LAST WORDS

by

gm

---

spring 1968

"Don't have long."

Gazing into the pain-filled eyes of the man in the hospital bed, Napoleon Solo tried to keep his voice level, his expression impartial, detached. The last thing the dying patient needed was to see how heart-wrenching this was, to drown these last moments in emotional quicksand.

Gravely nodding his head, the senior agent responded gently. "I know." He licked his lips, finding it difficult to form the requisite words demanded by duty. "I need to know what happened. Did you get the microdot?"

Even as he made the inquire he hated himself for the necessity. As leader of Section Two, one of his responsibilities was to assure success of any field operation. Was the secret data stolen from THRUSH intact? Had the critical injury of one agent, the fatal damage to this agent all been worth it? In the constantly shifting scrambling of good Vs evil/spy Vs spy were the good guys going to win this skirmish? To this loyal operative it wouldn't matter if this engagement fell to UNCLE's favor or not. For the bloody, torn agent on the bed, the battles, the wars, were over.

"Last words . . ." he choked out and held out his hand.

This moment materialized into a tangible, terrible fear Solo lived with daily. The final agonizing, gasping breaths of an agent's life. Last words. What good were they now? Each person, when staring down death, would meet this moment individually. Most people prized those last seconds -- clinging vainly to life -- struggling to deliver one concluding message, some sentimental piece of themselves to be remembered by those they loved.

Stomach lurching with dread, Solo carefully placed a hand on the man's torn arm. Gritting his teeth, he persisted, hating himself for his cruelty and pitiless professionalism. "I need to know about the microdot."

"Safe -- tell Sally -- stay safe." He painfully gulped a tattered breath into damaged lungs. " -- stay safe."

Ill with revulsion, Solo tightened his hold on the suffering man. "The microdot, Tom. Where is the microdot?"

"Keep -- ring -- affection -- she -- was -- best -- best . . . . "

The lifeless head of Section Two operative Thomas Galley rolled gently to the side of the pillow. The feeble hand within Solo's grasp flopped onto the bed sheet. Taking a deep breath, Solo backed away, grimacing at the sight of the deceased agent. There were some days he hated his career. Some moments that he loathed what he did and said in the name of a nebulous and indefinable greater good.

Even as he stood here at the side of a now-lost colleague he had known for years, his mind was on his own focus, on his own partner who was, at last accounting, far away. Illya was safe in Puerto Rico finishing up on a boring assignment they had concluded yesterday. Waverly had deemed the sweep up details would only require one partner, so Napoleon had returned. He wished he could have stayed and avoided this.

Some abstract, altruistic portion of his conscience should feel guilty about his lack of respect for the dead. Or his twisted compassion that twinged in sorrow for the departed and his close intimates, but was relieved it was not his mangled partner here in the hospital room.

Tom and his partner, Sally Chung, had waylaid a THRUSH courier and stolen vital codes belonging to their enemies. If HQ could decipher the data within the next few hours UNCLE would be able to smash key adversary installations and make incredible inroads to destroying the evil organization.

Such were the schemes that dictated their fates, he sighed as he stepped over toward the door, casting one last look at a man he had worked with for years. A loyal operative who had given his best for the cause. For what?

Tom was dead. His partner Sally was badly wounded. And where was the precious microdot that had been so important? Pushing away the regret, the sorrow, and even the relief, he resolutely turned away and strode from the scene of death. Sally Chung was just down the hall and after a short debate with the duty nurse he was allowed to see her.

Barely awake, the young, petite woman from Hong Kong gave him a meager wave when he entered. A talented break-in artist, she had a sterling career in UNCLE. Until tonight. When THRUSH bullets ripped through both her legs. She might not walk again. Certainly she would be out of field duty. Better than the way her partner ended up, he reminded. Still, he shuddered just thinking about what he would do if Illya were ever this badly wounded. His own partner a cripple? It would destroy them both. And if it ever happened to him? He'd just have Illya shoot him, he decided glumly, gazing down at the pale form on the bed. Sally's eyes were dull from medication, but she tried to sit up to speak. Solo held down her shoulder and shook his head.

"Sally, I just need a minute. I need to know about the microdot."

"Tom," she muttered thickly. Her hand waved toward him. "Hurt."

Solo nodded. "Sally, we're working on a time limit here. The microdot."

"Ring. Gave me the ring as a present." She dropped her hand on the side of the bed. "How is he?" A deep breath nearly shook her. "Tell him -- he's everything to me -- he has to stay alive."

He looked at the jewelry she waved in front of him and was reminded of the last words of Galley. A present for his partner. Tom and Sally were tight. Like most partnerships in the field they were extremely close. Best friends. He swallowed the tight catch in his throat. For smart people they were all insanely foolish. Such friendships only brought sorrow in the end.

Gently he took hold of her hand and touched the pretty emerald-studded band. "Sally. The microdot."

"Safe." She shook her head in a vain attempt at clarifying her thoughts. "Put it in the ring." Her hand weakly fluttered. "How's Tom?"

Carefully removing the ring from her hand, Napoleon held onto her fingers in a tender clasp of support. She deserved to know, but he loathed being the one to deliver the devastating news. He always projected what it would be like to be on the receiving end of such sorrow. The somber comparison helped add compassion to his tone. "I'm sorry, Sally. He's dead."

"No," she denied instantly, straining to lean up. "No, he can't be." She fell back, shaking her head against the pillow. Tears started to seep from the corners of her eyes. "No. He can't be." Blindly she swung at him, landing a debilitated blow to his arm. "No," she dissolved into quiet, coughing sobs.

"I'm sorry."

She pressed the pillow over her eyes. "He taught me everything." She gasped for control. "He's my partner." The weeping began again. "I loved him more than my own brothers. We didn't even say good-bye."

Briefly he touched loose strands of hair and pulled them back behind her ear. This wasn't the right time for this, he thought, but he had to do something to ease the stark torment. "He had some last words."

The crying gradually subsided and she fumbled to move the pillow aside to blearily look at him. "What did he say?"

In the urgency of the moment he had failed to memorize everything Galley had said. Napoleon had dismissed the incoherent muttering as painful rambling and sentimental intimacies. Now, seeing how desperate she was to know this final message, he felt like an intruder on achingly private and personal details.

"He wanted you to know how much he cared for you. And to always stay safe." He moved closer to the light and looked on the inside of the ring. There was a dark patch there secured by a tiny piece of tape. He removed his own ring -- given to him by his partner -- and placed the microdot under the iolite stone. Then he slipped her emerald ring back onto her finger. "And when you see this ring, you'll remember he thought you were the best partner he ever had."

Releasing his hold, he reached out to touch her, offer more comfort, but decided against it. Staring away into space, tears streaming from her eyes, she no longer knew he was there. And what could he say? He had just caused her indescribable pain and altered her life. And most important of all, of course, he had the precious microdot in his possession, he concluded bitterly. Replacing his ring he turned and briskly left.

***

Only one thing would make this experience more miserable, Solo thought as he glided sideways through cluttered crowds rushing through the concourse of New York's airport. Only Christmas holidays would make this more hectic. As he dexterously avoided being impaled by a woman's umbrella, he sidestepped then hurried on his way toward the arrivals gate for flights from Puerto Rico.

Impulse had brought him out of the cozy headquarters building and onto this fool's errand at Two AM. The decoding operation had finished hours ago. Information had been passed on to the appropriate offices in Denver and Reno and agents there would handle the field operations of destroying the THRUSH satraps left defenseless because of the intercepted microdot. It had cost the life of one good agent, and the field career of another, but UNCLE had won the victory. He wondered at the hollow feeling that was left inside.

Traffic had been horrible even though most people were in their beds right now. Snow flurries had jammed the streets with fender benders and slow moving vehicles. He had left the office with too little time to spare, but on the other hand flights were backed up because of the terrible weather and that would pretty well equal out this mad dash to the airport.

Breathless, he arrived at the appropriate gate just as the doors to the walkway were opening. He waited away from the main crush of greeters until he spotted a familiar blond weaving his way through the public masses.

Once onto the main aisle, Illya Kuryakin came to a complete stop when he spotted his partner. At first he frowned, then smirked, then ambled over to join the smiling American.

"How nice. A greeting committee." He handed over a carry on. "You may take the luggage. The limousine is at the curb?"

Solo chuckled and accepted the bag. "After you."

They fell into step side by side until the crowd became too thick, then Solo trailed after the slighter man. When they reached the doors of the airport the traffic was barely crawling. Disgusted, Napoleon asked if his friend had eaten yet.

"The tray of edibles they gave me on the plane could hardly be defined as food. Shall we?"

"Sure."

They reversed course and slipped into the first bar. They ordered burgers, fries and drinks and found a window seat where they could watch the planes vie for position in the cascading snow.

"You did a good job on smoothing the feathers of that sugar cane mogul," Napoleon conversed as they waited for their food. He pushed his beer glass around, making designs of the wet circles on the table. "Another feather in your cap."

"A trifle," Illya assured, suspiciously studying his friend. The food came and Solo was intent on plying his burger with ketchup, mustard and vegetables. "To what do I owe this preferential treatment?" he wondered casually as he made an ordeal out of smothering his fries with condiments.

Taking a long drink on his beer, Napoleon shrugged. "Why not?"

Around a mouth full of food Illya countered, "As if you have nothing better to do." His eyes narrowed. "For a professional you are an appalling liar, my friend."

Solo played with his fries, dipping them in a muddy mixture of condiments, picking at the burger with a distinct lack of enthusiasm. "Thanks."

While munching his burger he snatched one of Solo's soppy fries. "I know you too well, Napoleon. Care for the truth this time?"

Offering a peevish expression, he replied grimly, "Just a bad night."

As if this was news, Kuryakin nodded and conversationally accused, "Again, your pathetic attempt at subterfuge fails." More thefts of fries did not elicit a response from his friend. Into his glare he pushed his intent warning, though his tone was level. "Tell me what has happened while I was away."

Accustomed to his partner's droll delivery of commentary, Solo poignantly grinned at his companion. "Nice to have you back, tovarich."

He sobered quickly, remembering the reasons he had fled from comfort and warmth to drive through the storm seeking another kind of solace. Now that he was sitting across from his friend the desperation had eased. Why it was so important to be with his trusted comrade tonight? Obviously, because he needed tangible confirmation that he would not be part of any more tragedy tonight. That while others had suffered and been decimated, his universe was still intact.

"Thank you. Now tell me what is wrong."

"It's been a rough night. We lost Tom Galley."

Kuryakin swallowed the food in his mouth and took a long gulp of beer. "I am sorry to hear that. He was a good agent."

Gazing out the window at the cascading snow, Solo merely nodded.

"And Sally?"

"Wounded. Crippled. Her career is through." He shook his head. "Her world."

The loss of fellow agents was always trying, but this news brought a cold wash of misery sweeping through Illya's insides. It was the whipping, wounded delivery of the words, the suffering apparent in every muscle of Solo's taut form that made the calamity hit him with numbing force. This had deeply affected his friend.

Compassion warmed the tone when Illya responded quietly, "This is the worst part of your responsibility as leader of Section Two."

"What, watching colleagues die? Being a good agent and making sure we complete our missions and finish our jobs? Make sure we won the battle despite the casualties?"

Kuryakin chose his next words carefully. The caustic derision obviously relayed Solo's emotional wounds from the evening. They were not that close to the other UNCLE team, so why was the American taking this loss so personally? Was there a particularly gruesome death for Tom? Had Napoleon been involved? Relief swept over his anxiety and he didn't feel a trace of guilt for acknowledging that he was so grateful it had been some other agent who died tonight and not the man sitting across from him.

Rubbing at the dark stubble on his weary face, Solo glanced fleetingly at his friend, enough to reveal shaded haunts in the brown eyes. "Don't feel too bad. The good guys came away with the goods. Tom was dying and I -- being the soul of compassion -- was demanding he use his last breaths to tell me where he had hidden the damn microfilm."

"Napoleon --"

"That wasn't enough, of course. I badgered Sally, who was wounded and -- and she had just lost her partner -- and I insisted she tell me about the microdot."

Guilt. Sometimes it could eat away at an agent like acid on the inside. Usually it was not an emotion that plagued either of them. "It is the nature of our job, Napoleon. It is not your fault."

Solo returned his attention to his food, staring at the plate, lethargically munching on the meal. "Sure."

Unable to come up with any other response, Kuryakin let the conversation die. By the time they finished two more beers they agreed the weather and traffic had cleared enough to leave.

After stowing his bag in the small trunk of Solo's Corvette Stingray, Illya studied his friend as they drove toward Manhattan. There was still something the American was holding back. Death and injury were part of their lives. Why was Solo taking it so personally this time?

Vainly he strove for something to say, but could find no words of comfort or wisdom to assuage the guilt his friend was clinging to. When the car pulled into the underground garage of their apartment building Illya hesitated, but Solo was out the door and at the trunk in a flash, avoiding any comment.

***

Snow was falling again out of the dark sky and Napoleon brushed it out of his hair as he preceded his partner to the elevators. Solo silently accompanied the Russian to his apartment, situated one floor below his own. Once inside he dropped the case on the floor and stared at his friend. Impulsively he reached out and ruffled the blond hair -- his own personal, subdued form of affection toward his partner. The regret and anguish of the night had trapped him in silence on their trip from the airport. Restrained by their common code of nondisclosure, he had refused to spill his naked emotions at his friend's feet. Now, after floundering in the memories of suffering, he could not remain speechless.

"If something happens and I'm crippled promise you'll shoot me."

"I'll shoot you before that if you don't stop this morbid obsession."

"Look who's talking about morbid," Solo smirked. "You invented the word." He sighed, on the brink of confession, the shook his head. "This isn't easy."

Overtly taking charge, Kuryakin led Solo to the sofa, pushed him to fall onto the cushions and plopped down next to his friend. "Just try plain English."

Solo took a deep breath. "Tom had last words for Sally." The statement was deep and quiet. "I was so focused on wringing the information out of him I didn't pay any attention." His voice was hoarse and thready and he took a breath to steady the bubbling riot of regrets and hurts. "When my guard slipped and I wasn't thinking of the mission I didn't even see it as Tom there. I thought of what I would feel if it was you there."

"It was not me," Illya countered firmly, holding tightly onto Solo's arm. "I would never be so clumsy as to get myself killed," was his droll assurance.

He couldn't look at his friend, so Napoleon reached over and grasped his partner's wrist. "I'm going to hold you to that promise," he unsteadily breathed.

"As long as you promise the same."

"Of course," he nodded. "There's no time for last words in this business, Illya."

"Perhaps that is best, my friend," was the solemn reply. "Between us, we don't really need any."

Almost smiling at the ironic tone combined with the true statement, Solo nodded. "You're right. But, just in case -- well, if you never get any from me, I hope you know you are the best thing in my life. Always stay safe, please."

He had echoed the messages he had heard earlier from the other agents. Boiled down to last words, what could any person say to someone they loved like a blood relation? How could they condense a life -- past and future -- into a moment, a breath? All he knew was that no words could ever convey the completeness he felt with his friend at his side, nor the emptiness he experienced when it seemed his friend might be lost to him.

Squeezing Illya's shoulder he got to his feet, slipping out the door without a glance exchanged between them. Before Illya had a chance to respond to the ardent catharsis. Hopefully, he pondered as he wearily walked up the stairs to the next floor, Illya would not have anything to say about it later that morning when they met again to drive to work.

These isolated moments of anxiety and doubt were harrowing, but temporary. In the cold light of day they had to function on a cool, reasonable level of constrained feelings. If there ever did come a day when one of them died, they really did not need last words, did they? Illya was right about that. All the messages they needed were already imprinted on each of their hearts, readable with a comment, a glance, a smile, on any given day.

THE END