Epilog to:

The THRUSH ROULETTE Affair

Russian Roulette

by

GM

Thanks Lori

---

 October 24, 1967

Leaning against a cold, steel wall, Napoleon Solo surveyed the disarray of the THRUSH offices with numb detachment. There was so much to do in the aftermath of the collapse of the THRUSH base here on the island; the death of Partridge, the intelligence gained in securing volumes of secret THRUSH documents, the capture of personnel. The information here would go a long way toward destroying the very core of THRUSH. So why did it all feel like a defeat instead of a victory?

Snorting in bitter, black humor, he pushed away the answer to that probing question. He didn't want to face that. Keep ignoring it -- that was the best idea. Until the memories went away? Until the scrapes and bruises were gone and no longer physical reminders that his partner had tried to kill him?

Solo rubbed his tired face and winced at the sensitive skin and bones. He and Kuryakin were very equally matched and their fight across much of the grounds of the resort had been one helluva knock-down-drag-out. Little satisfaction that he had proven the long debated question of who was the better fighter. The grasp for humor fell flat. His superiority had won his life, but it was such a insufficient, shallow triumph. Yes, it was good to be alive, but now he had to deal with the consequences.

What was the problem -- facing the aftermath? In the fight against Partridge and the other bad guys they had proven victorious. Saved the day. Saved UNCLE. Saved the world. What was he worried about, that Illya was still under the affects of the mind control? Their wrestling match overcame the affects of the brainwashing because there they were -- side by side -- fighting together. What was he worried about? That Illya might suddenly turn on him? No, that didn't really seem to be a threat. Then what? The latent disillusionment that it had been so easy to break through Illya's defenses? Only an afternoon in the hands of THRUSH and he'd turned on his best friend. Or perhaps, the real fear, was that there was something within Kuryakin that allowed the brainwashing to be so effective. That somewhere, deep inside the private, guarded Russian, there were still harbored doubts and resentments toward his closest friend and partner, and those subliminal antagonisms had surfaced thanks to the torture.

A blunt force hit his chest and he started, surprised Illya was standing next to him. He almost flinched, instinctively defensive after their fight, but realized the Russian posed no threat. Illya reached into Napoleon's jacket.

"Your pocket is beeping." He retrieved the communicator in motions as benign as his voice was bland.

"Oh." Solo took the instrument, as reactionless as his counterpart. "Solo here."

"Mr. Solo, I expected a report before now. What is going on down there?"

Without releasing an obvious sigh of frustration, Solo gave a brief summary to his superior. The millionaire was safe, Partridge was dead. THRUSH operations on the island were smashed, documents mostly intact -- even a telex from THRUSH Central confiscated. They ought to be able to backtrack to the source and destroy the lair of their enemy. Strike a blow to the heart of their foe! He silently wondered why that possibility didn't fill him with incredible joy. Noting that his voice sounded dull and apathetic, he recognized he was numb inside and out. This little episode had just been too much and he was in emotional overload.

"Well, a sharp team can come in here and find a great deal of evidence," Solo concluded on a positive note.

"I thought I sent a sharp team in there already, Mr. Solo."

Napoleon didn't respond to the reprimand and didn't look at his partner to see what Illya thought of the slight.

Waverly continued with little pause. "What about the brainwashing techniques?"

"Very effective," the senior agent admitted heavily, his voice betraying a trace of the shiver he felt quiver along his skin.

Waverly cleared his throat. "I meant did you eliminate that threat?" was the crisp, barbed retort. "I want you to send those responsible to New York immediately. Under guard."

Closing his eyes, Solo released a deep breath. "I'm sorry, sir, we can't do that. The scientist -- I didn't get his name," he quipped with irony, "is dead. Along with Barnaby Partridge."

He felt Kuryakin lean against his shoulder and take hold of his hand holding the communicator. "Kuryakin here, sir. We did save some data on the contraption."

"Contraption? A brainwashing device?" He groaned. "Oh, don't tell me you two managed to destroy it somehow?"

Solo opened his eyes. The blue eyes close to his were amused and he managed a rueful smile. "Yes, sir."

"Must you always blow up everything?"

"Apparently," came Illya's dry retort.

"Well, make yourselves useful. See if you can backtrack the transmission from THRUSH Central."

The connection broke and the two partners stared at each other for a moment. Then Illya straightened, releasing his hold on his partner. The twinkle was still in the blue eyes. "Maybe we should have told him UNCLE now, by default, owns this resort." Kuryakin smiled. "And casino."

Smirking, Solo shook his head. "Let's wait till he gets the report. Maybe we'll be lucky enough to be out of the office."

Weary in every bone, Solo pushed off the wall and ambled toward the lab. He didn't want to stay here. He had seen the torture chamber when Partridge fell into it and was killed by his own device. Vainly striving to think of anything else, he couldn't keep from speculating on what Illya had felt, what he had seen in the tormented imaginings of drug-distorted abuse. Whatever it had been, it was frightening enough to twist a loyal UNCLE agent into killing his partner.

Maybe the mental distortion had been that Napoleon was somehow a traitor and Illya was just doing his job. Perhaps Solo was perceived as a threat to Illya, to UNCLE, to the world. Whatever, it was nearly too disturbing for him to contemplate. Following the quiet, dedicated Russian as the slighter man searched the rooms, Napoleon drew strength from that solid, tenacious spirit -- the implacable Russian soul. Whatever had happened to alter Illya's mind had been temporary. It was behind them. What mattered now was the future. Solo repeated that message to himself as he focused on doing his job and ignoring the recent, unpleasant events.

The strange chamber didn't seem to bother Kuryakin and so Napoleon pushed aside his squeamishness and proceeded to search the offices. Within a few hours they patched together the amazing bits and pieces that seemingly would lead them to THRUSH Central.

***

The small jet jolted when the landing gear dropped, and Solo awoke, slightly disoriented, slightly fuzzy from a lack of fitful sleep. Rubbing his face, he winced, reminding himself that was not a good idea after the punches he had absorbed from his colleague. Instead, he brushed thick, longish hair from his forehead. Staring across the small aisle, he was disconcerted to see Kuryakin staring at him.

"Mr. Waverly called," the Russian informed coolly. "As soon as we land we are to proceed to a small town upstate. An UNCLE team will be joining us."

Nodding, Solo wiped at his tired eyes. It was more than fatigue of body -- it was the emotional depression that wore him down. The fighting to be normal, to continue as if nothing had happened. There had been no chance to discuss the brainwashing, and he didn't want to approach the subject now, but it seemed there would be no other opportunity. Apparently they were going to hit the ground running, as usual, and complete their orders as if devastating events had not happened on the island. As if his world had not turned inside out -- all that he trusted and relied on -- had not turned against him. The one man in the world he called a brother had tired to kill him.

Leaping on the lead to THRUSH Central, the partners had not allowed any time to discuss Partridge's experiments. Upon boarding the private jet they had taken seats across from each other and fallen asleep. Neither seemed to know what to say to the other.

"Waverly is letting you come?"

"Don't you want me to?"

The response took him off guard. "Sure." And he did, he realized with a little surprise. He hadn't given any thought to working side by side with Illya again. That was because, he guessed, there was never a question about doing that. Ever. Hadn't they just defeated a whole THRUSH complex together? "You sound like you have reservations," Solo observed neutrally. Push the blame on Illya, he decided. It was his fault anyway, wasn't it? If this was going to be an issue, he would let his wayward friend shoulder the responsibility.

Looking into the sober, hooded blue eyes, Napoleon wondered where this asperity was coming from. He didn't want anything to interfere with the partnership. He had known that for a long, long time, but never so fervently as their recent mess with Mandor. When Illya -- drugged into a mindless, vegetative state -- had been captured and used as bait. Napoleon had infiltrated an armed THRUSH stronghold to bring his friend out alive. He knew then there was nothing -- nothing in heaven and earth -- that he would not do to keep his friend safe and alive. So what did a little brainwashing matter?

"Yes," Illya soberly admitted. "As you should as well."

Napoleon felt truly surprised. "Why?"

Kuryakin shook his head and turned to look out the window. "I tried to kill you."

"Not really," Solo off-handedly refuted; casually brushing away a crease in his trouser leg. "If you had really tried you would have done some serious mutilation. Not that you would have succeeded, of course, because I'm better than you are, but you would have done some damage. And you didn't. So there was really nothing dangerous about it."

"Be serious, Napoleon."

Solo reached across the small space and touched his friend on the arm. Illya flinched away, but before he could move Solo intently seized onto the thin wrist that revealed taut muscles beneath the skin. "I am. Deadly serious."

“That’s all you have to say? How can you trust me --"

"With my life?" There was a slight smile he couldn't hide. "Because that will never change, Illya."

"I tried to kill you. I don't remember much, but I remember I did, seriously, try to kill you. And came too close." His voice was harsh. "It would be a mistake to trust me."

"Then what am I supposed to do? Put in for a new partner because THRUSH has an effective trick?" The defeatism made him angry. "I don't give up that easy, partner. If you do, then THRUSH won after all. We can destroy their whole base, we can take out THRUSH Central, but if they've cracked your confidence --" His voice faltered, desperately striving to make Illya believe in himself as much as Solo did. "If they've destroyed your faith in me, and you -- in us together -- then they've won."

The small jet landed, jerking the cabin and bringing the conversation to a temporary halt. Solo released his hold on his friend. As Kuryakin gathered his things, Solo struggled to find the words to convince his friend they could overcome this. Until now he had not known how desperate he was to save his partnership -- until it seemed all was lost.

"What did they do to you that could shake your allegiance?" His ego was hurt at the thought that he could not win against THRUSH this time, that they had beat him at his own game -- dissolved the strength of unity between him and his partner. Selfishly, he realized he was taking this personally, thinking of how this affected him and not what it had done to Illya. Perhaps Illya couldn't take the guilt of knowing what he'd done. Well, Napoleon wasn't going to allow him to wallow in self-pity, either. His voice was wryly teasing. "What's a little brainwashing between friends?"

Illya scowled at him and the irritation slowly faded from the blue eyes. It was replaced by something close to the old sparkle, but the eyes were still dark with shadowed ghosts. "Mercifully, I remember very little, Napoleon. But I do know that somehow they weakened me."

"Illya --"

"Please, let me finish." He sat down in the seat next to his friend, but looked straight ahead, into an unfocused, phantom-filled past. "I don't know how -- through drugs or hypnosis or something, they filtered through the UNCLE mental blocks. “The blue eyes that darted back to stare into his were haunted. "Perhaps the drugs used when I was held captive made me susceptible to the brainwashing.”

“Perhaps.”

“Those blocks are designed to prevent us from leaking information about assignments, or about UNCLE." He shook his head sadly and stared at his folded hands. "THRUSH cleverly learned how to get through the cracks and discover weaknesses. Vulnerabilities." A deep sigh was released. "They discovered two liabilities and used them against me. One was my innate distrust of everyone. My fear of betrayal if you will."

"Your naturally suspicious nature? Yes, that would be easy for them to discover." The tone was light, but it failed to impress the Russian.

He glanced up to stare at the senior agent. "The other deficiency is you."

"Thanks."

Smirking at the droll repartee, Kuryakin shook his head. "You are my susceptible spot. They managed, with a wickedly Machiavellian skill, to combine those two vulnerable traits and confuse me completely. I thought you --" He took a breath and continued to stare at Solo. "I believed you were my enemy. That you were going to betray me. I had to -- to kill you -- to stop the treachery." His eyes glistened and his voice was thick. "I had to be the one to end it -- I could not allow you to abandon me." Sighing again, he shook his head, hiding his face behind his hands. "I am more sorry than you can imagine --"

"Illya -- "

"I must tell you --"

"You don't have to tell me anything, Illya. It doesn't matter!" he nearly yelled. "I'm pretty sure," he offered a slight grin, "that you don't really hate me and you don't really want to kill me. So let's forget it."

After wiping his face Kuryakin stood and regathered his bags. "No. I can't do that."

Solo leaped up to stop him from leaving, holding onto his arms in a crushing grip. "Don't let them win, Illya."

The slighter agent yanked away. "I don't know if you will ever be able to trust me again, Napoleon." He shook his head in a sorrow so deep it permeated his stance, expression, his deeply anguished eyes. "I don't know what I might do to you. It would be impossible to work with you -- to be close to you with that kind of hazard. I can't live with that."

Solo felt a wash of cold penetrate his body all the way to the bone. A strangled gasp escaped his lips and Illya's eyes darted to his. The look of pain in those blue eyes managed to jolt the American out of his shock. "I trust you," he grated hoarsely. "That's always been enough before --"

The blond head shook so fiercely Illya's bangs flopped against his forehead.

Frustrated, impatient, desolate, Solo grabbed onto Illya's shoulders and dug in with his fingers, emphasizing his desperation. "We've already proven we can beat this! Otherwise I would have never broken though to you at the island! You would have killed me -- but I stopped you." Taking a breath, he released the crushing hold on the thin shoulders and lightly punched his fist against Illya's chest. "And you stopped you. Not even the brainwashing could convince you to really harm me." His voice cracked. "Not like this is," he admitted with desperation overcoming his reticent shields of privacy.

The blond head shook again, but without conviction.

"You would never hurt me. I believe that, why can't you?"

Turning away, the younger man's shoulders hunched, he mumbled, "Why would you care? I tried to kill you. Why can't you hate me as much as I hate myself?"

Strong arms wrapped around and Solo pulled him into a hug. "Because I care --" a growl of frustration rumbled in the back of his throat. "I love you, Illya. I care more about you -- more than I care about anyone else. I'm going to do whatever I have to -- to save our partnership. Don't make me fight against you." His voice deepened with emotion and determination. "But I will if I have to."

Tight with tense control, Kuryakin maintained his stubborn resolve to distance himself, to sever the relationship with his only friend. Guilt and hurt told him it was the only course. His heart spoke a different story and he wanted to give in to that desire to stay within the comfort of a partnership that meant more than his own life.

For so long he had fought the seductive enticements of easy life, acceptance, trust with America -- Americans -- Napoleon. In those early years together Solo had seemed so superior and arrogant on the surface, yet Illya almost instantly realized it was Napoleon's incredible personal confidence that exuded the overpowering impressions. Many UNCLE operatives resented the young, brash upwardly mobile Solo, and many others fell victim to his dazzling charm. Without realizing it, with insidious, winning subtlety, Solo had proven himself to be an honest, faithful, daring friend to the distrustful, wary Russian. Over the years Illya's barriers had been dissolved from the Solo personality barrage, and until now Illya had felt few regrets at the alterations in his life.

As a new agent, Illya had distanced himself from Americans, from closeness. Ignoring such defenses, Napoleon refused to play the game, drawing Illya into his sphere of influence. The Russian shied away even from physician contacts like handshakes or taps on the back -- too personal for an aloof and private person. Solo ignored that too, never afraid of contact -- treating his partner right from the beginning -- with a camaraderie that was at first suspected, then accepted. Now, when Napoleon ruffled his hair or patted his back -- held him as he did now -- Illya welcomed the sense of protection, the comfort of knowing how valued he was by at least one person in a cold, harsh and violent world.

For Napoleon's sake -- for his safety -- Illya had to give this up, but could not bring himself to do it. Literally trapped within the impenetrable hold of his friend, he could not resist -- would not contest -- the inevitable. But could the partnership ever be the same? Could he get past the crushing guilt of what he had done? Would Napoleon ever really be able to trust him again?

"Illya, fight for our partnership." The words brushed against his ear, piercing straight to the Russian's wary heart. "We have to do this together. I trust you completely. Now trust me and believe in yourself."

Hardly able to form the thoughts, Illya spilled out, "I can't trust myself, Napoleon. Not with your life."

As usual, the American refused to fail. "You trust me, don't you?"

Startled, Kuryakin nodded against the shoulder of his friend. More than anything in the world he wanted to give in to the confidence, let Napoleon's faith carry them both this time, as it had so often in their past. He leaned his weight against the taller agent, symbolically surrendering, allowing his friend to support him physically and emotionally.

His voice deep with sincerity, Napoleon assured, "Then what's the problem? We'll never get past this if we don't try." He affectionately ruffled the blond hair. "You're not a quitter, Illya. I know you won't just give up on us. Right?"

Taking a deep breath, Kuryakin came to his decision. The guilt was still there in deeply absorbed pockets within his soul. The regret was strong enough to last a very long time. But the desperation to save what meant so much to him was stronger than all the negatives.

To himself he vowed that at the first sign of a problem, of any threat to Napoleon, he would pull out of Solo's life decisively and completely -- but that was something he would keep to himself for now. At this moment his friend was right. They were fighting for their emotional lives -- perhaps their real lives as well since they had known for years their longevity pretty much depended on each other.

Pushing away, Illya studied Solo for a moment.

The near-smile cracked the icy façade he could no longer maintain. "All right."

Solo gripped him on the nape of the neck, then pulled him into a quick embrace. "Let's go take down THRUSH, partner."

"They won't know what hit them."

As they walked through the jet, Kuryakin released a breath, allowing a shiver of relief to flow through his strained nerves. He had been so sure this would be the last time he would be with his partner. Surely Solo and Waverly would not allow him to remain a field agent after this horrible debacle. He had, with some certainty, known he could not stand being near his friend after what he had done.

All preconceptions had proven wrong with his colleague more lenient and tolerant than himself. In his own mind, his crime was unforgivable -- trying to kill his only true friend was an unimaginable sin. Waverly wanted him back for his skills, and that was not so bad, but held no element of absolution. The more important person had also granted exoneration for entirely selfish purposes. Because Napoleon did not want to be without him. Not motivated by their brilliance as a team; nor on account of Illya's talents, skills, languages or intellect -- because he was Solo's friend. For some reason his partner forgave him, begged for him to ignore the grievous mistake, and wanted to continue with the team. As numb with pleasant emotions of gratitude as he had been overwhelmed with feelings of guilt, Kuryakin promised himself not to fail again. No matter what happened he would never forget this awesome display of camaraderie by his incredible partner.

THE END