EPILOG:

THE CONCRETE OVERCOAT AFFAIR

Summary:

SPOILER ALERT

Two-part episode. Napoleon and Illya get involved with stopping a THRUSH super-weapon located on a Caribbean island. Along the way, they are mixed up with old gangsters, a shotgun wedding and a blond torturer who has set her sights on Illya. Napoleon is nearly fired for wanting to go rescue his partner. Illya thinks Napoleon has been killed by the THRUSH weapon.

PARTNERSHIP AGREEMENT

November 1966

Saving the world took a lot out of him, Napoleon Solo sighed as he surveyed the fellow passengers with half-open eyes. Most of the others were asleep on the luxury private jet Waverly sent for everyone. Well, they had all contributed in the heroics. They deserved it. Pia and her uncles, the Stilletto brothers, were sleeping on the rear couches. He and Illya were trying to catnap in the comfortable seats in the starboard conversation area.

Rubbing his temples, vainly trying to expunge the ringing and aching from his throbbing headache, Napoleon Solo sighed again. The sound alerted his friend, who was dozing in the next seat. In Illya’s silent look of inquiry, he stopped the massage and offered a weak, shallow smile.

“THRUSH had a real winner this time,” he obliquely commented, trying to make a joke out of the effective weapon that had nearly blown him apart.

Giant tuning forks in the Caribbean. Laughable, except when pointed in his direction. He would have been as shattered as his boat if he hadn’t jumped overboard just in time. The reckless approach to the island had been insane. He had gone there in a helter-skelter, impulsive, plan-less attempt to save Illya. Instead, he and his boat were zapped by the sonic wave. Fortunately, he hitched a ride to THRUSH’s island with the Stilletto brothers. Then went in search of his partner.

When he found Illya they wrestled -- holding guns on each other -- thinking the other was a THRUSH guard. It had been a moment of profound relief when he realized his friend was alive and in one piece. It was almost comical -- he had been so upset about the life-threatening danger to Illya. Then to literally run into him, wrestle and almost punch each other -- it would have been funny under other circumstances. As it was, there had been no time for comment or much more than a terse apology. Then it was on to saving the world again.

Through the ordeal to take control of the island, Solo learned Illya had been tortured. That was difficult to deal with. Illya had been chained up and zapped with an electric prod -- he cringed just thinking about it. The visible abrasions on the Russian’s wrists left Solo angry, helpless and disturbed. He didn’t ask about the unseen injuries.

“Still feeling the effects from the weapon?”

There was little he could hide from Illya, so he didn’t try. “Yeah. How’re you? Hanging around with the wrong crowd can be very unhealthy.”

Grimacing at the bad pun, Kuryakin responded, “You know the routine.” He rubbed at his shoulders.

He had been incredibly distressed when he learned of the plan to obliterate the island with Illya still on it. Distressed! That was an understatement. The thought of his friend being left on the island while bombers came in to destroy it had been completely unacceptable. What if Waverly had not -- sort of -- sanctioned the rescue? Would he have defied orders and gone after Illya anyway? He would never know. This time. If the time came again to choose between partner and UNCLE, which would he pick? At this moment, he knew the answer. He dreaded the day the theory would be put into practical application. It would very well mean the end of his career. As long as it didn’t mean the end of Kuryakin, he could live with that. After fearing Illya would be killed, finally rescuing him, Napoleon was not so flippant as usual. Illya had really taken some lumps this time. It was getting more and more difficult to handle the torture and pain that his friend went through too much.

“Try not to get so beat up next time.”

Tired, battered, rubbing stiff shoulders, Illya wearily nodded. “Try not to get yourself blown up any more.”

“Da,” Napoleon nodded.

Slowly Solo stood and stretched, moving around behind his partner. Gently, without too much pressure on the sensitive muscles, he massaged the thin shoulders. He could feel Illya relax under the familiar ministrations. They went through a lot as a field team. In most instances, the aftermath was just them -- no one else to help patch up the injuries. No one to talk to or commiserate with. Part of the healing -- and part of the bond they had developed that was so strong and enduring -- was from this necessary healing time, when they had only each other to literally lean on and turn to for aid, reassurance, or solace.

“Have I told you how indispensable you are?”

Smiling, Napoleon knew it was the depth of aching forcing Illya to confess something so intimate. Illya never admitted to needing anyone or anything. Well, almost never. He knew his friend was close to hitting bottom when the compliments flew his way. After all, succor and comfort were necessarily and frequently given, but they just didn’t go to the formality of thanking each other. Saving each other’s lives was expected.

“All part of the partnership agreement.”

Closing his eyes, relaxed and calm, Illya’s tone was light. “You didn’t invite me to the wedding. For the second time. Really, Napoleon, I thought that was part of the partnership agreement as well. Partners must be invited to all shotgun weddings. ”

“How --”

“Pia and I spend meaningful time together in a cell.”

“Oh.” Napoleon smirked and stopped the massage. “How meaningful? Should I be measured for a tux to serve as your best man?”

“Not that meaningful. I am not the victim of shotgun weddings. Please continue.”

Napoleon rubbed the left shoulder. “Well, you weren’t there to perform another brilliant rescue like the first time.” Illya winced, so he eased off, moving to a different spot. “So, yes, I was nearly a doomed man.” He lowered his voice to a low whisper and leaned close. “I didn’t want to be there myself. Pia’s a nice girl and everything, but, well, you know. I’m not the marrying type. But if it ever happens again, I’ll be sure you’re there as the best man.” He shifted the kneading to Illya’s right shoulder. “By the way, that blond quite liked you. Breaking hearts wherever you go, as usual.”

“Miss Diketon. I make it a point never to date women who torture me.”

“Good policy.”

After a few moments of silence, the Russian quietly commented, “Thank you, Napoleon.”

“For my sage advice? Anytime.”

The Russians’ tone was serious this time, loosing all flippancy. “I mean it.” He turned to stare at him. “Thank you.”

“For this? Part of the pact, remember?”

“Not just for this. Although, this is good.” He hesitated, seemed to think it over, then continued. “For not dying.”

“Ah.” It had been a grave time for both of them. He knew Illya thought he had died, but learned no particulars. Sometimes he got the details on these painful experiences. Sometimes Illya kept the bad memories to himself. More and more, though, Kuryakin opened up to him. Shared the fears and the dread and the worst moments. In turn, Napoleon shared them with his friend most times, as well. Mostly.

Sitting on the arm of the chair, he sternly confessed, “It was a nasty business. I was pretty worried about you.”

Again, Illya took a moment to ponder. “When the operation proceeded, I knew something had gone wrong,” he responded somberly. “After the incident with the boat I -- I wasn’t sure – to hope . . . . ”

“Temporary unconsciousness. I’m okay. Just another close call.”

“Too close.” His expression darkened, his voice cracked. “I saw the boat blow up, you know.”

“I didn’t, no.”

“You came to rescue me before the bombers arrived.” His tone was sincere. “Thank you. But you should not have been so foolish.”

Napoleon winked. “Ah, check the fine print, partner. I AM in charge of all foolish heroics. You’re supposed to be the mysteriously stoic Russian. I’m the impulsive and dashing American.”

Kuryakin’s sober expression did not change. “I’m glad they didn’t kill you.”

Solo paused, patting his friend’s shoulders. Squeezing them tight, he stood again and continued the massage. The near misses were the worst. Somehow, they endured the torture and the threats and the wounds with a bizarre level of equanimity and trained toughness. But, the times when it really looked like the other might be dead -- those were the times he was coming to hate more than anything else. The not knowing. The hoping that facts and perceptions and even reports were wrong. That was worse than the hopelessness and the fight against seemingly impossible odds.

“Me, too. And I’m glad you weren’t permanently damaged. I’m used to having you around.”

“Mutual,” Illya tersely agreed.

“And, I wanted to get Pia out, too,” he rationalized with a shrug.

Illya’s caustic snort was a curt response to the thin lie.

Rescue had been no doubt, no option. He would have defied Waverly if the old man wouldn’t have relented. Between New York and the island he had a lot of time to ponder the situation. He would have gone in to save Illya no matter what.

Subdued, he patted his friend’s shoulders again. “I wasn’t going to let you die.” He leaned his elbows on the back of the seat. “Another clause in the partnership agreement.”

Matching the sudden honesty, Illya turned around and stared at him for a sobering moment. “Don’t die trying to save me.”

Irritated at the turn of conversation, at the grave tone of do-or-die sacrifice, Solo moved around and slumped into the seat beside his friend. There was no way to respond to that, really. He felt the same way. If he mentioned such melodramatic confessions, they would argue about it and he found that too ludicrous to contemplate.

“Well, I won’t die trying to save you then,” he assured earnestly, holding a hand to his heart. Then he smiled to dispel the grim direction of the conversation. “Another stipulation in the partnership clause. All close calls must be successful.”

The blue eyes were severe. “I count on you to always fulfill your part of the partnership.”

“It’s a two way agreement, you know,” he confessed, his voice intoned with intensity. He hoped his expression and voice relayed the importance, the double-meaning behind the shallow words. “I take my partnership obligations as serious as you do.”

Nodding, Illya’s eyes, subtle and suddenly so readable, conveyed the comprehension and confirmation. “Yes.” His lips twitched in the hint of a smirk. “Then it is settled.” He closed his eyes and settled comfortably against the plush cushion.

Matching the cavalier tone, Solo settled back and watched his partner for a time. The serious-turned-facetious conversation covered a depth of issues they would not openly discuss, but were nonetheless understood completely.

What did they think they were doing? Moving into dangerous territory with this incredible partnership-turned-friendship that seemingly knew no bounds. How far would they go to save each other’s lives? He didn’t want to find out. He knew now, however, that regardless of Waverly, or UNCLE, or the rest of the world, the partnership had become the priority in both their lives.

THE END