M e l t d o w n
by
gm
A scene snatched from one of his worst nightmares. All too frequently, this spectre haunted
him. Sometimes, in the harsh and solid reality
of Life, the dreaded vision came true.
No mistaking this was real. The
thin line of sweat trickling down the side of his neck, down to his collar,
coursing a hot line on his cool skin attested to a visceral connection to
veracity. The icy temperature
of the room; his body, his hot, short breaths counterpoint to his no longer
cool and remote nerves. Intellectually,
Napoleon Solo knew he should look away.
The detachment could only come if he pretended this wasn’t
happening. Not as a point of courage,
but as a necessity of what he felt and feared inside did he keep his eyes fixed
on the huddled, dark-clad figure leaning over a large industrial sink.
The blond hair was matted and flat, pressed to Illya Kuryakin’s skull
from cold water dripping off the Russian agent. The black turtleneck
sweater/shirt ripped and bloodied was soppy and clinging to the thin figure,
accentuating his slight form. There
would be no miraculous rescue due to clever gadgets. Searched, brutally and thoroughly, neither agent
had any cunning devices left. No
communicators, no weapons. Only their
wits and fortitude would save them now.
Solo held his breath as his partner gasped for air; Illya’s lungs
begging for a respite from the erratic fight for air and the stress of being
robbed of vital oxygen. Every few
moments the sadistic guards would raise the agent from the sink – giving him
almost enough time to fill his lungs, then they
plunged him again into the ice water, shocking his system and keeping his lungs
starved.
As much as he wanted to, Solo could not give in. He would, if possible, but he could not. Giving away the information would not only be
a betrayal of his mission and code, it would get them killed anyway. This evil captor would make them suffer no
matter what. No sense in ruining a
courier’s day, too. If the games
escalated any more, though, he would have to do something -- stall, lie, maybe
even give in. Better to save Illya’s
life and foil a mission -- even better to let someone else die -- than lose
Kuryakin to this kind of macabre senselessness.
Again, the blond head was brought out of the water. Sanchez, an over-weight, nut-brown man with a
drooping mustache and evil eyes glared at him with an amused expression. He enjoyed the brutality too much. If, for no other reason, Napoleon wanted to
stop the torment to spoil this man’s brutal games There was, however, a more important
incentive to make the maniacal torturer stop.
This was destroying Illya a gasp at a time. Much more and the Russian would die.
Inwardly flinching, holding his own breath until Kuryakin gulped in some
air, Solo was outwardly aloof. They had endured torture in turns: first they
were chilled – put on ice literally – when stored in a holding vault at this
little ice company in southern
“I know we are running out of time, Mr. Solo. The courier from
To accentuate the threat, Sanchez pulled an ice pick from one of the
wood beams. It was a long, thin stiletto
of a blade. Desiring to save both of
them from more excruciating agony, Napoleon wanted to give in. When Sanchez approached, then stopped mid-way
between the agents, he dishearteningly realized the thug might have just found
his limit. Depending on which direction
the ice pick turned.
It was his rotation for torture, and though the prospects were decidedly
unpleasant, he could handle more damage.
His fingers were already numb – past the throbbing pain – now swollen
and something he could ignore as long as he didn’t move his hand. So far, the afflictions had been low-grade
and amateurish. Hasty and clumsy, albeit smarting. Painful, yes. Life-threatening – not yet. He was afraid that was about to change.
The ice pick pointed toward Kuryakin and Napoleon’s nerves plunged to
sub-zero. This was where things got
tricky. Both of them could handle the
small stuff. If Sanchez was going to do
something to permanently maim his partner he would have to put a stop to it. For the hundredth time he tested the ropes
binding his wrists and ankles. No hope of getting free. As Sanchez and the ice pick approached the
Russian, Illya struggled with his bonds, frustrated they were fast and secure. Re-evaluation was clicking through Solo’s
mind: how important was the courier mission?
If he gave away a little could he save Illya from serious harm, or even
death? Would he?
Studiously avoiding glancing his way, Kuryakin set his jaw; stubborn,
defiant, stoically bracing to endure more injury. Even though this was an all-too-frequent part
of the job, no one liked agony. They
were paid to endure this – expected to grit their teeth and live past personal
unpleasantness and keep the world safe.
That credo never made these sessions easy. As the ice pick zeroed in on Illya’s face,
Napoleon weighed the abstract questions; duty and devotion to ideals,
expectations as the Chief Enforcement Officer of
Were any of those abstracts more important than Illya’s unscarred
face? Or his nose? His eyesight? His brain? The possibilities of the ice pick and Illya’s
future were rapidly narrowing to a decreasing point of no return. When the tip of the pointed steel slid up the
jaw line, leaving a red, dripping incision, and reached the top of the pale
cheek, Solo had enough.
“Stop.”
“No!”
The rebellious counter-order from the Russian was ignored. Sanchez kept the ice pick pressed on Illya’s
face. Blood streamed from the small, but
ever-deepening wound.
“Mr. Solo, I will ask this only once.
An incorrect answer will result in Mr. Kuryakin losing his left eye.”
Angry, Illya muttered another negative through clenched teeth.
“A spy with one eye, or no eyes, is a liability, don’t you think?” The ice pick moved laterally, across the
cheek, drawing a red line to the outer edge of the left eye. “Once the weapon is in the eye, perhaps I
will just push it through to the brain.”
Sanchez laughed. “That would be
too quick, I fear. Better to pop out the
eye and allow Mr. Kuryakin to bleed to death while you decide what to tell me,
Mr. Solo.”
The steel tip edged closer, touching the eyelashes.
“Stop!”
Sanchez stared at him, silently waiting, still pressing the blade
against the face.
“Let Kuryakin go and I’ll tell you.”
“No!” Illya shouted, flinching as the movement
increased the pain.
Sanchez smiled; cold, mirthless, evil. “Releasing Mr. Kuryakin alive would prove
dangerous, I think.”
“If you’re going to kill us then the deal is off,” Solo flatly commanded, his voice as hard as his expression. “What good would it do to give you the
information if we die anyway? You have
to deal.”
Sanchez snorted in derision and incredulity. “Deal? You are the ones bound and helpless!” he
shouted, momentarily, swinging his weapon toward Solo. Then he menacingly placed it back against
Illya’s face.
The psychological score fuelled Napoleon’s flagging confidence. His opponent was losing a little bit of
emotional ground. That could be used in
their favor. In time
to save his partner? That
remained to be seen.
In a cool and calculated tone, he reasoned, “You release Kuryakin. I’ll take you to the meet. The courier won’t come to anyone but us. Visual sighting. He doesn’t see one of us there’s no deal. He goes to another plan. And we don’t know what that backup
contingency is. So you want the courier,
you release Kuryakin and keep both of us alive.”
Sanchez removed the blade with a nasty swipe, cutting a gash along the
side of Illya’s face. Except for a sharp
intake of breath, the Russian did not react to the sting. He was glaring daggers at his partner while
fighting against the bonds.
Hastily he tried to sabotage the deal.
“The courier will reveal himself only to the two of us,” Illya countered
quickly. “You cannot release me. But you must keep us alive.”
Crossing the room, Sanchez placed the ice pick’s tip at Solo’s throat
and pressed until blood tricked down his neck.
“One or both of you are lying. Or perhaps, neither. I must decide if you are lying out of
desperation to save your own life,” he pressed the blade harder, “or each
other. A subtle
difference, but an important one.”
Solo ignored his partner. He
stared at the slimy villain who had trapped them. Who tried to instill refined culture into the
course and crudely accented voice that demanded he choose between his friend
and his mission. There was no civility here,
not even a veneer of refinement. This
was the rotten underside of their seamy business. Far removed from the
pristine, cold-steel walls and immaculate hallways of UNCLE. Far from the international jet-set life of
country hopping in private jets and sharing cocktails with the famous and
beautiful.
This was the critical crisis he dreaded; where training and ideals
dissolved under the more real, tangible ethics of blood, pain and death. His superior might ask what was Illya’s eye, or even his life compared to keeping the
world in balance for another day, or another decade? Mr. Waverly,
ensconced in his isolated tower of steel and concrete – far away in the
air-conditioned aerie of HQ -- perceived missions differently than field
agents. He would consider the mission of
the utmost importance: Meeting and
protecting a courier who held plans that could foil another Cuban missile
crisis. Safeguard a man who will keep world aggressors at bay so normal,
everyday people would be protected from the threat of another world war. Complete the duty he was expected to, trained
to accomplish. Not give in to the
weakness of sentimentality or pain or the thin belief that somehow there would
always be another chance to save the world.
There might never be another chance to save his partner. If possible, he
would try and get them both out of this and still preserve the mission. If not, his choice had already been made
about what should be spared.
“Just to be on the safe side,” he spoke quietly, trying not to move
much, feeling the sting from the increased pressure of the ice pick, “then you
should take both of us. Once we’re in
the car, we’ll direct you which direction to go.”
Sanchez whipped the tip across his throat and almost in the same
movement slashed his hand back to slug Solo on the face. The blow jarred his damaged ribs and he bit
back a hiss of pain.
“Captured UNCLE agents do not dictate terms to me!” He brought his fist back to strike him again,
reverberating pain through his injured body.
“Your meddling organization of gentlemen spies has interfered enough
with my country! You are the bought dogs
of capitalists!” Again, he struck the
agent a numbing blow.
Hissing through unfeeling lips, Solo drew in a rough, tight breath,
feeling more blood trickle down his nose and chin. This was proving to be an agonizing
encounter. The little wounds were
mounting, the slight injuries adding to the overall weakening and destruction
of the body and mind. At least they were
still alive. As long as there was that,
there was hope.
Spinning around, Sanchez stabbed the ice pick toward Illya. “I think I would trust the Russian more. I can appeal to him on a level you would
never understand, American!”
“I will not cooperate with you,” Kuryakin snarled defiantly. “Unless you free us both.”
The Cuban whipped back, abruptly plunging the ice pick hilt deep into
Solo’s shoulder. He cried out, then bit his lip to keep from any more voluble reaction to
the throbbing ache.
“Mr. Kuryakin, you will make the meet for us. If you follow through with the assignment,
you will live.”
Struggling, Illya fought against the ropes, glaring with a mixture of
anger and sympathetic distress at Solo.
“You need both of us!” he insisted hotly. “I won’t help if you kill him.”
Taking a bucket, Sanchez dipped it into the sink and threw the icy water
on Solo. “We will leave Mr. Solo
here. Alive.” He ordered his two men to release the senior
agent. In Spanish, he issued
commands.
From the corner of his eye, Napoleon saw Illya’s face react – eyes going
wide and filled with dread. “No!”
“Alive, but incapacitated,” Sanchez finished ominously.
Shivering, Napoleon put up little resistance as he was dragged away, his
feet still bound. Every jolt and step
was an echo of agony through his ribcage and chest. Afraid what might be next, he was surprised
when they took him outside. He would
have guessed the deep freeze in the plant.
This wasn’t much better, he decided, when they hit the freezing
temperature of the
Without a word, he was pushed down a slope, tumbling in the snow, plunging
into shallow water. The shock of the
freezing river drove all other injuries from his mind. Floundering, he struggled to get air and
scramble to shore. Hands free, but
trembling so badly he could hardly function, he worked on untying his feet with
numb and shaking hands. Unbelievably
cold, he crawled up a snow bank, tremulous, panting, hardly
caring anymore about anything beyond the thought of a warm blanket. There was, though, one consideration still
haunting him. He looked up, seeing
Sanchez and Kuryakin watching him.
What would be the next act in the vicious little play of life and
death? He was about played out. Illya might have to take the ball from here.
It was unfair to leave the mission in his partner’s hands. So much depended on him
pulling off a miracle. Illya
would be mad at him -- Napoleon had been the one to give in – to make it more
difficult to complete their duty.
Saving the world or saving the partner.
A dilemma they faced constantly.
A test he had failed many times.
He wondered why he was still an agent.
Because when presented with the choice, he always went
with Illya. Almost always, he still managed to save the mission –
mostly. That was what spared him from
being fired. He wondered what he could do now.
The situation seemed pretty bleak.
How was he going to magically salvage this operation?
Inching his way up the hill, he was shivering so much his teeth hurt
from the chatter. Illya was arguing with
Sanchez. Their voices blurred in his
ears. Blackness closed in on his vision.
He could not go on. Dropping his face in
the snow, he was out before he could feel his raw skin touch the frozen ground.
***
Subconscious reckoning
-- the ability to tell where he was on an automatic instinctive level before
waking or opening his eyes. Handy after drugs or injury or when waking up
in a new or strange place: hotel rooms that were always different, cells,
dungeons, etc. He had done this so many
times before. What he assessed now was
the cold. He still felt so cold. Something warm at his back and touching his
arm lent counterpoint heat and security.
Before opening his eyes, he knew who it was -- subtle breathing, or simply
the familiar aura he knew so well -- Illya.
The rest of the senses were relaying other tidbits: they were in a cold
truck. Bumpy ride. For now, they were both still alive.
“You’re awake.”
“Mmmm,” he sighed.
A covering was tucked up over his
shoulder. “Are you all right?”
“Cold.”
“I know.
At least they gave us our coats back.
They are dry.” Illya rubbed the
arm carefully. “I tried to stop the
bleeding, but your shoulder wound is deep.”
Nodding, Solo felt it every time he moved to
the van jolted. The throbbing in his
left hand told him his fingers were still a problem. His ribs ached terribly. Sore, but survivable
injuries. Strangely, they were
not bound. Probably just tossed in the
van and locked up. A
nice advantage. Their captors
must think they were beyond resistance and they were close to being right.
Pressing against him, Illya was trying to
share the warmth. Deeming it acceptable
to open his eyes, Napoleon blinked and looked around. Dark interior showed him little except they
were in a cargo van. Presumably, their
captors were riding up front in heated comfort.
He didn’t see any one guarding them.
“What’s the situation?” He shifted slightly to look at his
friend. Every move was painful and he
made the minor transition slowly. “Is it
okay to talk?”
“Yes.”
Awaking new pains, he made the complete turn
to look his partner in the eye. “How’s
the face?” he flinched. Looking at the
terrible cuts, he felt the guilt weigh heavily on him, like a mass pressing
against his chest. The cuts had stopped
bleeding. Superficial
then, thankfully. “I should have
stopped it sooner.”
“No.
You shouldn’t have stopped at all.
I am expendable.”
Solo tried not to lose his temper. “No.
We’ve had this conversation before.
You’re not expendable.” He
shifted away from the argument to determine how they could salvage the
game. “And buying time got us this far
alive, didn’t it?
Illya grunted in reluctant agreement.
“Where are we going, anyway?”
“We’re on our way to
“
“We are meeting the courier.”
“Not Vegas.”
Smirking, the American winked. “Nice
misdirection. Nice bluff. Too bad we’ll miss the action at the
blackjack table, though.”
“I think there will be enough gambling for
even your blood once we reach our destination.”
So, there it was. Illya had convinced Sanchez to keep them
alive as far as
“How many in the party?”
“Three against two.”
Nodding, Solo reevaluated. It would have to depend on luck. A lot of it. Still, three to two was good odds. In their favor, Kuryakin whispered, the
Cubans thought they were in worse shape than they were. Not wanting to discourage his partner, Solo
didn’t tell him how weak and hurt he felt.
It didn’t matter. They had to get
through this – no choice.
“Thanks.”
“For?”
“Saving me. When I lost consciousness, I thought
that was it. That they would push me
into the river and that would be the end.”
Illya’s eyes darkened and his voice was
flint. “We will discuss this later.”
Glumly, Solo settled back to snuggle into the
coat. He was still freezing. And he knew what was troubling his
friend. “Don’t be mad. I saved your eyesight if not your life.”
“And nearly died
redirecting his attention from me to you.” The Russian’s voice scraped with
emotion. “Don’t ever
do that again.”
“Can’t make that promise, tovarich, you know
that.”
Kuryakin’s head rested on his and the sigh of
irritation breathed warm in his ear. “I
know. But at least try not to get
yourself killed when we escape.”
“I’ll do my best.”
The van stopped and both agents tensed. The
back doors opened to wash the van with pale light. Early morning. Groaning a great deal, Illya indicated his
friend was still unconscious. Two of the
men dragged Solo out by his feet. Sanchez held a gun on Illya and ordered him
out. Crawling, the Russian sidled
out. As Solo’s body reached the edge of
the van, Napoleon kicked out, landing both feet into the thug’s stomachs. Illya lashed out with his feet, connecting
with Sanchez’s face. The UNCLE men
scrambled for the weapons. Solo grabbed
a pistol and turned and fired in one clumsy, but quick movement, killing one
guard. The other man reached a weapon and
the agent shot again, killing the second man.
When he turned, Sanchez was holding a pistol on Illya.
“Again we are at odds, Mr. Solo. You are a dangerously clever man.” The Cuban spy stood close behind Illya,
leaving almost no target area. “Drop
your weapon.”
Solo couldn’t comply. It would mean both their deaths. They had endured horrible torture at
Sanchez’s hands and he would kill Illya with a flinch of the finger. Was Napoleon in good enough shape, though, to
make the shot? He was shaking, his
vision blurred with trickling blood, sweat and pain. If his aim was off by a fractional
measurement he would shoot his partner in the head. If he gave in there would be torture and pain
and death. Did he really have a choice?
Sighing in defeat, he sagged. “All right,” he cried.
Something in his eyes must have alerted the
Russian. He knew Solo would not
surrender. It would mean their deaths if
he did. Just as he was
about to pull the trigger, Illya jolted, Sanchez’s pistol discharging. Illya dropped to the ground, blood splashing
everywhere. Solo fired three shots into
Sanchez’s head, emptying the rest of the pistol into his chest as he ran over. Collapsing to his knees, he crawled to his
friend, crying out in anguish. Kuryakin
was dotted with blood, but still breathing. Solo covered the neck wound with
his hand.
“Illya!”
Kuryakin’s eyes opened and took a moment to
focus. Amazed, he just shook his head,
speechless at the close call. Solo
folded over, exhausted and shaken beyond the ability to do anything, hugging
his friend against his chest, abstractly aware his face was wet with tears. Moments
of critical time passed without the ability to move or act. Finally, it dawned on him Kuryakin was still
bleeding profusely. Solo held onto him,
blood streaming through his fingers. He grabbed ripped pieces of his own torn
shirt and pressed them onto the wound.
Muttering angry remonstrations and pleas for Illya to hold on and not
die, he dragged his friend over to the van, pushed him in, and drove toward the
center of nearby
***
Solo watched
his friend move slowly around the hospital room. Of course, Kuryakin would release himself
from the hospital as soon as possible.
He considered these healing places little more than prisons. Solo agreed.
Unfortunately, they ended up here all too often.
The white bandage at the neck was mostly covered by the loose collar of
the filthy and tattered turtleneck, but still visible. Illya’s face was marked with red stripes –
slashes from the ice pick. Those would
heal, probably without scars, but the lacerations would remain for a while as
reminders of the near miss. Vivid recollection
that he waited too long in implementing a bluff, a ploy, a distraction –
anything to minimize the damage.
“Anxious to leave?”
Kuryakin turned cautiously. He
only assessed his friend with a glance. “As you are.” He took
in Solo’s slinged arm and cast left hand with a
frown.
“More than ready.”
Trudging sluggishly through the corridors of the 24 hour emergency
clinic outside
Waiting for their cab in the early morning cold, Illya looked out at the
mountains on the horizon. “What are our
orders?”
Illya was distant. Knowing, in
this mood, the Russian would be closed off to conversation, Solo went along
with the superficial update. Eventually,
his partner would thaw and they could talk.
Not a dialogue he wanted. Illya
was not happy and he guessed it was over the horrible choice he had been forced
to make.
“Recuperation, thankfully. Cooper was on duty for Section One. He’s sympathetic. Said we
could rest here for a few days before flying back.”
“The courier?”
“There was a back up plan, of course, that Waverly didn’t mention.”
“Of course.”
“The courier was met in Vegas this morning. The world is again safe.”
The taxi arrived and precluded comment on his sarcasm. They went to a hotel where UNCLE had arranged
for a room. When they checked in, they
found a package from the UNCLE office in
Once in the room, Kuryakin picked one of the beds and promptly fell
asleep. Solo wondered if the nurses had
slipped the Russian a painkiller. Illya
was almost instantly snoring. Solo
preferred to clean up first. After a
clumsy shower he crawled into bed as the sun was poking around the edges of the
curtains. Sleep was not immediate. For a long time he lay there staring at the
ceiling, replaying events with Sanchez.
Wondering what he could have done differently. And how he could assure
that such agonizing dilemmas would never be faced again. There was no guarantee for the future. No promises of safety for anyone in their
business. Finally, he slipped into a
light, dreamless doze.
***
Waking to the smell of food, Solo’s stomach gurgled, reminding it had
been a long time since his last meal.
He sat up, blinking back the grey light filtering in from the
window. All cleaned up, casually
dressed, Illya sat at a small table munching food. From the open neck of the polo shirt he could
still see the bandage on the neck. In the
dim light, he clearly distinguished the painful-looking cuts on the face.
“I ordered for you,” Kuryakin supplied, bringing over a covered
plate. “Club sandwich
and fries. Easy
to eat with one hand.” He removed
the cover. “When in doubt –“
“Yes, I know,” he smiled. “Order
a club sandwich, they’re always safe.
Good thinking.”
“First, caffeine and sugar,” Illya insisted, handing his partner a
bottle of Coka-cola.
Taking a long drink, he noted by the empties on the table Illya was on
his third bottle of coke. Solo started
munching on the fries, finding the quartered pieces of thick sandwich to be a
little challenging with one hand. If he
balanced the end of the sandwich with his cast, however, it worked all
right. Illya
looked like he was in a better mood. His
appetite was certainly an indication of improved health – he was on his second
plate of what looked like fries and a fat burrito.
“Trying the local specialties?”
“Their Mexican food is passable.”
He placed the two-handed burrito on the plate and studied his
friend. “I am still unhappy with the way
you handled Sanchez,” he matter-of-factly reported, not wasting any time with
chit-chat. “I concede, however, I could
not think of another option at the spur of the moment.” Taking a long drink from his coke, he held
eye contact for a long moment. “You were
fortunate he didn’t just shoot you instead of insulting you.”
Not really thinking about it before, Solo
wondered the same thing. “Just lucky, I
guess.”
Snorting, Kuryakin clearly disliked that explanation. “You depend far too much on luck, my friend.”
“It’s gotten us this far, hasn’t it?”
“Has it?” Illya’s rhetorical retort had a sting to it. “I think, rather, foolish heroics are what keeps us battered but living.” The expression stern, the blue eyes
stringent, his voice was uncompromising.
“You must not take such risks.”
Being chastised for saving his friend’s life was common. Illya frequently disagreed with his
methods. He, however, did not argue with
success.
“I have no choice,” Napoleon admitted, surprising himself
at the confession that echoed finality.
“You know I’m not going to let you be permanently injured, or die,
because of duty to UNCLE. Missions
succeed and fail every day. I can’t
replace you.”
Philosophically, Illya shook his head, but his eyes, even in the subdued
light, bespoke exasperation. “Decidedly against policy.”
“Yes.”
“One day Waverly will figure this out.
He will end our partnership if it overtly obstructs business.”
“Probably.
Until then, we play the game the best we can with the cards we’re
dealt.”
Dipping a fry in hot sauce, Illya shook his head. “As it has been observed, you play a
dangerous game, my friend.”
“I know.”
And it was getting more dangerous all the time, he admitted to
himself. Occasionally, he wondered if he
had any limits anymore aside from the partnership. The safety of his friend was now his
priority; not UNCLE, not saving the world.
He balanced on a precarious ledge of duty to his oath and duty to his
friend. Dispassionately, he knew the
boundaries were with the job, not with Illya.
Saving his friend – there he knew no limits.
April
1971
“I can work better alone. You
shouldn’t be here at all. You should be
back in
Napoleon shrugged his shoulder holster over the black sweater and tried
to make it look easier and less painful than it was. The masquerade didn’t fool his friend and he
glanced away from Illya’s disapproving scowl.
”I’m fine.”
He glimpsed back as Kuryakin pulled a black turtleneck sweater over his
head and moved to the table to recheck various weaponry. The shirt mostly covered the thin red line
along the Russian’s neck; the not-quite-healed scar on the fair skin – a
lingering reminder from their last assignment-gone-wrong.
Noting the look, Illya continued brusquely. “Your shoulder and hand are not completely
healed.”
Decisively, defying the advice, Solo donned his wrist holster and small
handgun; select knives in different sheaths strapped to his arms and legs. Finally, he attached a small belt pack for
explosives around his waist.
Kuryakin tried again. “Your are of no use on this mission.”
“Thanks.”
The stern glare, the harshness of the tone did not dissipate the cruel
honesty. “And I do not need you
babysitting me. This is a simple
extraction, Napoleon. I will be in and
out before dawn.”
“Then there’s no reason why I can’t provide back up.” Solo pocketed sundry explosive devices and
another pistol.
“You are not entering the compound with me.”
Knowing the arguments were justified, he pushed past the ego that was
bruised along with his body. Once more,
his eyes strayed to the nearly covered scar on Kuryakin’s neck.
The tenacious reply was as stubborn as Illya’s. “I’m not letting you go in alone.”
It was one of the most ridiculous stand-offs in their career. Pushed to the limit on the last assignment,
Solo could not release his over-protective instincts concerning Illya’s
safety. He had nearly lost him last
month. A half-inch over and Sanchez
would have killed him with the shot in the neck. The surgeons had barely sewn up the vein
before the Russian bled to death. It
took him weeks to regain his strength.
Waverly had deemed him fit for this important, but simple mission --
find a missing scientist. Solo had
strongly objected, losing the debate. If
he couldn’t prevent his friend from being assigned field ops, then he would go
along as back-up. Napoleon had barely
been able to save him last month. He
could not allow his partner to go face this new danger without someone to watch
out for him. However shaky he was, he
was better than nothing. His sheer
determination to see them out of this alive could make the difference between
life and death.
As an excuse, he rationalized this was not his fault anyway. Circumstances forced his hand. As usual, the “easy” mission had gone wrong,
and the clear-cut assignment turned complicated and dangerous. So, it was good he had tagged along. Illya, however, didn’t see it that way. The carefree excursion to
Kuryakin’s eyes softened first, followed by his expression. “I don’t want you hurt.” His face was gravely serious. “I don’t trust your misplaced heroics.”
“Look who’s talking.”
“What is that supposed to mean?”
“Your stunt in
“I was giving you a clear shot.”
“And got shot instead.”
“It worked, didn’t it?”
“I don’t need any more favors like that!
When I rescue you, let me do my job!”
It was a sore point with him.
Illya had nearly died trying to help -- more than just distracting the
enemy to turn the tables on Sanchez. It
had been an act to save him. He couldn’t
stand the thought that Illya putting himself in the line of fire for his sake.
“You are obsessed with being a hero.”
“With keeping you safe,” he admitted.
“Stay here,” Illya warned again,
unconditionally.
“Okay,” Napoleon sighed, knowing he had pushed his friend as far as he
should. “I won’t follow you into the
compound. But I’ll be up on the hill in
case you need me.” He placed a hand on
Illya’s shoulder. “And if you do you
better call,” he admonished sternly.
It was a hard thing when left behind.
When his partner was assigned to an extremely
dangerous mission. Kuryakin was right, he shouldn’t be doing anything but desk work. Sitting back in
Then they realized the disappearance was really a kidnapping of the
scientist and her family, and more. The
search for Dr. Lender had turned into the discovery of a THRUSH base in
Who knew this would turn into a commando mission? The Australian UNCLE unit was short handed to
begin with, and couldn’t marshal enough agents to be of any use until the
following morning. By then THRUSH would
have taken the scientist and fled. They
were already tipped that UNCLE was closing in.
They would be waiting for an assault.
That was why Solo was not letting his partner go in alone. They were here and would make the best of it
despite their ragged conditions.
“I don’t want you coming in after me for any reason, Napoleon,” Illya
warned severely, his eyes narrowed with intensity. “I will have enough to worry about without
you wandering into mischief.”
“I can take care of myself.”
For a moment, the blue eyes stared into his and there was a perfect
understand of what they were both thinking.
Back to the last mission. When the operation had dissolved. Luck and a little skill had saved them, but
not before torture and near death were leveled at both
of them. In the intervening month, he
thought some of the Russian’s silent, studious looks indicated brooding over the near fatal
mission. The Australian case seemed like
a holiday in comparison. So, when things
turned nasty, Illya rallied to protect him, just as he sought to keep his
friend safe.
“See that you do,” was Illya’s curt order.
Solo gave a mock salute, accompanied by a smirk. “Yes, sir.”
Relaxing, Illya almost grinned.
“As usual, things have not turned out as expected.”
“As usual,” Napoleon agreed wryly.
“That’s why I’m here. Part of the
partnership agreement, you know.”
“Hmph,” Illya
growled. “I just want you to watch
yourself. No foolhardy heroics.”
The American crossed his heart. “Promise.”
With a skeptical glower, the Russian grabbed a backpack and shouldered
into it. Muttering incomprehensible
phrases, he preceded his partner out of their hotel room. Napoleon had every intention of keeping true
to his declaration, but wouldn’t be surprised if circumstances forced him to
break the oath. He was, after all, here
to protect his partner.
***
Ten minutes after the appointed rendezvous time, Solo stared through
binoculars at the THRUSH stronghold far below.
Nestled in a lust tropical ravine, the factory was fronted by the ocean,
and hemmed in by steep, forested cliffs on the other three sides. Illya had repelled down behind the buildings
some time ago. No sign of him yet.
On the horizon, the sea was obscured by dark clouds moving in a storm front. Time was running out. Solo grimaced, not liking the idea of
scrambling down the cliffs, but if his partner didn’t show in another minute
that was what he was going to do. He
focused the field glasses to some men outside the main building, anxiously
hoping to spot his friend.
***
The
vision of the Cuban holding a pistol to Illya’s head drifted into his
mind.
“Drop
your weapon.”
No, he
couldn’t do it.
If he
was off by a fractional measurement he would shoot his partner in the
head. If he gave in there would torture
and pain and death.
Illya
slumped. Napoleon fired.
The
gangster’s finger spasmed, loosing a shot. Blood splashing red
everywhere.
Illya folded.
***
Solo shook off the recurring memory that plagued him. He would not allow Illya to come so close to
death again. How could he possibly
prevent it? Not in this business. He would just have to do his best to keep his
partner safe. It had turned into an
obsession -- this need to safeguard Illya.
Without analyzing details, he knew it was because he needed his
friend. Needed that
companionship and trust and friendship in his life as much as he needed air to
breathe.
Shouts and calls from several guards at the building nearest the water
put Solo on alert.
Several armed men moved from the main housing near him, toward the
smaller office-type rooms by the ocean.
It sounded like Illya had been discovered.
Gritting his teeth, Napoleon hooked up the equipment, donned gloves and
started a slow, agonizing descent to the ravine. The prelude to the storm swept in, the windy
conditions buffeting him against the rock.
Every movement, every jolt down was pure hot pain to shoulder and hand. Several times he slipped and jolted, slamming
against the rocky cliff, intensifying his injuries, fading his vision to grey
as he fought to overcome the ache.
Determined to see it through, he reached the ground with a jolt,
kneeling there several minutes to catch his breath.
Gunfire echoed through the trees and he unhooked his belts and stumbled
toward the factory. Keeping to the edge
of the cliff or the tree line, he struggled all the way to the side of the main
offices. What he saw there chilled his
blood and his existing pain was transcended by a gut-wrenching agony that shivered
from his emotions to the physical reactions of tightened chest and twisted
stomach.
A battered and unconscious Illya was being dragged across the main open
area between buildings. An overweight
man in a white linen suit gave orders and yelled at the guards. When they reached a loading dock, they threw
a battered Kuryakin on a platform and bound his hands. Attaching a hook to his bonds, they dragged
him up to hang above the dock like a piece of meat in a butchers shop.
Not close enough to do any good, Solo hurried as fast as he could,
clutching his aching ribs, racing to get close to his partner. He couldn’t’ take on the dozen or so enemies
on his own, but he had to do something quick.
Illya’s predicament did not look healthy.
Three armed men emerged from the dock building with a woman, a man and a
little boy. He recognized them as the
scientist and her family. The man in
white slapped Kuryakin and discussed something, gesturing toward the
woman. Illya shook his head. He was punched in the face. When he shook his head again the man,
enraged, took a pistol from one of the guards and slashed it across Illya’s
face.
That was enough of that, Napoleon decided. As he maneuvered to a closer position, he
assessed the various guards, deciding on a plan of action even as he
moved. The man in white took a knife
from one of the guards and slit a gash in Illya’s arm, blood down his sleeve. Napoleon temporarily lost sight of the drama
as he came up behind the building and to the side. By the time he was close and in position, he
groaned, seeing Illya slashed several more times. Then the agent was raised higher up, far
above the dock. If they released him
from the hook, he would likely die from the fall.
Pistols in both hands, he leaped from his concealed position
firing. He drilled every guard he aimed
at, unevenly running toward the dock.
His plan was a clumsy improvisation, but it worked until he stumbled up
the steps to the winch.
“Hold it!” he ordered everyone.
By then the man in white, who was unarmed, hid behind Dr. Lender,
holding a knife to her throat. One man
was still at the controls of the winch.
He could drop Illya at any minute.
“You can stop right there. I
assume you are an UNCLE agent, too.
You’re late. But still plenty of time to join your
friend. I have the prize. And if you don’t allow me to leave I will
slit her throat.”
Behind him, he could hear running feet.
More guards.
“Drop your weapon.”
It would mean their deaths if he did.
Raggedly breathing, shaking from pain, he knew he could not comply. Just as he could not agree
to a surrender in
“Get into that boat,” he shouted at the remaining family.
The man and child screaming in the background of his senses, Napoleon
raced over to the dock winch and reeled his partner to the planks. Bullets pinged around him and he turned and
fired, emptying one pistol, still pushing the lever to bring Kuryakin
down. The Russian hit the dock with a
thud. Dodging behind the machinery, Solo
returned fire as he crouched, scrambling over and loosing Illya’s bound hands.
The boat suddenly exploded, throwing everyone to the ground, raining fire
and debris all around them. Shocked,
Solo watched the shards splash into the ocean and onto him and his
partner. The guards were also knocked
off their feet. Illya recovered first,
grabbing a fallen rifle with one arm, and spray bullets at everything that
moved. Grabbing a stunned Napoleon, he
rushed down to the end of the dock to a second boat.
Jumping in, he tossed the rifle to Solo while he started the
engine. Sinking to the deck,
automatically Napoleon shot back, clumsily covering their retreat. The injuries were noticeably painful, but
worse, they were inhibiting, handicapping his abilities.
When they were out of range, he dropped the rifle and watched Illya
handle the boat with only his right arm, his left arm hanging limply at his
side. Illya’s clothes were torn and
gashed from the shrapnel of the boat and his face cut, presumably when
captured. Holding his shoulder, Solo
edged forward until he could see his partner’s profile. Illya’s face was a mask of cold
neutrality. Leaning his head back,
closing his eyes, Napoleon tried to shut out the images of the blood and death. Racing around the point, Illya pulled the
boat into a secluded cove at the first opportunity. He refused to look at Solo, but his voice was
heavy with regret.
“We have to go back. We didn’t
finish.”
Solo shook his head. “I can’t,”
he whispered shakily.
“I’ll go –“
Grabbing onto his arm, Napoleon dragged him down to crouch on the deck
beside him. “No. I won’t let you go back.”
Fear in the blue eyes startled him, but he understood it. The shaking hands and the trembling, hoarse
voice told so much of his tattered nerves.
The reflection of his fear and what he had become was evident in
Kuryakin’s reaction to him – a response to the partner who had flipped out and
gone over the edge.
“I know you don’t understand.” Napoleon’s voice as shaky as his hand. “I can’t do this anymore. I can’t put you at risk. This is the limit. They died because of
me. A woman and her husband and her child
are dead because of my choice on the dock –“
“Napoleon –“
“I killed them. And I feel
nothing for them.”
Illya touched his shoulder, hand trembling.
Solo droned on, no life in his voice or in his heart. “I don’t give a damn about the mission or the
cause or how many innocent lives are at stake.”
Hot tears streamed down his face.
Inside and out he was trembly and cold. He really had lost it. Napoleon Solo had cracked. Had broken. And it was his partner who managed it. Not torture, not foreign danger. Fear for his partner had shattered his nerves.
“I can’t do it anymore.”
Expecting anything from hot anger, to hatred, to a slug in the face,
Napoleon was taken aback when Illya, eyes closed, pulled him close, drawing his
head against his chest and holding him there, shaking, wiping his face dry.
After a long time, Kuryakin’s reasonable voice stated, “We have to go
back and destroy their research. It
can’t be left for others to take.”
Solo shook his head, leaning on the firm support. He was empty inside except for the fear. The throbbing pain of
nearly losing Illya. That was all
he could feel now. The world, the
mission, the lives of others – even his – meant nothing.
“Napoleon --”
“I won’t let you go back.”
Sighing, Kuryakin held him close, tightly holding on -- probably as
scared and desperate as he felt. The
contact lent strength and calm he could not find within. It became his anchor and he felt, for this
timeless pause in the world, they were safe.
The sun baked down on them. The
waves lapped against the boat. This
moment in time seemed to stop and to stream on without meaning. After a while, Kuryakin shifted and told him
his shoulder wound was bleeding. Probably opened up in the fight. Knowing he was damaged inside – probably
re-breaking the ribs – he looked at Illya’s left arm.
“You’re bleeding. Let me fix
that.”
About to protest, Illya looked into his eyes and gave a nod. There were first aid supplies on board and he
patched the wound the best he could.
Illya did the same to his shoulder and taped his ribs.
Once finished, the Russian sat beside him on the deck. “I have to go back.”
“No.”
Running fingers through his hair, Illya sighed with frustration. “This can’t go on, Napoleon. It is our job to take risks. You can’t protect me forever.”
“I can for now.”
“And just walk away? Drop the
mission? Do you know what Waverly will
say?”
“He’ll fire me. And maybe you. I
don’t care.” His tone was adamant and
cold, the passion gone now, washed away with a frightening, cold resolve. “At least then the danger will be over.”
Illya strained to be reasonable, but it was clear he was confused and
off-balance by this extreme breakdown.
Solo, on the other hand, felt lucid and clear – accepting a new cause
with his whole heart. Secure
and unafraid for the first time in years. It was all so simple suddenly.
“We’re going to work through this, Napoleon. As soon as we get back to
Without waiting for affirmation, he stood and turned to the wheel.
“I have to finish what I started,” Napoleon countered with solid
assurance. He stood and delivered a
karate chop to Illya’s neck. The Russian
folded. He caught the body and laid him
on the deck. “Sorry,
Illya. This has to be finished, friend, you’re right. It just has to be done the only way I can
allow it.” Then he started the boat and headed back to the complex.
Sacrifice -- dispassionate sacrifice -- cold --
calculated -- in control -- based on passionate devotion for someone. This act was no sacrifice at all, since the
alternative was not a price he was willing to pay.
***
Cool wet splashes on his face awoke him.
As soon as his eyes opened, Illya instantly recalled the argument with
his partner and the underhanded sucker strike that had knocked him out. He had never felt so angry in his entire
life! The awaited storm had arrived,
washing him and the boat with large drops of warm rain. The boat was docked
near the factory. Making sure he was
armed, he dashed off the boat, confused it was tied to the dock. He wasn’t sure what he expected, but not
this.
Walther in hand, he raced through the grounds. Not sure what to might find, he saw buildings
ablaze. Explosions were popping in the
main factory and other locations, numerous dead bodies littered the muddy yard. Anger quickly transformed to growing dread as
he raced through the compound. It seemed
an army had passed through, but he was sure it was only one agent gone
berserk.
The all too familiar body of his partner was at the far end of the open
yard. Through the rain, he cast a wary
eye for enemies while he raced to his friend.
Napoleon was alive. Red blood
washed thin from rain streaked down his face from a gash in the head. Quickly assessing that there seemed to be no
other obvious injuries, he clumsily hefted his friend over his shoulder and
trudged back to the boat.
***
Under the dripping palm tree, waiting out the storm, Illya silently
watched his friend’s motionless body lying on the sand next to him, wondering
how their careers had come to this end.
There had been no specific day or time or even mission when he had
realized his partner meant everything to him.
It had been a gradual insinuation – like his acclimation to hot dogs and
American cars. Without conscious
thought, he had come to depend on this man as a partner. Then as a friend.
The stormy waves lapping on the nearby rocks reminded him of his first
island experience with UNCLE. As far
back as survival school, he and the other novices had been warned about the
dangers of emotional attachment on the job.
They had learned the double-edged danger of partners – warning that for
unwary agents, partnership could evolve to over dependence. Loyalty was expected, of course, but never to
be placed before the organization or the mission. Too much reliance on a teammate could make
you sloppy, lax and dead.
Hardly paying attention to those long-ago warnings, he never envisioned
a time he would need such counsel. The
lone Russian was far too aloof and removed from colleagues to worry about
feelings for other agents. He was above
the weakness of letting his guard down. He
would have done just fine, if one pushy and gregarious American had left him
alone. If Solo had been content to have
a superficial relationship. But, no,
Napoleon thought partners should go to ball games, double-dates and holidays
together. He bought Christmas presents
and engineered birthday dinners and insisted on trusting Kuryakin.
Illya could have remained immune to the affection or the camaraderie, or
even the comfortable warmth of belonging in an alien realm. It was the trust -- the absolute, total,
unshakable trust that Solo placed in him constantly and unsolicited that melted
him. That someone would have unwavering
and unshakable faith in him to do anything, cracked
his reserves. Napoleon literally placed
his life in his hands on a daily basis.
That kind of devotion crumbled all his pre-conceived notions of
relationships and Americans and himself.
Instead of responding instinctively and typically, Illya reacted without
thought, accepting the blind faith; absorbing it and reflecting it in full
measure. His own confidence in himself
and his partner flourished. The complete
trust quickly evolved to a level that placed him within the secure bonds of
friendship without knowing what that meant or fully understanding the
concept. Except that he mirrored his
friend’s feelings and motivations. He
would do anything to protect and safeguard the only person who had touched him
to the very core.
Near the very beginning of the long and twisted road of their careers, Solo also decided he should not leave a partner to be
captured, tortured or killed. So, the
daring, ridiculously reckless and imprudent rescues began. The insane risks to save him had become
extreme, frequently bringing down the wrath of Waverly and the censure and/or
amazement of their peers. Simultaneously,
his own evolution of the partnership paralleled Solo’s. The friendship created a new dimension in his
life. A new and
strangely wonderful haven where he felt trusted and valued and cared about. Friendship. It worked both ways, he was surprised to
discover.
Adversely, there was a dark, anxious side to the equation. The risks to his friend brought an angle of
fear and hurt he had never known before.
When Napoleon was in danger, he went to extreme measures to rescue
him. When Solo was injured, it hurt
sometimes worse than his own wounds. In
those bleak times, he had thought Napoleon dead, it
had felt like his world was collapsed.
That brought him to this terrifying moment on a rainy beach. He had been so focused on keeping Solo safe
from the mission he had been blind to his friend’s emotions. So anxious about the danger to Napoleon’s
life, he closed his thoughts to how much his friend was suffering inside. Afraid of Napoleon’s reactions on the last
assignment – offering himself as a substitute to torture or execution instead
of him – he forgot the American’s single-mindedness and stubborn heroism.
Solo was unconscious from what looked like a mild concussion. The ribs were re-broken. Barring any unseen internal injuries, he
should awake any time. Considering the
madness of the solo assault, he got off easy.
The physical injuries were not what worried him. As Illya studied his friend, he sensed a new kind of horror
screaming inside his own mind. Not the
fear of Napoleon’s death. Not even the
dread that he might sacrifice himself for Illya. The horror that the constant danger and
stress had snapped his partner and Napoleon was insane.
Anger over Napoleon’s trick had long ago dissipated under the wash of
regret and pity. His proud friend would
never forgive him for feeling such commiseration, but he understood the
emotions driving the older man. Shared the desperation and trepidation. Chilled with dread, he shivered, hugging
knees curled against his chest. Where
could they go from here? They protected
each other against torture and capture and pain. They even applied subterfuge to save each
other from Waverly’s wrath – save the partnership they had decided they could
not or would not live without. How could
he restore his friend’s mind and nerve?
All Section Two field agents thrived on action and hazard. Personified so perfectly within Solo, field
operatives reveled in playing chancy games of life and death and coming out the
winner. Although Illya was basically a
reserved and removed intellectual, he would not want to give up the life of
excitement and peril in his daily thrills as a spy.
Spectres that all Section Two agents feared,
were of course, painful and slow deaths.
Worse, they feared a life of permanent impairment. Blindness; crippling
wounds. Being an invalid would be
worse than death for some. In
“Napoleon,” he breathed – a curse, an entreaty, a sigh. “What am I going to do with you?”
Worst-case scenario – he could not allow his friend to go to some
top-secret sanitarium for round-the-bend spies.
The rumored graveyard of washed up agents – Tartarus – might be a real
place, not just the stuff of spooky tales from drunk and/or worn operatives. He would not allow that. Somehow, he would stop UNCLE from going that
far. How? To buy time he had called in and reported the
mission was a qualified failure. The
secrets were destroyed, along with the scientist and her family. The news had not gone over well with Waverly,
but he was satisfied there was no longer a threat.
Also reporting both he and Napoleon were injured, he had gained a few
days for recuperation. Maybe he would
need to call at the end of the week and make up another excuse. He certainly was not taking his friend back
like this. It would be the end of their
partnership and the finish to Solo’s career in UNCLE. Perhaps, he would be taken away to Tartarus
and never been seen again.
Alternatives? Unknown. All he knew
was through his determination, he had to salvage his
friend. What would it mean if he saved
Solo’s life time and again, only to lose him to madness? The American groaned and Kuryakin moved to
his side, placing a hand on his shoulder.
The gash in the head had been treated.
The reopening of the shoulder wound was patched. What remained to be seen was the internal
damage inside his mind, heart and soul.
“How are you?”
Solo blinked, the brown eyes slowly clearing, then reflecting the
thoughts racing through his mind.
Focusing on Illya, his face was set in a grim mask.
“Hurts.”
“That’s what happens when you single-handedly take on an enemy base.”
Slowly, he nodded his head.
“Well, then, welcome to the Napoleon Solo meltdown.”
Illya nodded, chilled that Napoleon’s voice was calm, remote and
lifeless. What did that mean? A prelude to madness, or a return of the
friend he knew so well? Or thought he knew
until today.
“At least I’m not in a straight-jacket yet.”
The joke was not amusing, but he found he could not deny that
possibility – as much as he wanted to ignore that prospect. “No, they’re not coming to take you
away. Yet.”
Slowly, with the Russian’s help, Napoleon sat up and leaned on the
tree. “How did you manage to keep me out
of a looney house?”
“Told Waverly you were hurt and required some
recovery time.”
“That was generous of you.” Solo
reached out and stopped just short of touching him. “Sorry about knocking you out.”
“I will get my revenge,” he replied simply.
It almost brought a smile at the corner of his lip. “I’m sure you will.”
Talking nonsense. It helped settle Illya, balance him as his
friend always did. He didn’t want to go
further, but had to take the step. The
questions and answers hovered between them like a fog, needing to be cleared
away. The doubts and suspicions needed
voice.
“We must talk,” the Russian reluctantly stated in a quiet voice that he
strove to keep level and unemotional.
“I need to apologize for my actions.
I went crazy, I know. I’m
sorry. Sorry I’m such a coward.”
The absurd confession jolted Illya off balance. The voice was composed and deep, tone serious
and sincere. Having run through the
anger at the attack and the subterfuge; the fury at Napoleon endangering
himself in his place, the resentment that Solo could no longer deal with their
occupational dilemmas, Illya was cool, as well.
So he could deal with the confusion with a level head at least.
“You are many things, Napoleon,” he quietly accused with deep
emotion. “Being a coward is not one of
them. You just defeated an entire base.”
“I felt no fear,” Solo confessed blankly. “I was just running from what really scared
me.”
The riotous peril; fighting, death and hurt burned out. They were left with sober realities and
decisions that went beyond anything they had faced at the end of a gun.
“Afraid of losing you. I was trying to protect you.”
Shaken. Humbled. What could
he say after such an admission? “I
know. While I take exception to your
methods, I cannot condemn you, my friend.
Often I am guilty of the same emotions.”
“You’ve never let stray civilians die for me. You never went off the deep end.”
“The loss was tragic. You
couldn’t have prevented the boat explosion.
We might not have been able to save Dr. Lender anyway.”
“Possibly. It
doesn’t help.”
Guilt that his life had been traded for the scientist’s was only a vague
shadow on his thoughts. The enormity of
Solo’s unbalanced actions took up most of this mental energy and all of his
emotional depths. There wasn’t room left
over for consideration of others right now.
He countered with the only sympathetic balm he could grasp. “You saved me. Thank you.”
Solo stared at him. Slowly he
nodded. “That is the only thing that
makes all this worth it.” Profound
sorrow cracked his expression and his face wrinkled with inner pain. Burying his head in his hands, he ran fingers
through his thick hair. “I thought I
could do anything to keep our partnership intact. When you were strung up I snapped.” He shook his head, fingers yanking at his
thick hair. “I can’t risk your life
anymore.”
Never seeing Napoleon so vulnerable, Illya cringed inside. They had been through so much together, but
this was a new level of abject agony. A
dark grotto of fear and trepidation they had never visited before. Often, in stressful times, Illya wanted to
reach out and comfort his friend, yet could not bridge that gap -- could not
allow his own vulnerabilities expression.
Now, without analyzing or prolonged deliberation, he moved over and held
onto his friend as Solo shook in silent anguish.
What could he do now? How could
he save his friend, not from physical danger, but from mental destruction? The flame-out of his
career, and thus, Illya’s life as he knew it. Their valued future gone
unless they could solve this.
What could he do? When he was in
danger he could no longer trust his friend to make the right choice. It had been a long time since he could trust
Napoleon to put safety or prudence or even saving the world as a priority over his
life.
Shock treatment? Could he be so heartless? Maybe it was the only way. While he would rather sit here indefinitely
and physically take care of his friend -- hold on for both of them -- he knew
this was not the answer. Sympathy would
mutually comfort them, but mire them in a pit that they may not escape. Solo needed an emotional jolt, not pity, and Illya was the only one who could deliver the strike to the
heart.
Outwardly, he was calm, his voice soothing. A deceptive façade. His tongue, sharper than a blade, was about
to stab right through his friend’s soul and deliver the most wounding hurt in
their history together. Steeling his heart
against the anguish this would cause both of them, he
began the ruthless, emotional assassination with a tranquil tone.
“I am sorry it has come to this,” he sighed heavily. “Life will not be the same without you as my
partner.”
Looking up, Solo’s eyes were moist and Illya slammed down absolute
control on his sympathies. To react
would be to lose his friend. That was a
risk HE could not allow. He hated
himself, however, for hurting Napoleon so deeply.
“I understand,” Solo nodded lethargically. “You can’t trust me anymore.”
“NO! I mean, yes, I do trust
you,” he blurted out breathlessly, alarmed his partner took the statement
wrong. Resolve wavering, he brushed away
the tears on his friend’s suffering face.
“I will always trust you,” he honestly confessed.
“You can’t after this.”
The self-pity jerked him back to merciless, character murder. He released his hold of his friend,
distancing himself physically and emotionally.
“Waverly will dissolve the partnership.”
His voice was funereal, his face as grave as his soul. “I am also worried about your future in
Section Two. He may deem you unfit to
remain in the field. Or
UNCLE.” Real emotion cracked
through the masquerade and his voice faltered, filling with regret and
grief. Honest remorse flooded his
being. “I never thought I would lose you
like this.”
Like refitting a piece of broken china, the shattered man before him
seemed to glue his tattered nerves together.
He knew of no one else who could be so strong. Conquering the horrific demons inside and
finding the courage to go forward into a perilously frightening future was
bravery beyond measure.
“I can’t let you down,” Solo whispered in a tremble. “I can’t let him split us. I can’t let you down.”
“You have never done that in our entire partnership,” Illya whispered,
teetering on the edge of doubt and hope.
Desperation briefly surfaced, chased away by determined resolve. “If I can’t pull myself together, Waverly
will sack me.”
Illya could only nod.
The vulnerable, bruised, scratched face was as bleak as his voice. “You would have a different partner.”
“Yes,” he barely breathed.
Solo shook his head, the doubts flooding into the tormented brown
eyes. “How can I do this anymore? Order you into danger? Watch you suffer?”
“Because we will go through it together.”
For the first time in the conversation, faith replaced the ghosts in the
pained expression.
“Just as we always do. This is a partnership,” Illya reminded
forcefully, fondly.
Solo nodded thoughtfully.
“You’re the only one I trust. I
used to believe we could do anything together.”
“You can always trust me, Napoleon.
And we CAN do anything. Together. You are the
one who taught me that.”
“I couldn’t go on without you.”
Illya did not want to dissect that desolate comment. Beyond this moment, this bond between them,
he couldn’t speculate anymore. The
future was too unstable and frightening.
They had each other. They had a
mutual determination of what was most important in their lives.
“I am the cause of your dilemma. A miserable conundrum.”
Rubbing his forehead, Solo sighed.
“Thinking about it that way gives me a headache.” When he gazed at his friend for a long
moment, the confusion and pain gradually lifted, wry speculation lighting his
strong features. “How am I going to pass
the next test in the field? The next mission?”
“Knowing that between us, somehow, we will get through whatever horrors
we face.” His voice turned dryly
cocky. “As usual. Together.”
“You have a lot of faith, partner.”
“I learned from the best.”
Solo nodded. Under his breath,
Kuryakin released a long, shaky sigh.
Napoleon was back. They could
move forward together. As long as he
could count on that he knew they would succeed.