Part 2

[leethet]

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Boris Golkov phoned in on a secure line.

“Malikov.”

“Dr. Holberg is dead.”

“The formula?”

“We searched his laboratory while he was at the soiree. Nothing.”

“Did UNCLE make contact with him at the party?”

 Boris hesitated. “Yes sir.”

“Then they have the formula.”

“Sir...it was Illya Nickovetch.”

“Kuryakin!” Silence, as Malikov considered. “Yes. I have heard about our Illyusha and his famous partner Napoleon Solo.” His voice changed from speculation to decision. “Abort our previous plan. I have a better one. Or I will.”

“Sir?”

“I’ll get the formula. And Kuryakin too.” Malikov paused again, a gloating pause. “Watch them. I’ll be in touch.”

“Yes sir.”



Buried alive. Blackness all around, pressing against his body, his face, his eyes. Heart and lungs exploding with panic, he groped furiously upward, arms and legs flailing, open mouth trying to suck in air, but blocked.

Almost free of the suffocating darkness – and a hand clamped down on his shoulder. Fresh panic surged in him –

“Illya.”

He woke up, face pressed into the arm of the couch in the lab, arms pinned under his very heavy body. When he lifted his head the blood started pounding in his temples. He groaned and Napoleon turned him over.

“You shouldn’t sleep that way,” Napoleon said.

“It’s the only way I know how,” Illya grumbled as he adjusted his stiff limbs, working himself into a more or less upright position. He slid down on the couch and leaned his head gingerly against the back of it, looking at his partner through barely open eyes.

“Nightmares are the inevitable result of going to sleep after drinking too much Champagne,” Napoleon lectured, but in a mercifully quiet voice.

Illya ventured a Russian curse. Napoleon grinned and left the couch. Illya closed his eyes, orienting himself. He’d at least gotten Dr. Holberg’s data into the computer before deciding to take a break. Some reward for his current headache. He had yet to make a connection between that face and the data chip – other than the obvious.

A cold cloth draped itself blessedly across his forehead. He sighed, sliding a little farther down the couch. “Have I ever told you how much I love you?” he mumbled as the coolness eased his throbbing head. He felt the couch shift as Napoleon sat down beside him.

“Talk is cheap.” He could hear the smile in his partner’s voice. “Drink this.”

Illya shifted the cloth so he could see. Napoleon was holding out a beaker of clear liquid.

“Tail of the dog?” he asked.

“That’s hair of the dog, and no. It’s water. You’re dehydrated. What kind of scientist are you?”

“One who rarely drinks too much.” He took the beaker, scowled at it –  “Where has this been?” – and drained it without waiting for an answer.

“It had the faint scent of bitter almonds, but don’t worry; I wiped it out with my finger,” Napoleon said, taking the beaker back. “Any luck on the chip?”

“Yes. It contains a formula for some sort of gas. I didn’t get any further than that.” He started to get up, but a fresh explosion of pain in his head aborted the mission. Napoleon clucked his tongue.

“It’s time for you to go home.”

“I don’t have my passport.”

Napoleon got up, pulled him, groaning, to his feet, one hand raised to catch the soothing cloth.

“Not where you came from. Home. I’ll drive.”

Illya glared at him. “I have a better idea.”

Napoleon regarded him, one eyebrow raised.

Illya sighed. “You drive.”

“Good plan.”

They drove to Illya’s apartment building (“Can you shift more quietly?”) and took the elevator up. Napoleon unlocked the door while Illya leaned his head on the wall.

Once the door was open Illya sidled past his partner, one hand held up – “I’m fine – “ and made it three steps down the hall before bumping into the wall. Catching himself, he vaguely heard the door close and lock behind him, then strong hands were guiding him along.

“Good thing Mr. Waverly doesn’t know how much you really had to drink tonight. What were you thinking?” Napoleon’s voice held a hint of a chuckle.

“I was thinking – “ About my partner. Illya snapped his mouth shut just in time, closed his eyes against the spinning of his apartment, and let Napoleon carry him along.

His body was plunked down on his bed. His head followed sluggishly a few seconds after, and someone removed his shoes and socks while he reintroduced the two to one another. They shook hands and agreed that the most prudent position right now would be horizontal. Illya flopped back on his bed.

Then groaned as he was pulled upright.

“Come on, tovarish. You’re in a tux. You can’t sleep like that.” Napoleon pulled off his tie, jacket, and shirt. Illya forced his eyes half open, watched Napoleon hang those items up in his closet and return, kneeling in front of him.

“What – “

“Come on. Cooperate, or no bedtime story.” Napoleon unbuttoned and unzipped his trousers, pulling them off while Illya gritted his teeth with the effort of not moving, not blushing, not speaking, not thinking.

He bestirred himself to crawl under the blankets while Napoleon was hanging up his trousers. Casting one arm over his eyes he waited for everything to stop pounding.

When the side of the bed shifted he jumped, arm flying.

“Whoa – “ Napoleon, cloth in one hand, glass in the other, held both out in a warding gesture. “Touchy, aren’t we?” He set the glass at the bedside. “You should have company in your bed a little more often, then it wouldn’t startle you so much.” Napoleon calmly withstood Illya’s glare. “Relax. I’ll be gentle.” He laid the cloth over his partner’s forehead again. “I can’t remember ever seeing you this ... ah ... overindulged. Is there a reason?”

“You,” he groaned – and cursed to himself. He knew that being drunk loosened one’s tongue – but no one had ever said being hungover did the same. Get out of this one, Illya Nickovetch.

“Me?”

Illya pushed the cloth up enough that he could see out from under it. Napoleon was looking at him, bemused. Maybe even a little amused.

“You’re saying I drive you to drink?” he asked, a smile waiting in the wings.

“Constantly,” Illya said, taking refuge in surliness.

Napoleon chuckled. “I don’t know what to say.” He adjusted the blankets, so tenderly that Illya felt deeply ashamed of his nastiness.

“I’m sorry,” he muttered. “I didn’t mean it.”

Napoleon didn’t look at him at first, fiddling with the edge of the blanket. “I think you did,” he said, crossing his hands on his knee and glancing up under his brows at his now very uncomfortable partner. “The only question is what do we do about it?” His expression was serious, calm, difficult for Illya to read in his condition. He thought he detected a warning glint in Napoleon’s eyes. What it warned of, though, he couldn’t tell.

He took a deep breath, spoke carefully. “I apologize for what I said. Thank you for bringing me home. I’ll see you at headquarters in the morning.”

Napoleon planted his hands on either side of Illya and leaned in until his face was less than a foot from his partner’s. Astonished, Illya shrank back into his pillow, thinking for one dumbfounding moment Napoleon was going to kiss him.

“Are you sure you don’t want to discuss this?” Napoleon asked, voice a mulled whisper, bourbon-colored eyes searching Illya’s face.

Illya swallowed. He could smell – he could taste – his partner’s scent, clean, masculine, faintly musky. His gaze shifted to Napoleon’s mouth and he yanked it back up, panicked, feeling his face heat.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said, forcing conviction into his tone. His heart was fluttering in his throat.

Napoleon smiled a little and withdrew. “All right, then.” He touched his partner’s cheek lightly. “Sleep well. I’ll see you tomorrow.”



Illya breathed a sigh of relief as he got out of headquarters once again without Napoleon seeing him. Guilt stabbed at him, though, as he drove home. Three days of avoiding his partner – he had to admit it was getting ridiculous.

What are you afraid of? That he’ll give you a hard time about being drunk? About having to tuck you in?  Neither situation was a novelty – and he’d seen Napoleon three sheets to the wind, and had to tuck him in himself, more than once. What made this time so different, so troubling that you’re afraid to meet his eyes, afraid of what you might see there?

Or what you might not?

Illya cursed out loud. This was ridiculous. If he had made a fool of himself, it was in front of the only person in the world before whom he was willing to do so.

“I didn’t do anything!” he snarled. No. You were only damn near in his arms, drunk, and blushing like a virgin. Napoleon’s not blind or stupid. You think he didn’t notice? That’s why you’re embarrassed to face him. You don’t know what he’s going to do about it, what he might make of it – something or nothing – and you don’t know which you would prefer.

He cursed again. He wanted to ignore it, pretend it had never happened. What was the likelihood of Napoleon forgetting about it?

Illya snorted. Zero, as long as you keep avoiding him. That makes it an even bigger issue. He’s not going to just let it lie after you’ve hidden from him for three days.

Illya resolved at that point to talk to Napoleon about it as soon as possible. In the office – outside he would feel too vulnerable.

And what are you going to say to him, Illya Nickovetch? That you were too drunk to know what you were doing? That you were delirious? That you forgot it was him?

Or are you going to tell him the truth?

Illya shook his head, tightening his grip on the steering wheel. It went against his grain to lie to Napoleon. That, really, was the crux of the matter. He’d rather stay silent than lie, but he didn’t have that option.

Illya continued cursing under his breath, in various tongues, all the way home. He found it made him feel marginally better. He trusted Napoleon utterly, but he couldn’t trust him with this particular truth. It would endanger everything that mattered to him, in a way that couldn’t be fought with guns or fists.

“I was drunk,” he said. “Too drunk to know what I was doing.” He repeated it to himself as he climbed the stairs. It was near enough to the truth that he thought he could say it semi-convincingly. At least convincingly enough that Napoleon might, for reasons of his own, let it lie.

There was a note halfway under his door; thinking it might be from Napoleon he picked it up nervously. It wasn’t from his partner. He read it twice, stared at the signature for half a minute, and turned around to return to headquarters, the little scene with Napoleon shoved conveniently to the back of his mind.



Napoleon pushed aside the autopsy report on Dr. Holberg and sat back in his chair, rubbing his eyes. Nothing he hadn’t seen a thousand times before, but it never failed to depress him.

He glanced at the clock. 7. What he needed was a dark, quiet pub and a good glass of scotch, congenial companionship ... but not, he realized, of the female kind.

He looked across the room at his partner’s desk. It had been empty of his partner for the last three days. He knew Illya was working on Substance XX, overseeing the lab techs on deciphering the formula for some sort of gas. But he also knew that the lab techs were perfectly competent and didn’t need to be overseen. And he knew, as part of the sixth sense he and his partner shared, that Illya was avoiding him.

Maybe he’d gone too far the other night in pushing the advantage Illya’s overindulgence had given him. He didn’t regret pushing. It was part of his longterm strategy of knocking down the walls Illya had built around himself; Napoleon respected his partner’s private nature, but the glimpses he’d been granted of the riches behind those walls had long ago provided him the incentive to continue his careful assault.

That incentive had sure as hell gotten a boost the other night, Napoleon thought, smiling to himself. Illya’d been as much as in his arms, they’d been within a breath of kissing, and there was no misunderstanding the electricity between them. Napoleon himself had gone home with a hard-on to deal with and some thinking to do, and if Illya hadn’t been feeling something similar, Napoleon vowed he’d throw away his merit badge for sex.

But Illya had backed off, chosen not to cross that last line. For whatever reason, if he had genuinely disturbed his legendarily touchy partner, Napoleon wanted to know it; he’d gladly apologize.

Perhaps he should stop by Illya’s tonight, apologize, get things back on an even keel. Wait for another chance. Napoleon grinned, remembering how close he’d been to tasting that tempting mouth.

The door opened and Illya came in, stopped in apparent surprise to see Napoleon, then continued to his desk.

“I thought you’d gone home,” Napoleon said.

“I forgot something.” He opened a desk drawer, bent, peered in, pulled something out, shoved it into his pocket and stood straight again.

“Done for the day?” Napoleon asked. Illya nodded.

“Me too. Want to head over to Pellini’s for dinner?”

Illya paused, awkward, clearly distracted. “No. Thank you, Napoleon. Not tonight.”  He shoved his hands into his pockets.

“Got a date?” Napoleon asked, smiling over his disappointment

Headed for the door, Illya stopped, gave his partner a sidelong look. “Uh ... no.”

Napoleon got up, came around his desk. “What’s the matter?”

The expression on Illya’s face shouted caught but he said, “Nothing.”

Napoleon laid gentle hold of his arm. “You sure?” Meaning, of course, not are you sure nothing’s wrong, but are you sure you don’t want to tell me.

Illya looked down at Napoleon’s hand on his arm, raised his eyes – intense but unfathomable – to touch Napoleon’s briefly.

“What’s the problem?”

Illya looked away, voice dismissive. “It’s ... personal.”

Napoleon hesitated, torn between his natural desire to ask – to help – and knowledge of how hostile Illya could get when pressed, especially right now.

Illya drew his arm free. “I have to go.”

“Ill–”

The door opened and closed.

“–ya...” Napoleon stared at the door for a moment, irritation, curiosity and concern jostling in his mind.

His intercom buzzed. Eyes still on the door he backed over to his desk, hit the button. “Solo.”

“Mr. Solo. Would you come to my office immediately please.” Though grammatically a request, the words – like all Mr. Waverly’s words – were in fact an order.

Napoleon shut off the intercom. When he entered the corridor Illya was long gone.



Mr. Waverly’s expression was troubled. Napoleon stood behind the chair in which he usually sat and waited an unusually long time for his boss to speak.

“I see Mr. Kuryakin has left for the evening,” he said. “Again.”

Puzzled, Napoleon said, “Yes sir.” Something occurred to him. “Is he on an assignment?”

Mr. Waverly looked up in surprise. “He didn’t tell you?”

“He didn’t say anything to me, sir. What’s going on?”

“Sit down, Mr. Solo.” Mr. Waverly began his ritual pipe-filling. Napoleon, knowing the order to sit wasn’t one that had to be obeyed, said:

“Please, sir. What’s going on?”

His superior sighed, looked Napoleon up and down.

“Mr. Solo ... I have reason to believe a conversation will be held in ...” he glanced at his watch. “In one hour and 20 minutes, at a pub called the White Dog.”

Still puzzled, Napoleon glanced at his own watch. “Eight thirty at the White Dog.”

“Yes. Mr. Kuryakin received a note asking him to meet someone there. It would behoove us to know what is said during that conversation. Discreetly, of course.”

“Of course.”

“Is there someone you might send ...?”

“I’ll go,” Napoleon said, finally getting at least the gist – obviously he wasn’t going to be getting any details.

Again Waverly looked him up and down, measuring Napoleon knew not what.

“Yes, well, I might have expected it.” Again Waverly scowled down at his pipe. Napoleon waited, holding the back of the chair.

“Very well,” Mr. Waverly said. “Go ahead. And, Mr. Solo ...”

The door slid shut and Mr. Waverly found himself talking to an empty chair with deep finger indentations in its back.