his face, telling him Illya was very near, and yet he only saw blackness.
"You must have caught one of the flash grenades head on or maybe it was that knock to your head. It's probably nothing."
"Illya, I can't see; believe me, this is something." The sound of the cell door being opened silenced him.
"And here are our happy little UNCLE agents." The voice was unfamiliar to him, but he recognized THRUSH arrogance.
"Drop dead," Illya muttered and there was a crack and a grunt. Obviously their host took exception to Illya's lip.
"Just for that, you volunteered to chat with us for a bit, Mr. Kuryakin."
"Take me instead," Napoleon interrupted, taking a step forward towards where he hoped the speaker was standing.
"Oh, don't worry, Mr. Solo. Your time will come." Rough hands pushed him backwards and he hit the wall with no little force. He slid down it to the floor and listened as Illya was taken, struggling, from the room.
Left to his own devices, Napoleon did a recon of the room, mapping it slowly with his hands. He found a toilet, which didn't smell too bad, and a small sink. The water felt all right, but had the slight stink of sulfur to it. He found a cot, or rather his knees did. There was a stool and that was about it. No windows unless they were higher, above his head. The walls were concrete, cold and slick to his touch. Underground, maybe? He felt for any joints or breaks in the walls that they might be able to exploit.
He'd finally lowered himself to the edge of the narrow cot when he heard the door open. There was grunting, the dragging of a body and a sudden weight against him. In his mind's eye, he had no trouble picturing the guards hauling an unconscious Russian back to their cell and tossing him in.
Napoleon wrapped his arms around the limp weight resting against him and one guard made a comment in a foreign tongue. He couldn't understand what was being said, but it didn't make it any less hostile or rude sounding. Once the door was slammed shut, Napoleon took stock of his partner.
He could feel something sticky... blood?... on the man's face and he shifted Illya aside to rise and go to the small sink. It took just a second for him to tear off a chunk of his shirt tail and dampen it. Slowly, he groped his way back to the cot and pressed it to where he reckoned the injury was.
He talked quietly as he mopped the face, hoping he wasn't making anything worse by his attempt at first aid. Illya finally stirred, groaning, and then Napoleon was suddenly pushed aside roughly enough to almost send him to the floor. He was about to make a sharp comment when he heard the sound of vomiting. Napoleon kept his comment to himself, especially as the retching continued, going on long past any point of comfort.
He heard the water run. "I wouldn't drink any of that unless you want a case of giardia to go along with everything else." He listened to the water splash.
"Not to worry," Illya finally mumbled and Napoleon felt his partner's weight against him again, solid and reassuring.
"THRUSH's latest truth serum?"
"If you have the option, take something from Column B instead." Illya spat again and stretched out on the cot. "This one has a nasty side to it."
"I'll remember that. Did you tell them anything?"
"To coin a phrase, I sang like a bird, but it won't do them any good. Or at least it won't until they find someone who speaks Estonian. How about you? Anything?"
"No, sadly, it's still lights out."
"They don't know that, so it might play to your advantage."
"Somehow I'm not awash with confidence at the possibilities at the moment, partner mine."
"I know. Don't worry, we'll get out. I just need to..."
He could feel Illya sagging against him, spent and exhausted from the questioning and its results. "Rest for a minute, yes, I know." Napoleon settled down beside Illya, taking comfort in the familiarity of the man's body against him. If anyone could weasel a way out of this room, it would be the Russian. For now, he would be patient and give Illya moment to regroup.
Instead, Napoleon focused upon a more difficult issue. It would take all of his cleverness to figure out a way to get Illya to leave him behind. Blind, he'd be more of an inconvenience than anything else and quite frankly, if this situation was permanent, he really had no desire to live. He'd rather THRUSH put a bullet between his eyes than face a lifetime of darkness. He felt Illya shift in his arms and tightened them. Yes, it was selfish and self pitying and at the moment, he didn't care.
He wasn't sure how long they'd slept, but an explosion brought them both to instant awareness. Illya was off the cot in a second while Napoleon exercised caution and stayed put. He could hear the sounds of gunfire and concussion rounds going off. He wanted to be in the thick of it for, given the chance, he could use the confusion to disappear.
The cacophony came closer until Napoleon thought he was going to come out of his skin with tension. Then he felt Illya's hands, strong and no nonsense, on his arms, tugging.
"It's our guys, Napoleon. I think this is our exit cue."
"Illya, leave me here. I'll just slow you down."
"What? Don't be insane, get up."
"I'll make that a direct order if I have to."
"Like either of us are any good at following orders. Get up, Napoleon. I'm not leaving you behind."
"Illya, I don't want..."
"News flash, Solo, this isn't always about you. Like you, I have a mission and that's to keep my partner from falling into harm's way. And there's no way in hell I'm leaving you behind for THRUSH to have their merry way with you, not with all those secrets locked inside your head."
"Then shoot me, Illya. If I can't see, I'm worthless to UNCLE."
"Where in the name of Sam Hill did this streak of self pity come from?"
"I just..."
"All right, listen to me and mark me well. I am not leaving you behind. If necessary, I will knock you out and carry you, so forget about it. Secondly, this is a temporary condition and it will improve."
"You can't know that," Napoleon protested.
"You can't know that it isn't and I'm not willing to risk it." He felt Illya kneel beside him. "Tell you what, come with me, and give this two months. If you're not fine by then, I'll pull the trigger myself."
"You promise?"
"If it will get you to your feet, yes, you have my word as a Russian, and as your partner." Another yank. "Now move."
It was hard to mark time when you couldn't actually see a calendar, but the occupational therapist woman who'd been assigned to work with him and help him adjust to his new world had been kind enough to provide him with a Braille calendar. It had taken him some time to work things around in his mind, but eventually he'd gotten the alphabet and numbering system right. Then it was merely a matter of marking off the days. Only a matter of counting time as he marched closer to that inevitable deadline. Part of him celebrated the thought of being rid of this burden. The doctors didn't know what had caused his blindness and they didn't know how to help him, but what Napoleon Solo knew was that now everything was hard, everything a challenge. He couldn't even enjoy the simple pleasure of standing to pee anymore, something he'd certainly taken for granted before. Now if he tried, he'd just as likely end up pissing on his own foot as into the cistern and the clean up left much to be desired.
He'd watched, figuratively speaking, of course, as his friends drifted away. Women didn't seem to be as interested in him now that he couldn't stare lovingly into their eyes and wax poetic about their looks. At first, he'd been an oddity, a cause, but that got old fast. His colleagues were friendly and understanding, but theirs was a profession of racing against time as they struggled to keep THRUSH in check. They couldn't afford to be held back by a blind ex-agent.
All except Illya, of course. His partner stood by him, just as he'd always done. When Illya wasn't at HQ, he was with Napoleon. He'd moved into Napoleon's spare bedroom shortly after Napoleon had been discharged from Medical. There hadn't been any medical reason to hold him and with Illya there, he at least could stay in his own home. They'd settled into a comfortable routine. The occupational therapist would come in and work with Napoleon, helping him to bridge the gap between who he had been and who he was now. Napoleon went along with it, never allowing anyone to suspect the pact he'd forged with Illya. She was there until just after noon and then Napoleon was left to his own devices until Illya returned in the early evening. Illya would make dinner or they'd order in. Napoleon had no intention of going out to a restaurant like this.
His fingers traced the raised dots on the calendar page before him. There was no need for colorful photographs, images, or clever sayings or other distractions. It was simple and straight forward. Two days, he told himself. He only had to suffer with this for two more days.
He set the calendar page aside and sat quietly, listening to the sounds of distant traffic. The waning sun felt good on his face as he sat on the small balcony of his apartment. He'd rarely spent any time here before 'the incident,' as he referred to it. Now it was his great escape. Illya had tried to lure him out, but aside from the obligatory visits to Medical once a week, he'd not set foot outside the confines of his apartment. He had no desire to learn to deal with the obstacles of the outside world. There was no need to his way of thinking. This would be over soon, one way or the other, so it didn't matter.
Napoleon wasn't afraid of death. He'd faced it a dozen times over in his life and it didn't scare him. Nor did it sadden him to think of what he'd leave behind, except possibly his friendship with Illya, but even that wasn't strong enough to give him second thoughts. No, he'd agreed to this and he would welcome it. To escape from a world in which he could no longer be an active participant would be a joy, not a sorrow.
He heard the locks being worked and knew that Illya was home. There was the sound of movement behind him and he knew Illya was pulling off his coat, undoing his tie, wiggling out of his holster, toeing out of his shoes and pushing them under the coat tree. Napoleon only had to trip over Illya's shoes once before his partner learned to keep everything tucked away out of his path.
"Please don't tell me you've been sitting here all day." Illya's voice was tired tonight, the Russian accent more pronounced than usual.
"Like I have something better to do?"
"You do, you know. There are a hundred thousand things you could be doing instead of sitting here and feeling sorry for yourself." Illya had collapsed into a chair opposite him and Napoleon heard the sound of glass clinking against metal. If Illya was already drinking, this wasn't a good sign.
"Bad day?"
"It would be hard to find one worse." There was a pause and another clink. "We lost the head of the London branch. IRA member took him down as he was leaving Parliament and Waverly's afraid that we now have to consider the very real possibility that THRUSH has joined forces with the IRA."
"Not a pleasant thought."
"It gets worse. The head of Section Two in Hong Kong just died from eating fugu."
"Isn't that a poisonous fish?"
"Yes, the idiot, and the South American branch just suffered a massive explosion in one of its labs. Cost us a half dozen good scientists and agents." There was another pause. "I have two hours before I head out."
"Where to?" Napoleon tried to keep the annoyance from creeping into his voice. How dare Illya leave when he was this close to making good his promise?
"Hong Kong, by way of Caracas. This was all easier when you were doing it."
"You know what the day after tomorrow is."
The voice was so weary. "Yes, Napoleon, and I must beg your patience for a bit longer. As soon as I return... I will... make good our agreement."
"Thank you."
"It's not too late to reconsider."
"Thank you." He heard Illya sigh, stand, and retreat back into the apartment. There was a knock and he could hear Illya talking with someone. Obviously he'd arranged for a babysitter of some sort.
"Napoleon, I've made arrangements to have your meals brought in and for someone to look in on you since you've demonstrated no desire to learn to look after yourself. I will be back as soon as possible."
And Illya was gone, first to pack and then to walk out the door without any other words said between them. Carefully, Napoleon lifted the stylus and began to punch a series of holes into the calendar. Marking time, that's all he was doing.
The next few days were awkward and Napoleon came to miss his partner more than he cared to let on. He didn't like having someone else taking care of him. With Illya, it was more of a give and take arrangement. He knew how far to push Napoleon, what the man would or wouldn't tolerate. He didn't take any guff, nor did he deal any. Napoleon was comfortable with him and didn't feel weak or disabled with the Russian, but with a stranger, it was much different.
Finally, he'd had enough and sent the aide packing. It took him more time to make a simple sandwich than it used to take him to disassemble, clean, and reassemble his gun, but he had to admit the sandwich was one of the best he'd ever eaten. Who could have known that peanut butter and banana could taste so good? Frying eggs was a little trickier, but he managed that as well. Once his therapist realized what he was doing, Napoleon kept finding little devices around to help him, like the controls of his stove and oven marked in Braille or labels that he could attach to cans in his cupboard so he could tell the canned peas from the tomato sauce before opening the cans.
He had just finished dinner and washing up when he heard the knock. It struck him as odd that anyone would be visiting him. He felt for the clock and frowned. It was nearly ten at night. He moved to the door and paused.
There was another knock.
"Who is it?"
"Napoleon? It's me; it's Nellie, from work."
He hesitated. "Don't misunderstand me, but what are you doing here?"
"Napoleon, you need to come with me. It's Illya."
"I don't know you," Napoleon said, unwilling to take the chance that it might be a trap. Even if Illya was hurt, but he had to be sure before opening the door.
"Napoleon Solo, do you want me to remind you of when you got that little heart-shaped scar on your left buttock?"
"Ah, good evening, Nellie." Only the UNCLE nurse had been privy to that little adventure and he at last opened the door. "Did you say there was trouble? Something's happened to Illya?"
"You need to come... please; he could use his partner right now."
"Ah, my sweetness, how can I deny you anything? Lead on, McDuff."
He kept a hand on her elbow as they walked down the corridors. He couldn't tell how far they'd walked and yet he'd roamed the hallways a hundred times. He'd just never paid attention.
"He's in Room Five," she said, as a matter of habit, stopping. She then realized her blunder. "Sorry."
"Don't apologize," Napoleon said softly. "Just take me there, please."
A moment later, he was standing beside a bed. His hands traced the familiar railing that surrounded the upper part of the bed, listened to the monitors beep steadily.
"What happened to him?"
"THRUSH tried to make him talk." She moved his hands to Illya's arms, and he felt the bandages there, tracing them down to hands that seemed encased in huge gauze mittens. "You know how stubborn he is."
"How bad?"
"Bad enough." Nellie was moving around the room. "The surgeons say there shouldn't be any permanent damage, but he's not going to be a happy camper for awhile."
Nor am I, Napoleon thought. With his hands out of commission, Illya wouldn't be able to make good his promise. There was nothing but pride stopping Napoleon from digging out one of his spare pistols and doing it himself. Illya had promised and Napoleon intended to hold him to it.
A half moan/half murmur caught his attention and he reached towards it, giving the shoulder he found a squeeze.
"Yблюдки," Illya mumbled. 'Bastards'. That was a bad sign. Napoleon could count on the fingers of one hand how many times he'd heard Illya curse in his mother tongue.
"Что случилось?" he asked, his own tongue struggling with the words. 'What's wrong?'
"Они сокращают мои руки от ... ублюдков ..."
"Napoleon, what did he say?" Nellie had come up behind him.
"He said they cut his hands off."
"No, but he's probably going to wish they had before this is said and done. He's got some painful PT ahead of him."
"Ваши руки прекрасны, мой друг," Napoleon said. 'Your hands are fine, my friend'. He felt Illya shake his head at this.
"Тогда отключите их, они повреждают." 'Then cut them off, they hurt.' And Napoleon chuckled and patted Illya's shoulder.
"Napoleon?" Nellie's voice was very close. She must be bent forward, leaning over him to get to his partner.
"He's complaining, that's all. He's fine."
The days now took on another challenge. After two days of being fetched and carried, Napoleon's sense of independence had had enough and he struck out on his own. Getting from his apartment and into a cab wasn't hard, even negotiating down and through Del Floria's wasn't too bad, but trying to find his way around HQ, that was a challenge. And it wasn't his fault when he ended up in the ladies locker room. The next day, he had Nellie meet him in reception and he counted the steps. After that, he didn't need an escort.
He'd assume his place beside Illya's bed and take a daily stock of his surly Russian. He thought he'd been attuned to Illya's moods before, but now Napoleon could tell a simple grumpy mood from when Illya was in serious pain just by the way he pronounced certain words or how his sentences ended.
His own therapist simply moved base and started working with Napoleon back at HQ, since he was there every day. She set up a rough mock up of his apartment, using old furniture from the break rooms to set up obstacles to challenge him. She even brought in a cot and taught him the fine art of making his own bed, a task that wasn't as easy as he thought it would be at first. He learned how to organize his kitchen, his bathroom, in fact, his whole life around his disability. But he still counted the days.
"You're done."
Napoleon looked in the direction of the voice and smiled. He didn't know exactly what Kris looked like, except for the image he'd painted in his mind, but her voice was kind and she had the patience of Job to put up with him. "What do you mean?"
"I can't teach you anymore."
"Don't throw in the towel now. I thought you said everyone was teachable."
"Napoleon, what I mean is that I've taught you all that I know. You're able to read and you're cooking for yourself, getting around a major city without incident... well, without many incidents. I'll bet you've even started shopping a bit. In another week, you'll be hitting the bars and bringing home floozies." Napoleon could hear the grin in her voice. "You simply don't need me anymore."
"Wrong, I'll always need you, Kris." He reached out and she took his hand. He brought it to his lips and kissed it gently before drawing her into his arms.
"It's... um, not... unnatural to attach strong... emotions to your therapist, Napoleon." Her voice had grown soft. "You need to think about this."
"No, for the first time in my life, Kris, I don't want to think about it. For a long time, I'm been attaching the wrong set of ideals to the wrong people. It took me being blind to be able to see that."
"I'm not one of your lovely ladies, Napoleon. I'm not... even the same race as you."
"Then it's lucky that I also happen to be color blind." He cupped her chin and brought it closer, brushing her lips gently. "Are we alone?" he whispered.
"Yes."
He kissed her, still gently, instinctively knowing that hard and fast would lose him the prize this time. "Are we likely to be interrupted?"
"No."
He kissed her once more, this time letting just the tip of his tongue touch her lips. "Do you want this?"
"Very much."
He took that as his cue and thoroughly kissed her. It had been nearly four months since he'd been with a woman and both body and spirit were very willing. Yet, as eager as he was, he was also determined to not ruin this. He'd slept with women for much less, eagerly shared intimate moments with them at the mere suggestion of interest. Not this time. He settled them down onto the bed, never breaking his contact with her body.
The body in his arms was strong, not like most of the women he bedded. They were soft and pampered. Kris was a woman who made her living with her strength and now he celebrated that with her, letting his lips and mouth map her body the way his hands mapped a room, slowly and with infinite care.
Her breasts were small, the nipples hard even before he touched them and he smiled at the sigh his fingers elicited from her, at the soft moans his mouth drew out of her. He moved back up to her lips again, letting his tongue dip in and out, drinking his fill of her taste.
His fingers had always been sensitive, long, and nimble. His touch was twice as acute now and he used them to his greatest advantage, slipping up past the hem of Kris's dress and finding the elastic waistband of her panties. He ran a finger along the soft skin and then dipped down to draw small circles against her pubic bone, letting just the tip of his finger travel closer and closer.
Just when he thought she was going to explode, he slipped that digit between the velvet smooth lips of her vulva and caressed her clitoris. Kris surged forward, pressing herself more firmly against his hand. Smiling, he continued to kiss her, while adding another finger. This one didn't pause, but found its way inside and began a slow movement.
Within seconds, Napoleon could hear her cry, feel her body clutching at his fingers as she climaxed. He continued to kiss her, nuzzle her neck, and whisper soft endearments into her ear as her body calmed.
"I think a little bit of reciprocation might be in order," Kris whispered, her hands working his belt buckle and fly.
Napoleon sighed as those hands pushed his pants down and released his trapped penis, hard as a statue's, free from his underwear. He wasn't sure what he was expecting next, but it certainly wasn't the feeling of a mouth on him a tongue dipping in to sample his pre-seminal fluid.
"Kris, stop, I can't... it's been awhile, my control isn't good..." His head dipped back against the pillow as her mouth enveloped him. The suction was perfect, the rhythm sublime and Napoleon fisted his hands in the rumpled bed clothes in an attempt to control his urge to climax then and there.
Just when he thought it was all over, her mouth was gone, replaced with a very different, but equally wonderful heat. He brought his hands up now to rest on either side of her waist and began to thrust upward, easily meeting the pace she set. This was more familiar, more controllable for him, but he was still so very close.
It probably wasn't the most creative bout of love making, but Napoleon had no doubt it was the most satisfying one he'd had in years. He slammed up into her and groaned with the effort of climaxing. She ground against him, making similar demanding noises. Then she fell back, stretching out, half on, half off him. All the while, his hands kept moving, letting his fingers tell him what his eyes now refused to.
"This was wonderful, Napoleon, and...," her voice faltered, "wonderful and it never happened."
"Yes, it did."
"No, this is how it needs to be. If anyone found out, I would lose my job, and possibly a lot more."
He kissed her cheek and chuckled. "Kris, one thing that being an agent has taught me is that you need to reach out to people at times, people you trust, just to make contact."
"You mean... you don't mean... you and Illya?"
"Well, we'll stop just short of that, shall we?" He touched her hair, some of it had escaped from the bun she habitually wore it in. "But yes, we have taken comfort in each other's arms, for a variety of reasons, the cold, injury, shock. There are just times when you need to listen to what your body says."
"Your body must be screaming then. I've heard the stories."
"Greatly exaggerated, I assure you. It's more a case of window dressing than anything else."
"You're saying you haven't slept with every secretary in the steno pool?"
"Exactly, but if you had been on a date with someone rumored to be a Don Juan and you didn't do anything beyond some general petting, what you would say the next morning?" He stroked her shoulder with one thumb as he held her closely to him. "It's a reversal of the old locker room situation. Instead of a girl's reputation being sullied, it's mine and I use that to my advantage. Another trick being an agent taught me."
"I'm not going to say anything, Napoleon."
He nodded, reluctant to release the body in his arms. "Well, if it never happened once... maybe it couldn't happen a second time..."
Napoleon kept from whistling as he walked into Illya's room. The rustling of bedclothes told him his partner was back from his PT session.
"I know that look, Napoleon." Illya's voice was slurred, probably from a heady cocktail of pain killers and muscle relaxants. "What did you do?"
"Me? Nothing. I was at my occupational therapy session. Kris cut me loose after we had a dancing lesson."
Illya's voice dropped until he was nearly hissing. "You're not supposed to... dance with your therapist."
"You're just jealous, but you know, if you asked Doug nicely..."
"Don't even go there, Solo. I shall happily remain celibate for the moment. Not that I have any choice."
Napoleon grinned and reached out, stopping as he touched one of the heavy braces that encased his partner's hands. "Each to his own, partner. How did therapy go?"
"Wonderful. Doug is determined to achieve new levels of pain."
Napoleon could hear Illya toss in the bed, restless at being confined for so long. If these had been the old days, Napoleon would have checked him out a week ago and played nursemaid to him at his place. Then he frowned; so what was stopping him now? Napoleon was perfectly able to function, although it took him a bit longer to get stuff done, he was sure there wasn't much outside his grasp. And if he could work with Illya, Illya would be quicker to recover the use of his hands, able to get back on the job and Napoleon could get back to the job of living. Napoleon stopped suddenly, just this side of gasping. He had abruptly realized he'd stopped marking time. In spite of his best efforts and a single-minded purpose, Napoleon Solo had decided to live.
"Napoleon, what's wrong?"
"Nothing, sorry, just had a thought, that's all."
"No wonder the pained expression. You want something? I got a whole pocketful of the stuff."
"You know, pain medication actually works better internally than externally." He patted Illya's shoulder and grinned at the exaggerated moan of pain it wrought. "So, how would you like to blow this place?"
"I'm sorry?" The voice was getting blurry now, confused. "You want me to blow it up... okay... I can do that. I'll need a couple of things though. And you'll have to set the charges. I'm a bit ham-fisted these days."
"No, let me talk to Nellie and see if I can get her to release you to my care."
"Great, the blind leading the crippled. Together, we almost make one functioning agent." Illya's voice trailed off and Napoleon knew he'd lost him.
"You're sure about this?" Nellie had a hand on his arm and Napoleon nodded.
"I can do this, Nellie, and Illya isn't exactly helpless. Nor am I."
"I just feel... well... if you're sure."
"I'm sure and I know the staff can use a break from Illya's most pleasant presence."
He felt her brush hair off his forehead. Since he couldn't really see to meticulously groom himself anymore, he'd let his hair assume more natural lines. "If you're certain, we really could use the rest..."
"I can hear you. I'm standing right here," Illya protested and both of them laughed.
"Come on, partner, let's go home."
They were only about three blocks from his apartment, by his reckoning, when it happened. There was a roar, the honking of horns, the groaning of metal being ripped apart and Napoleon felt himself suddenly airborne and slammed into the passenger seat of the cab, whacking his head against the metal grating. All around him was an explosion of noise as people started shouting, screaming in some cases. There was the smell of burning rubber and gasoline. His instinct told him they had to move, to put some distance between themselves and the smell, this in spite of the throbbing at his temple and the ache in his shoulder. And for that, he needed his partner.
"Illya?' He pushed himself away from the seat in front of him and searched wildly with his hands. Something warm was dribbling down his face, blood from a head gash, most likely, but that didn't stop him. "Illya, what happened?"
Napoleon was starting to feel a little light headed, but he wouldn't stop his search; then he felt one of the braces and finally Illya's hand. "Partner, are you still with me? We need to get out of here..."
He heard Illya's voice, faint and sounding a bit like Howdy Doody's and then he had the self respect to pass out.
Napoleon came to slowly, unenthused about leaving his comfortable cocoon of unconsciousness. One glance told him that he was back in Medical and he started to look over at the bed beside him when he stopped. He blinked again and his eyes focused a bit more.
"Oh my God...," he whispered and brought a hand to his eyes.
"The doctor thinks it was probably the rap to your head that did it." He looked in the direction of the voice to see Nellie standing there. "You'll probably have some blurriness for awhile, but that should clear in time." She smiled widely at him. "Welcome back, Mr. Solo."
"I don't..." Then he started to sit up. "Illya? Where's Illya?"
Nellie's hand held him back. "He's fine. He's eating and, then well, we're going to try for a shower, I think. One more sponge bath and he's likely to start taking hostages."
"He's okay though?" At the news, Napoleon relaxed against the pillows.
"Few bumps and bruises, nothing serious. He was still pretty relaxed from all his meds when you hit those cars. God only knows what that driver was thinking." She leaned closer to Napoleon. "Thank our lucky stars."
"How is the driver?"
"Not so lucky. He went through the windshield."
"Does Illya know?" Napoleon was still holding his hand before his eyes.
"He was here when you came to the first time. You told him he had beautiful blue eyes and asked him to move in with you."
"I didn't."
"You did. He pointed out that he already had and you passed out again." Nellie glanced over at the door and smiled. "You have a visitor."
A woman entered. She was plain looking, with mousey brown hair pulled back into a neat bun. She lifted a hand in a half-hearted wave. "Hi."
"Kris." Napoleon recognized the voice instantly. "You're even more beautiful than I could have imagined."
"Watch him, he's dangerous." Nellie patted the woman's arm. "I think I'll go see if Mr. Kuryakin needs any help with his shower. Or if nothing else, to rescue the poor orderlies assigned to help him."
They waited for Nellie to exit the room. "You told me we were different races and that's why we couldn't see each other again..." Napoleon started as he touched his own face.
"I know," Kris said, brushing a wrinkle out of her smock. "I just didn't want things to get out of hand."
"Did they?" Napoleon reached for her hand. "I'd like to see you again, really see you, I mean."
"I ... that probably wouldn't be wise, Napoleon. What happened was fabulous, but you agents, you come with too high a price tag. I've seen it before and I can't do it, I just can't. You're not the marrying kind and, despite what you might think, I'm not the other kind. Let's just remember it fondly and let it be." She stroked his cheek softly. "You were a good student though."
"Thank you." He pulled her down to kiss her brow gently. "You were an excellent teacher."
"You bet your William Tell Overture I am. Now go and have a wonderful life, Napoleon. I hope I won't ever see you again."
"You really do have an effect on women," Illya said from the door way where he was lounging. He straightened up to let her pass and smiled at her blush. "The doctor says you can leave as soon as you're feeling up to it."
"Music to my ears." Napoleon dropped his legs over the side of the bed, closing his eyes for a moment to get his bearings. It was odd how much clearer everything was when he couldn't see anything.
"Napoleon, are you all right?" Illya was instantly at his side; hand on his partner's shoulder for support. "Do I need to call someone?"
"No, I'm fine, just taking stock." Napoleon rested a hand on the brace encumbering Illya's hand and arm. "Thank you."
"For what? Not shooting you when I had the chance? I'll probably be kicking myself later for that." He held up a hand and sighed, "If I could have just gotten my trigger finger to work properly. They think I might need more surgery before that will happen though."
"I think you just need for some more time to heal. No, I meant thank you for your loyalty and your friendship. No matter what I did, what I said or how I acted, you never swayed."
"It's what partners do."
"No, it's what friends do." Napoleon stood and began to look around for his clothes.
"You'll be wise to remember that in the days to come when I'm asking you to knot my tie... among other less pleasant things. Injuries like this make a man very humble."
Napoleon slapped him gently on his shoulder and nodded. "Let's go home. I'll fix you a sandwich."
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