A
Date to Remember
By YumYumPM
Napoleon Solo can date any female he wants, then one night he
realizes that who he wants isn't female.
Just that thought alone could be the death of him.
Originally posted 12/16/03
Revised
Act I: The Catalyst For a Date Gone Wrong
Napoleon Solo sat staring down into the
amber liquid as he awaited the arrival of his date. A beautiful redhead, Vanessa
was the independent type that Napoleon felt drawn to of late. This one liked to make a grand entrance, all
eyes on her, depriving of the gallantry of picking her up and walking in with
her on his arm, hence the reason he was seated alone, waiting. His thoughts drifted as he thought of the wonderful
evening ahead.
"Are
you ready to order, sir?"
Napoleon returned from his musing to
look up at the waiter standing by his side, motioning toward the chair across
from his. "The lady appears to be
running a little late."
With a slight nod, the waiter left, his
presence soon replaced by that of the hostess. Giving her his most
charming smile as she handed him a folded note, his smile vanished as he read
that his date would not be able to make it after all. With a sigh, he
folded the note then slipped it into his vest pocket, then picked up his glass
and finished it off. He had never liked dining alone so he decided to
have one last drink at the bar before leaving.
"Once more, Bobby," he requested as he sat
down on a stool. In reality he wasn't really that disappointed that
Vanessa had failed to show. Sure she was gorgeous and talented in bed,
but she lacked personality. In effect she was a dumb blonde, without being
blonde. He was so very tired of dating women of low intellect. His
drink arrived and he smiled, his thoughts drifting in another direction-to his
partner. Now there was a conversationalist, someone who could talk about
almost any subject. He might not chat much, but once on a topic he really
had an interest in there was no stopping him.
Napoleon smiled into his drink. Illya
wasn't bad looking either...he frowned...just where had that thought coming
from. He'd never thought of his partner in that way before, and he was
damn sure Illya never had such thoughts either. Besides with his
partner's various skills, he wasn't ready to die in one of a hundred different
ways. Finishing his second drink he didn't remember ordering the third or
the fourth or...
Illya Kuryakin was ensconced in a
comfortable chair catching up on one of the many technical journals he had not
had time to read. Suddenly his communicator emitted a piercing
beep. He absentmindedly reached over to pick it up off the side
table, barely missing the remains of pizza that he had ordered earlier.
"Kuryakin here."
"Mr. Kuryakin...Illya?" Illya looked at
his communicator in surprise. Mr.
Waverly's confidential assistant rarely used his first name.
"Yes?"
"We've just received a call from the Oak
Room."
The Oak Room, ah yes, Napoleon was
meeting his current love interest there for a romantic supper.
"They requested we send someone over to
pick up Mr. Solo."
His eyebrows rose to the top of his forehead.
"Did they say why?"
"Evidently he's had too much to drink."
Illya frowned. That was very unlike his partner. "Does Mr. Waverly know?"
"I didn't feel it necessary to inform him."
Thank goodness for small favors.
"I'll leave now. Kuryakin out." He
hurriedly walked into his shoes and reached for his gun. Grabbing his
coat, Illya wondered what could have caused Napoleon to lose such control that
someone had to be called to cart him home.
As he entered the posh restaurant, Illya
noticed the looks of distain cast his way for his casual attire. He did
not let this bother him as he searched the dimly lit room for Napoleon.
"Mr. Kuryakin." It was the familiar
sexy voice of the hostess. "He's gone to the men's room. We've never seen
Mr. Solo like this before and thought it best to call," she said softly.
"Do you know why?" Kuryakin questioned.
The hostess shrugged. "He got a message
from his date canceling?"
Nodding he turned toward the men's room in
time to see his partner making his unsteady way back to the bar. Behind
him trailed an anxious looking waiter. Solo was a regular here and a big
tipper, which meant he was treated very well.
Illya's eyebrows rose as he saw his partner
weaving over toward a stool, and try to sit down almost missing it.
Making his way over to Napoleon, Illya gave a grateful nod to the waiter who
looked relieved that someone had arrived.
Napoleon catching sight of him hailed
him. "Hiya, Hiya, Hiya,...if it isn't my...good friend ...Ill...Illya...hick...what
brings you here?"
"I've come to take you home."
"Don't wanna go." Napoleon shook his head vigorously, managing
at the same time to signal for another drink.
"I realize that having the spectacular
Valerie cancel..."
"Pfzzzz!
Her name's not Valerie... it's...it's..." Napoleon frowned unable to remember.
"It dos'n matter... don't care....she lacks intell....intelly...brains."
"Really?" Illya asked
curiously. He would have thought that little distinction would not matter
and was more curious as to what had brought about Napoleon's inebriated
state. "Never mind, just answer me this. Why are you so
discombobulated?"
"What?" Napoleon looked at his
partner unsteadily and seemingly surprised. "Is that a word?"
Illya pointed to the many glasses set in
front of him. "Why are you drinking so much?"
Giggling Napoleon looked fondly at his
friend. He winked and put a finger to his lip. "Can't tell. You...urp...wouldn't understand." He frowned and muttered to
himself. "Hell , even I don't
understand." Blinking he looked closer and saw that there were two
Illya's. "Though, he might." He pointed to a blank space just to
the left of Illya.
Illya looked to the side and let out an
exasperated sigh, shaking his head he reached for his partner. "Let's get you
out of here."
With as much dignity as he could muster,
Napoleon stood up tall. "I...I'm purfactly cupble of walking by myself."
With a slight smile, Illya moved back and
waved him forward. With a confident cockeyed grin Napoleon took three
steps forward before passing out. Fortunately Illya managed to catch him
before he hit the floor. Bringing one of Napoleon's arms over his
shoulder, Illya proceeded to cart him out of the restaurant amid stares from
the other patrons.
Arriving at the door to Solo's apartment,
Illya propped him against a wall and reached into his pocket for his
keys. Unfortunately while he turned the key in the lock Napoleon started
to slide down the wall. Gathering him by
the front of his jacket, Illya quickly pulled him back up and held him in place
while he opened the door, dragging him inside. Somehow Napoleon managed
to get away from him and staggered toward the sofa where he promptly fell, face
down over the arm.
Shaking his head with amusement, Illya moved
around the sofa, enjoying the ridiculous spectacle Napoleon made with his legs hanging
over the edge of the sofa arm. Squatting down to Napoleon's level, Illya lifted
Napoleon's eyelid to check to see if he was okay. He fell backwards as Napoleon
quickly came off the sofa, surprising Illya, and made swiftly his way to the
bathroom. Illya started to follow, paused upon hearing sounds of
retching and decided the better course would be not to. Soon Napoleon,
his tie undone, staggered back out into the living room looking much the worse
for wear.
"Are you feeling better now?" Illya couldn't
remember ever seeing this side of his partner, he usually held his liquor
better than this.
Napoleon stood holding onto the door jam
and nodded. Suddenly turning a sickening shade of green he turned back
around and headed back into the bathroom, this time Illya followed him.
He found his friend kneeling in front of the porcelain bowl, his head lying
against the rim.
"Didn't you eat anything?"
Napoleon just shook his head no, not having
the strength to do anything else.
Illya went to the sink, filled a glass with
mouthwash, and offered it to Napoleon. After he used it to rinse his
mouth, Illya carted him into the bedroom and dropped him across the bed.
He went back into the bathroom, wet a washcloth and proceeded to place it on
Napoleon's head. Turning on the light on the bedside table, he managed to
remove Napoleon's jacket and holster, removing the clip from the gun he set
them on the dresser within easy reach.
Next he removed Napoleon's shoes and lifted
his feet up onto the bed, reached for the blanket to pull over the now comatose
man. At least that's what he thought until he turned to leave and a hand
grabbed the sleeve of his jacket. He looked down, seeing a petulant little boy
pout on Napoleon's face. "Don't go."
Turning back, Illya settled with his back
against the headboard and sighed. "I
won't," he promised as the hand changed from a grip of his jacket to a grip on
his wrist. Illya leaned back having
decided it best not to leave Napoleon alone.
Illya opened his eyes the next morning and
remembered the reason for his being in Napoleon's bed. He looked down at
his partner who had at least released his grip sometime during the night and
looked a lot more peaceful. Carefully so as not to disturb Napoleon, he
got up and headed for the kitchen to make some coffee.
He was pouring a cup when Napoleon appeared
at the door, looking better than he had the night before.
"Do you want to talk about it?" Illya asked
as he handed him a filled cup.
Shaking his head `no' Napoleon took a
couple of sips from the steaming cup. "Thank you."
"For what?"
"For looking out for me."
"It was nothing. You would do the
same for me."
Napoleon's lips twitched upward. A
queasy look came over his face and suddenly he dropped the cup, covered his
mouth, rushed to the sink as the coffee hit his stomach and came back up.
Straightening up Napoleon turned to assure Illya that he was all right when he started
to convulse and dropped to the floor. Illya rushed over and squatted down
to check his vital signs even as he pulled out his pen communicator to
contacted U.N.C.L.E. Headquarter.
"Channel D. Emergency, Agent down
this location." He threw the pen down when he noticed Napoleon was no
longer breathing and began giving mouth-to-mouth resuscitation.
Act II: Death Comes
Knocking
The medical team rushed the gurney down the
hall, with Kuryakin racing behind. As Napoleon was lifted onto a table,
Illya found himself being pushed into a corner while the doctors hurried over
to examine his partner.
They no sooner started his examination when
Napoleon started to convulse again. Suddenly nurses were everywhere, the
doctors were shouting orders and Illya found himself pushed outside the room.
He was still standing there, staring at the
closed curtain when Mr. Waverly arrived. "Mr. Kuryakin, what's the status
on Mr. Solo?"
Before Illya could answer one of the
doctors came wearily out from behind the curtain. He slowly shook his
head. "I'm sorry..."
Sorry? Illya was suddenly paralyzed
with fear. It wasn't possible...he couldn't mean...no!
"Are you positive?" Mr. Waverly's demeanor
was one of agitation. "And the cause?"
"We won't know until the autopsy is
performed. I'm afraid it will have to be later today."
Nodding, Mr. Waverly turned to look at the
younger man. He started to say something then changed his mind.
With a deep sigh of regret at the loss of his top agent Alexander Waverly
turned to go back to his office. Arrangements would have to be made.
Illya's mind was a complete blank; he
couldn't quite take it all in. The doctor had left him alone with his
grief and he had to lean against the wall for support. Slowly he slid
down, and buried his face against his knees.
This could not be happening.
He was still in that position when Lisa
Rogers arrived. Mr. Waverly had sent her to...she wasn't sure why...to
comfort him perhaps? Stooping down to his level she placed a hand on his
arm and suggested, "Mr. Kuryakin, Illya, you need to go home. We'll call
you once arrangements have been completed."
Illya looked up, his eyes stony. Just
then a gurney was wheeled out of the room with a sheet covered body and one toe
hanging out along with a tag denoting time of death. Illya got up, nodded
to Lisa, and followed the gurney down the hall.
He sat in the sterile room, his face in his
hands. The only other thing in the room was the gurney holding Napoleon's
body. Napoleon was an agent. Agents come and go, some
die. He should not let this death affect him so much. But this
wasn't just some agent; this was his partner, his friend, the CEA of U.N.C.L.E.
Suddenly there was a sound, a gasping of
breath as if that of a drowning man. Illya looked up in shock to see his
partner's supposedly dead body sitting up.
Napoleon sat up gasping for breath, trying
to slow down his breathing. He felt his partner beside him and reached
out to clutch him, grounding him to the here and now. "I had the most
horrible dream. I dreamt that I'd died..." He stopped in shock,
noting the fact that he was covered by only a sheet and that there was a tag
attached to his toe.
"I will go get the doctor," Illya informed
him, alarmed yet relieved that Napoleon was not dead.
Napoleon grabbed at him before he could move
away.
"No. No. Please don't do
that," he begged.
Illya looked at him questioningly.
"Get me out of here, Illya, I can't explain
why yet. But I need to be away from here...to sort this all out."
"At least let me contact Mr. Waverly."
"No!" Napoleon shook his head
vehemently. "No one, please."
Sighing, Illya agreed. "Well, you
can't go anywhere dressed, or should I say not dressed like that. I'll go
find you some clothing."
As he turned to leave he glanced back at
his partner who was lying back down to await his return. Getting Napoleon
out undetected could pose a problem. But Illya wasn't Number Two Section
Two for nothing. There were a few tricks he knew of that might work.
Act III: The Truth Comes Out
They made it to Illya's
apartment. Sitting on the couch, running his hand through his dark
hair, Napoleon Solo did not look his usual dapper self, dressed as he was
wearing the sweat suit Illya had managed to retrieve from his locker.
Illya went into the kitchen to fix some
coffee, and then thought better of it remembering what happened the last time,
bringing Napoleon some water instead.
"Thank you," Napoleon said as he took the
glass.
Staring at his partner with piercing blue
eyes, Illya asked, "Why did you not want me to call medical?"
How could he explain even to Illya that his
reason was so thin, that there were no facts to back them up? Looking
into the worried eyes of his partner, Napoleon ventured the only excuse he
could come up with, "I'd already been pronounced dead once, I didn't want it to
happen again."
Illya's eyes widened at that and he had a
sudden thought. "What exactly do you remember?"
Leaning back against the cushion Napoleon
thought. "The Oak Room....you...my apartment..." his heart started beating faster.
"You," his voice sank to a mere whisper and he started to convulse again.
Illya jumped up from his chair and pulled
Napoleon down to the floor. Laying him flat, he checked Napoleon's airway
and decided to give him mouth-to-mouth again. As he went to work, his
mind raced with plans of what to do if this didn't work, suddenly Napoleon let
out a gasp trying to pull in fresh air. Illya pulled Napoleon to a
sitting position against his chest, holding him for dear life. Willing
him not to die again.
Napoleon came back to conscience only to
find his upper body pressed against Illya's, feeling his arms holding him in
place. He put his hands over those arms to keep them there. Taking
a deep breath, he twisted his head to look Illya in the eye. "Would you mind
doing that again?"
"Napoleon!" Illya scowled down at the
dark head in front of him. "Let me call medical." To which Napoleon
violently shook his head. "At least let me call Mr. Waverly." He'd
already lost his friend once and didn't want to chance losing him again.
Napoleon just looked at him with those warm
brown eyes and brought his arm up and around Illya's head, pressing his lips to
Illya's own. The kiss was soft and gentle and he was grateful that Illya didn't
resist. In fact Illya seemed to be getting into the spirit of it when...his
communicator went off.
Pulling away from Napoleon, Illya reached
into his pocket for his communicator. Clearing his throat first, he said
with just a slight breathlessness, "Kuryakin here."
"Mr. Kuryakin, where exactly is here?" came
the grumpy voice of his superior.
"My apartment, Sir." Napoleon was
still leaning against his chest and he felt no desire to remove him.
A sigh came over his pen. "I'm sorry to
have to inform you of this, but it appears Mr. Solo's body has
disappeared. You wouldn't by any chance know anything about that would
you?" Waverly's voice made it plain that he suspected something of the
kind.
Napoleon took hold of the hand containing
the communicator and pulled it to him. "I'm here, Sir."
There was a pause on the line and Napoleon
wished that he could see Mr. Waverly's expression. "I take it you're not
dead," Mr. Waverly responded dryly. Napoleon considered those words.
Waverly's reaction had not been to say you're alive, but you're not dead.
"I'll have someone from medical over there in twenty minutes."
Illya took back the pen. "Sir, Napoleon
refused to see anyone from medical."
"Hummph."
Mr. Waverly considered the fact that Napoleon had arrived in medical and been
pronounced dead and countered it with the fact that he was most definitely
alive now. "I see your point. Perhaps it would be best if you
stayed were you are now, in Mr. Kuryakin's capable hands. I'll contact a
doctor I know...not U.N.C.L.E...and get back to you. Waverly out."
Napoleon turned in Illya's arms and looked
up at him with a wide smile. "You heard the man." He reached up to pull
Illya's head down for another kiss.
When they finally broke for air Illya shook
his head. "We shouldn't be doing this. What would Mr. Waverly say?"
"I know," Napoleon murmured softly as he drew
Illya's lips down once again to claim them. "We could always say we are
working on Russian-American relations."
"Napoleon!!" Illya pushed him away
and tried not to smile. He was beginning to fill a little cramped,
sitting on the floor. "This position is not very comfortable; I suggest that we
adjourn to my bedroom?"
They entered Illya's rather stark bedroom
and Napoleon looked around, his facial expression one of distaste.
Illya shook his head. "Napoleon, I
realize this is not the Ritz, but I hadn't really planned that we..."
"I know," Napoleon's voice was one of
regret. "It's just that some silk sheets, a couple of fluffy pillows
would be nice."
Napoleon's criticism was met by Illya
throwing his partner on the bed and stripping him of all his clothing.
Holding Napoleon's arms down above his head he said menacingly, "Decadent
American. Remember this could be a dark and dingy THRUSH cell."
Napoleon tried very hard not to smile.
"Sounds interesting, remind me the next time we're trapped in a THRUSH cell."
With a twist he managed to maneuver his partner underneath him intent on
returning the favor. Soon they were both out of breath and breathing
hard.
Napoleon broke away reluctantly. "We
need something...do you have any lubricant?" he asked breathlessly.
Illya looked at him indignantly. "No, why
would I need..."
Napoleon just made a growling sound and
scooted off the bed heading into the bathroom to raid Illya's medicine
cabinet. Toothpaste, deodorant, aspirin, baby oil...baby oil? With triumphant
he grabbed the bottle and headed back to the bed. Illya was lying on his
side, his head propped up on his hand watching Napoleon's approach with a soft
smile.
Not now, Napoleon thought with total
frustration, as Illya leaped from the bed in search of his pen. Finally
managing to locate it he activated it. "Kuryakin, here."
"Mr. Kuryakin, it took you long
enough. I was beginning to worry, I hope nothing is wrong?"
"No, sir." Illya glanced at Napoleon
and saw him mouth the words, "not yet."
Waverly continued, unaware of what he had
unintentionally interrupted. "I've manage to get Mr. Solo an appointment
with an old friend of mine for nine o'clock tomorrow morning. Here is the
address..."
Illya tried to write the information down,
but Napoleon was standing behind him, nuzzling his neck, making it difficult to
concentrate. Illya tried to swat him away, finally managing to push him
toward the bed. "I have it, sir."
"Very well, Mr. Kuryakin, carry on.
Waverly out."
Napoleon relaxed on the bed looking smug.
"You heard the man, Kuryakin, carry on," he said with a lascivious grin.
With a chuckle Illya climbed back onto the
bed and took the bottle of oil from Napoleon's hand. "Yes, but you are
not well and should not exert yourself." He proceeded to play Napoleon's body
like a musical instrument. Napoleon lay back enjoying the sensation of
someone else taking the lead.
Eventually he turned Napoleon over on his
stomach and put both pillows beneath him. Opening the baby oil, Illya
coated his fingers. He gently massaged the muscles of Napoleon's rear
cheeks, than parting them, slid one finger into the puckered hole.
Napoleon was extremely tight. Leaning closer to him, Illya whispered.
"Napoleon, you need to relax."
Relax?....the man wants him to relax...how? And
suddenly he let his imagination take over.
Before long Illya could feel Napoleon
relaxing against his fingers. He positioned himself before entering him
and looked down at Napoleon's face. Napoleon had a dreamy look on his
face and as Illya took him, he had to ask, "Napoleon, what are you
thinking of?"
"Augh." His
muscles tightened for just a minute as he was pierced, then relaxed again.
"Floating on a blue ocean...with a bright blue sky...the color of your eyes."
Illya was pumping into him gently. "A white sandy beach...and you...you
remove your trunks."
Illya froze. "In front of all those
people?" he asked, shocked at the thought.
Napoleon chuckled. "No, it's a
private beach. I come out of the water toward you...in a suit no less and..."
About that time both of them lost all coherent thought as the passion of the
moment claimed them both.
Napoleon slowly came back to awareness and
turned over to look at his partner. Then his nose twitched as he noticed
the wet and sticky spot he was currently lying in. Getting out of bed he
gingerly made his way to the bathroom. What he needed was a nice warm
bath. He filled the tub wishing Illya had some bubble bath, and lay back
sort of floating away on the memories of what they had just done.
Illya came into the bathroom and threw the
dirty sheets in a corner. Going over, he sat on the edge of the tub
watching his friend, whose eyes were closed, looking totally relaxed. He
couldn't help himself, he had to know. "What are you thinking about
now?" he asked softly.
Napoleon opened one eye and then closed it
again. "Um a big tub...lots of bubbles..." He opened his eye
again. "You. Care to join me?"
"That tub is much too small, and I fear if
I join you we'll be very late for your doctor's appointment. I too need
to clean up you know."
So with a grunt Napoleon pulled the plug
and got out of the tub. "Groan."
Illya grabbed hold of him to help. "Does it
hurt?" he asked anxiously.
"A little, but this hurt is the kind I
could grow to love."
Illya smirked.
Napoleon toweled himself dry and put on the
only clothes he had, the sweat suit from yesterday. Illya soon emerged
from the bathroom, his hair still damp, and dressed in his usual black.
"We do not have much time."
They drove in silence on the way to see the
doctor Mr. Waverly had recommended.
Act
IV: Diagnosis
Illya was doing the driving since he didn't
dare trust Napoleon not to have another attack while behind the wheel.
After all they still did not know what had caused the reaction. What had
followed would change everything. Perhaps, if they were very, very
discrete. He spared a glance at his partner. Napoleon was staring
out the window. "Napoleon?"
"Yes, Illya?" Napoleon responded calmly.
Illya sighed. "You're not going to
make this easy are you."
Napoleon turned to look at him, the ends of
his mouth twitching. "No."
Trying to be reasonable Illya continued,
"We're playing with fire here."
"Come on, Illya, have a little faith in the
Solo luck." Napoleon reached over to caress Illya's thigh.
Illya had to clamp his jaw shut to keep
back a moan. "Napoleon, I'm trying to drive here."
Taking his hand away Napoleon just smiled.
They had been shown into an examination
room and Napoleon was asked to undress and put on a skimpy gown. The
nurse had tried to get Illya to wait in the waiting room, but hadn't been
successful. When Napoleon had changed, she came back in to do the
preliminary checkup, making notes on a chart before leaving.
Sometime later the doctor came into the
room, reading the chart and ignoring his patient. He was tall and thin, with dark hair going
grey on the sides. Looking over his
glasses he assessed the situation. What
he saw was a dark-haired young man sitting on the examination table and a
smaller blond man fidgeting in a chair in the corner. So this was the hot-shot agent Alex was
always talking about.
"I'm Dr. Benjamin Pierce. Alex
asked me to check you over. Care to tell me what happened?"
Solo stared at him and said simply, "I
died."
Smartass,
Dr. Pierce thought. "I see, would you care to elaborate on that a just a tiny
bit more?"
"Not really," was the stony reply.
Illya broke in, coming to the rescue,
giving a complete and concise account of what had occurred.
Dr. Pierce took it all in and asked, "And
you are?"
"Illya Kuryakin, his partner."
Nodding, Dr. Pierce turned back to Napoleon
and asked, "Do you have any idea as to why you suddenly stopped breathing?"
Napoleon glanced at his partner then looked
down, said softly, "No."
He's lying, thought Pierce, I wonder why? But all he said
was, "Okay take off the gown and let's get this examination rolling."
Sometime later he stood there flipping
through his chart. This had been a very thorough examination since he
didn't really know what he was looking for. Blood pressure was a little
high, but that was to be expected. Respiration was normal, temperature
normal, nothing in the urine sample. Hmmm, that was odd. He spared
a glace over to Kuryakin who seemed a little tense and put two and two
together. "Get dressed and both of you meet me in my office."
An hour later, alone in his office, Dr.
Pierce picked up the phone and dialed Alexander Waverly's private number.
"Alexander Waverly, please. This is
Dr. Pierce calling"
"Benjamin, how are you?" came the voice
over the phone.
"Finest kind, Alex, Finest kind."
Mr. Waverly grunted. "So what's wrong with
my top agent?"
"Not a thing."
"Not a thing? The man died!!"
"So I hear, I checked him out from top to
bottom. EKG, everything, there is nothing wrong. The only
thing I can figure is, it's psychosomatic. Should come in handy in his
line of work."
"Hmmph, Benjamin,
is it going to be a problem?"
"Not really, just keep that little blond
guy near him and he'll be fine."
"How can I thank you, Benjamin?"
"Think nothing of it. Wait until you
get my bill." A spark of evilness lighted his eyes.
Setting the phone back on its cradle, Dr.
Pierce leaned back in his chair and propped his feet on his desk. He went
over the talk he had had with the two men right before he made the call.
He smiled as he remembered the twinkle in Solo's eyes when he had given them
the a huge tube of a new lubricant, one that a pharmaceutical representative
had left with him, nor the blush that had come over Kuryakin when he had warned
them about the necessity of not letting too much time pass between
encounters. He'd gotten a smirk out of Solo with that. He supposed
he could have explained it all to Alexander, but really he didn't have a need
to know, patient confidentiality and all. Plus they did make a cute
couple.
The End
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