MAN FROM UNCLE/

GREATEST AMERICAN HERO

crossover

AN ADVENTURE FROM

THE FILES OF SANSTAR

"We the undersigned pledge our lives and our resources to the worldwide defense of human rights. Accepting as our mission the overthrow of any forces that shackle the freedom of human conscience by an unjust interest, false trial, torture and execution."

Control -- leader of the SANSTAR CONFEDERATION

THIS IS THE ONE THE SUIT WAS MADE FOR AFFAIR

by

gm

spring 1985

A delicate drizzle sprinkled the asphalt and made the street slick with a glossy black sheen. Mist shrouded the buildings in an ethereal veil of dampness. A distant streetlamp glowed in an anemic halo, as if even light was absorbed by the inky darkness.

The scrape of shoe soles on pavement drowned the muted tendrils of city-sounds that drifted indistinctly on the dank night air. Elongated twin shadows stretched across the rain-slick alley as two men hurried across the open space between buildings. They slid on the wet ground, into the shelter of the warehouse and were enveloped in shadows where the streetlight and rain could not reach.

A whispered inquiry mingled with the mist. "Is this the right building?"

"This is it," an accented voice assured.

"What makes you so sure?" was the doubtful reply.

Illya Kuryakin pointed to the blue glowing face of his watch, its level of brightness indicating the nearness of their prey. "He's inside," came the subdued response. "I think. I hope."

"Well, at least the homing bug is inside," Napoleon Solo allowed, a dose of skepticism shading the tone.

The American wiped errant raindrops from the inside of his collar and brushed the excessive wetness from his dark hair. This was a perfect example of one of the more unpleasant aspects of their job, he mused ruefully. Dank alleys, rain-soaked midnights in mysterious dockside warehouses -- like something out of The Third Man -- all mist and shadow and intrigue.

A chill tickled his spine and he shrugged off the pressing sense of sinister shades. Solo spent few moments pondering his mortality -- it seemed a waste of time for a man in his line of work. However, in his more moody moments he wondered if his journey's end would be in some disreputable, sloppy alley like this one. His shoulders shivered involuntarily under the expensive coat in reaction to the grim possibility. He pushed away the unproductive thought with a resolution to stop letting Illya play so many deep Chopin Etudes while they were on a case. Chopin and rainy midnights seemed to produce these strange introspective interludes in Solo's otherwise ebullient nature.

"This would have been so much easier if you'd have put the tracer on the attaché case instead of the car," he admonished with long-suffering. The verbal sparring helped ease his suddenly strained nerves.

"I couldn't reach the attaché case," Kuryakin flung back with asperity.

It had been a very long two-day surveillance, and failure did not improve the blond’s disposition one bit. Nor did the imperious attitude of his partner help his disposition. "If I could have maneuvered that close, I would have planted the tracer on Ollie himself!"

Their mission had been tricky: follow two Irish Republican Army couriers to a meet, confiscate the microfilm before an exchange could be made. The terrorists had been clever, suspicious, and difficult to follow, and were now sequestered somewhere amid the ominous maze of warehouses on the San Pedro docks south of Los Angeles.

The two enemy agents had been labeled 'Ollie' and 'Stan', due to their physical resemblance to the famous comedians, i.e. : one plump man with a thin mustache and one skinny fellow with a long face. However, there was nothing comic about these assassins who were as capable and deadly as their older, but more experienced counterparts.

Retired from UNCLE for years, the former agents, now business partners in several ventures, kept their hands in international intrigue. Associated with several other veterans of various spy agencies, they took on jobs for altruistic reasons rather than the need to earn a pay-check. This assignment came from their SANSTAR association -- a group of old friends and colleagues spanning the globe who used their espionage skills for good. The IRA terrorists had microfilm plans of top MI6 agents and were set on assassinating those British agents. Solo and Kuryakin were the second line of defense. The first, an agent in London, was in the hospital thanks to his under-estimation of the IRA killers.

Kuryakin sidled along the wall until he came to a small metal access door. He pointed toward the knob. "Unlocked?"

With practiced ease, the dark-haired agent drew a Walther P-38 from his shoulder holster and shook his head. "That would be too easy. This will probably require something cunning, ingenious, and death-defying -- like going through a skylight or something. "

"Oh, must we," the Russian groaned. "You know how I dislike heights," he complained as he pulled his own black pistol from under his jacket. “I have my incendiary lock-pick strip --“

“And this door is wired with an alarm,” Solo pointed to the cleverly hidden cables along the door frame. “We really don’t have time for a show of your clever talents of breaking and entering.” He offered a thin, mirthless sigh. “That leaves the upper concourses.” Solo's smile was unsympathetic. “Your hazardous duty pay."

The senior agent carefully turned the knob and found it was indeed locked. He thoughtfully studied the frame again, this time running a penlight beam along the rusted hinges. "This doesn't look like a good idea."

With an impatient gesture, Kuryakin brushed damp, blond bangs from his eyes. "Let's find another way in. And we better hurry if we want that microfilm before Stan and Ollie make the meet," he sourly resigned.

"How do you think you earn the respect and admiration of your SANSTAR colleagues?”

“Hmmph,” Kuryakin refuted. “I don’t see McCall or Bryan out here tonight.”

SANSTAR was a group of former intelligence agents now forged in a secret, altruistic organization. Their goal was to correct wrongs -- a nebulous charter that gave them latitude in many areas in the fight against good and evil. As spies or semi-retired spies, they were in unique positions, with useful contacts around the world, to counterbalance the criminals and unethical spies -- organized or not -- still perpetrated by the intelligence agencies all over the world. A number of friends belonged to the group, including Oscar Goldman, Robert McCall and Brian Devlin.

As Solo and Kuryakin skulked along the side of the building they were startled by the abrupt, loud, roar of a nearby engine. Before they could find cover, a bright illumination pinned them to the wall. Dual headlights separated from the darkness and approached like some prehistoric leviathan emerging from a grey neatherworld of clinging mists. The sedan came to a halt practically on top of them.

The ex-UNCLE men were helplessly trapped. Although they were tensed for action, they did not make any threatening moves. Both agents kept the pistols at their sides until they could evaluate the new arrival.

"Cops," Illya snarled.

"Did we just make a tactical error?"

“We did NOT set off an alarm!” the Russian snapped, his professional pride wounded at the mere thought that they had made an elementary mistake at this early stage of the game. “We were made?”

“No. Ollie and Stan would have nailed us with bullets, not the LAPD.” He sighed heavily. "So what else can go wrong?" Solo shot tack, responding to his partner's sarcasm with a caustic rhetorical snipe of his own.

"I hate to be executed on an empty stomach."

Napoleon grimaced. "Always a fountain of positive thought, aren't you? Trust me, they are cops. It’s the Ford sedan. That’s all the rage with enforcement communities. We’ll just have to charm our way out of this."

The car doors snapped open and the two men who dark blurs behind the glare of light.

"All right, clowns, throw down your pieces and hands. This is the FBI, suckers. "

Solo's groan was audible above the car engine. “See." Sometimes he hated to be so right.

Kuryakin was more philosophical. “This always happens to us. And I AM NOT including this in our debriefing."

Two figures emerged from the car, but their figures were mostly blurred by the bright stab of the headlights in the eyes of the agents.

Again the harsh voice barked at them. "All right, cut the jabbering, cowboys. Throw the hardware on the deck or you'll be eating dirt!"

The agents exchanged incredulous glances. "Is this guy for real?" Illya muttered, but dutifully raised his hands, the Walther dangling from his finger.

"Why not? Things like this happen to us all the time.”

Solo was more reluctant to give in. "Let's not get hasty. If you'll let me get my identification out -- "

"One more move, pal, and you'll be wearing a bullet in that pretty suit!" was the stern warning. "Throw down the artillery first, then we'll check passports."

"I don't believe this,” Kuryakin sighed out of the side of his mouth.

Nonetheless, Kuryakin threw his P-38 into the street. Solo stubbornly resisted the inevitable for a moment longer. When warned a second time, he finally tossed his Walther to the pavement. He winced as the meticulously maintained weapon slid into a clogged gutter.

"Ralph, check their American Express Cards," the spokesman admonished to his silent companion. "And one of you jokers move, you're history."

A man emerged from the darkness and stepped into the glow of the headlamps. A mad riot of curly hair circled his head. In the sharp backlighting it appeared his face was enveloped by an avant-guard halo. However, what really arrested the attention of the ex-UNCLE team was the young man's startling, tight red costume complete with black cape. They were too surprised to offer any resistance as the gaudily-dressed assistant confiscated their ID.

Kuryakin was the first to recover. "Napoleon, I think we took a wrong turn," he mumbled as he stared at what he could only think of as some kind of bargain-basement superhero, or a refugee from a comic book convention. "This isn't San Pedro, this is the Twilight Zone." When this elicited no comment from his usually garrulous partner, he glanced at his companion. He raised his eyebrows, inviting speculation. "Maybe the Bureau is going for a new image. "

For once Solo's glibbness had deserted him. He was still speechless, suffering under the weight of several disturbing reactions. He was embarrassed at being busted by an FBI team that looked like they escaped from a local circus. He was irritated that they were being detained from completing a mission he already found exceedingly distasteful. Most of all, he hated being made a fool, and in his own eyes, that was exactly what was happening.

"Maybe they're with the Hollywood division," he finally commented acidly.

The FBI man approached them and stood beside his garish companion to examined the IDs. The Federal agent, who seemed a tough kick-back to the Elliot Ness days of the government agency, kept a steady .45 automatic trained on his captives.

The night's fiasco was almost worth the embarrassment, Solo thought, when he was rewarded with the shocked expression on the FBI agent's face. The Bureau representative's mouth dropped open, his face a study in incredulity as he carefully studied the IDs.

Kuryakin and Solo took advantage of the lull and lowered their hands, confident they had just won this round in the minor inter-agency rivalry that sometimes existed between intelligence organizations. Solo was the first to plead guilty to the charge of a condescending attitude toward these domestic agencies. An attitude reflected by many agents of those same organizations. To himself, Solo admitted this was a petty competition, but cavalierly brushed aside the thought as a self-admitted personality flaw. For the moment, he delighted in the embarrassment of their discomfited opponent. One had to find one's amusement wherever possible in these circumstances.

"Oooh." Under the unmerciful glare of the headlights the FBI man groaned as he examined the gold cards. He was a tall, lank, veteran with greying hair and a tough-guy demeanor. "Oh, Ralph, I think we've made a little mistake here."

"WE Kimosabe?" the young man shot back defensively. Who was the hot shot who came down on these two like Wyatt Earp?"

"Napoleon Solo of the U.N.C.L.E.," Maxwell spelled out with a sigh, and glanced at the espionage operatives. "And Illya -- "

"Illya Kuryakin," the Russian finished and received a suspicious glance from the Federal agent.

"That's not Russian, is it?"

"Yes, it is," Illya assured defiantly.

"UNCLE is a multinational organization." Since the former agents occasionally did free lance work for the old organization, they carried multiple IDs. Solo's intervention was meant to be helpful, but he received a resentful glare from his partner. The proud, feisty Russian was ready for a fight. Illya always took keen exception to slights against his heritage. Nor did he correct the FBI man that the UNCLE credentials noted they were retired. A little detail missed in a moment of surprise and Napoleon was not about to rectify the mistake.

The young man was the first to offer a hand of peace to them. "Hi. I'm Ralph Hinkley. Nice to meet you."

The UNCLE men dutifully accepted the crushing handshake from the deceptively strong man who seemed no older than about thirty.

The older man also held out his hand. "Bill Maxwell," he announced as he fumbled with the IDs and returned them to the agents along with a curt apology. "Sorry, fellas. I mean, how was I to know you were the good guys?"

Maxwell was a hard-core Federal type Solo had seen before. Not too imaginative, but tough and experienced. The years of skill showed in the way the agent moved, how he intimately handled the Magnum, the self-confidence with which he faced a potentially lethal situation. A bit crude, but a good man to have at your back when the going got rough.

The rain had momentarily ceased, but the mist seemed to have deepened to a thick fog that clung to the ground in ethereal clouds. It was dense enough to leave beads of moisture on the face, which chilled when struck by the faint breeze coming off the ocean. Ralph had graciously retrieved the weapons from the puddle-laden street and courteously wiped them off with his cape. Cleaning them seemed a hopeless task and he returned the weapons to Solo and Kuryakin.

Solo fastidiously scraped off some of the grit that adhered to his automatic and was irritated he would not have time to break down and clean the Walther. Careful maintenance of his weapon was an essential element of staying alive in a risky business where a life could precariously hang on the improbable thread of a clean firing pin or a well-oiled trigger. Solo holstered the pistol and carefully straightened his faultlessly tailored jacket into smooth lines. He warily eyed Hinkley's red suit, but refused to give in to obvious curiosity about the bizarre attire.

"You have to admit you looked suspicious lurking around the docks with pieces," Maxwell commented somewhat defensively.

"Lurking is how we earn a living," Kuryakin replied dryly. The Russian was not nearly as self-conscious as his partner was, and gestured toward Hinkley's scarlet costume. "Speaking of suspicious and overt, -- uh --“ he gestured toward Ralph. “A bit trendy for field work, isn't it?"

Maxwell and Hinkley exchanged uncomfortable glances, both searching for a suitable response.

"It's a special project," Ralph finally supplied rather lamely.

His partner shifted to the offense. "And what brings UNCLE's big guns down here?" Maxwell changed the subject before anyone could make more touchy enquiries.

"A mission," Kuryakin replied succinctly. "Which you have probably made impossible for us to successfully complete."

A grimace played across Solo's handsome face. "There goes the microfilm."

Maxwell suddenly brightened. "Hey, guys, how 'bout us workin’ together? Ralph and me are a great team. And we're all good guys and --"

"Ah, thanks, Agent Maxwell, but we can handle it," Solo stammered in diplomatic refusal.› Disappointment faded the eager gleam on Maxwell's face.

"But --"

"Really, Napoleon and I have everything under control," he lied easily. "Now we really must be about our business."

With a brief nod to the two strangers, the Russian turned and walked away, quickly swallowed up in the moist, dreary mist. Solo remained behind for a moment to complete brief farewells and again reassure the disappointed Federal man that no assistance was required.

Hinkley and Maxwell returned to the car. When they glanced over their shoulders, they observed the clinging fog had descended between them and the UNCLE agents like an opaque, nebulous barrier. A light drizzle again fell, melding with the heavy mist that encroached every corner of the desperate streets.

Ralph stared into the mesmerizing fog for a long time, as if he could still see the UNCLE agents through the oblique wall of vapor. He shivered as an invisible, icy tendril of dread coursed along his spine. A thread of dire foreboding seemed to stretch between him and the unseen men from UNCLE. He sensed some kind of danger that cloaked the espionage agents like a dark shroud. Something less than a premonition and more than a vague concern, told him the agents were in grave peril.

Maxwell gazed across the top of the car and was arrested by the expression of -- fear? -- on the face of the younger man. The eerie countenance gave him the creeps when he realized it had to be some kind of sensation being transmitted by the suit.

He was only too aware of the strange, supernatural powers connected with the red jammies left them by the little green guys from space. There was a trepidation to ask what Ralph was 'receiving' through the super-powered magic clothes. Part of him DIDN'T want to know what the next surprise from the suit would be.

The red suit had already given Ralph the powers of invisibility; of flying, of incinerating objects, of holographic images from material objects, of telekinesis, and once, even seeing into the future. Every time they discovered something new about the jammies, Bill felt a primeval fear he would never admit to. Intellectually, he knew it stemmed from the instinctive apprehension of the unknown -- and the little green men were certainly unknowns! It also was based on that unease that came whenever he was not in control of a scenario.

"Ralph," he inquired in a hesitant whisper. "What's wrong?"

Ralph's face was blank for another moment. Then he shrugged and glanced at his partner. "I don't know, Bill. "Something is wrong . . . " he trailed off and again stared into the grey haze, where faint footscrapes on pavement echoed distantly on the moist air. "I have this funny feeling -- like something terrible is about to happen."

Bill grimaced. "Oh no. I hate it when this happens, Ralph. Can't you be more specific?"

Ralph's face was pale in the reflection of the car light as he turned back to Bill. "I'm not sure -- I don't think it's you or me." He paused, trying to grasp some intangible sense that niggled at the periphery of his consciousness. He focused again on Bill. "Maybe it's the UNCLE agents," he sighed, and suddenly shivered from a wave of coldness. He was exasperated at his failure to pinpoint the meaning of his feelings. "Should we warn them?"

Maxwell shook off a spine-tingling shiver of his own and tried to rationalize the ill feeling that was creeping into his awareness. "They're in the good-guy major league, Ralph. They can take care of themselves. Danger is as much a part of their lives as breathing."

Hinkley tried to accept the reasoning, but the doubt lingered. Once again he was embroiled in the frustration of the magical suit that enabled him to perform miraculous tasks over which he had no control. If only he hadn't lost the set of directions the aliens had given him! Well, no one said it was easy being a modern-day hero.

***

Solo spotted a side door near the mouth of a small alley between two of the mammoth warehouses. The homing signal indicated they were very close to their quarry. He felt a small sense of triumph that they had at last reached a point of action. So far, the assignment had read like a bad keystone cops movie. Now he truly thought they had a chance of seeing this mission to a successful conclusion.

"Shall we?" the dark haired agent asked quietly as he drew his pistol and stepped into the alley.

Just then, the door suddenly burst open and the two IRA agents, Stan and Ollie, emerged. Both groups were equally surprised and taken off guard by the unexpectedness of the meeting.

The UNCLE men recovered first. With lightening-quick reflexes they dove to the pavement, rolling and firing as they scrambled for cover, one at each corner of the alley entrance. The IRA team was almost as quick as they drew their pistols and ducked into the narrow confine between warehouses. Kuryakin inched to the edge and poked his head around the wall. Several shots ploughed into the metal and he quickly withdrew from the corner.

"We'll never get anywhere like this," Solo whispered from across the gap.

Illya scanned the area. Just a few feet behind him was a metal ladder that led to the roof of the building, which sheltered him. He pointed with his Walther. "I'll take the penthouse view. You try to work your way into the alley," he whispered.

Solo grimaced and glanced toward the dark, foreboding space between warehouses. "I thought you didn't like heights."

"I don't, but I'm more graceful than you," he retorted.

The senior agent suddenly felt an ominous dread as he stared into the black recesses of the misty, sepulchered portal. Like Orpheus at the rim of the Underworld, he looked into the ethereal vapor and wondered if he would ever return. He shook off the fanciful analogy, but the uncharacteristic trace of fear lingered. Perhaps this was his Room 101 -- his darkest fear -- confronting the black, shrouded countenance of the Reaper, in some anonymous, filthy alley. He had faced such a destiny before. He wondered why he felt afraid this time. His more superstitious colleague speculated that you could feel when death was about to grasp you with its skeletal fingers. You could sense when your time was up, or could hear the whistle of the bullet with your name on it. However, at the moment, he didn't have the time to ponder the incongruities of his psyche. He pushed aside the fanciful, morbid thoughts. Illya was waiting for his answer, and they had to move before their quarry escaped.

Solo shrugged in casual acceptance of the division of forces. "Why not. I've already ruined my suit," he responded blandly and rubbed the tear on his sleeve.

Kuryakin nodded and scurried to the ladder. One foot was on the bottom wrung when he paused and glanced back at Solo. The Russian felt strangely on edge, sensing a danger beyond their usual life-and-death routine. It was almost an awareness of an unknown, unseen force he could nearly feel but not define. He paused, wondering if he should warn his partner, but instantly dismissed the trite idea. The eerie atmosphere was getting to his Slavic moodiness. He quickly scrambled up the ladder, determined to keep his mind on the job, and not on mystic imaginings.

As soon as Kuryakin had signaled from the rooftop, Solo dove across the alley, laying down a withering volley of indiscriminate shots. The attack was to make sure the IRA stayed pinned down while Illya secured a position on the high ground.

Solo spotted the thin Stan behind a line of crates near the center of the alley. Ollie was making a stand behind a trash bin at the far end of the passage. Between heavy return fire, Napoleon scurried to the nearest refuge, a scant shelter in a boarded doorway. It was a precarious spot, but he could at least keep an eye on the opposition. Unfortunately, Stan's cover fire had enabled Ollie to slip out the back. Solo wanted to go after the portly foe, but knew his job was to stay to cover his partner.

Kuryakin had discovered a narrow, cracked-board walkway around the edge of the roof. He wasn't altogether sure the boards would hold his weight, but he decided to take the chance. As lithe as a cat-burglar, he balanced there like a high-wire performer, circumspectly stepping to a spot which could offer a good firing position. The heavy mist was hindering his ability to see the opposition clearly and the angle was not an advantageous one for good marksmanship. He experimentally lobbed off several shots at the slight IRA agent.

The fire from above was close enough to the mark that Stan was forced to move to new cover and into Solo's sights. Napoleon slipped into the center of the alley and fired once, the Walther clicking in empty misfire. He instantly pulled the slide back, ejected the bullet and almost simultaneously fired again, only a split-second after the misfire. His accuracy felled the enemy with a single bullet

The cloudy darkness absorbed the echoes of the shots until only the spooky patter of rain on pavement -- like teardrops on a gravestone -- punctuated the quiet. The senior agent stood motionless in the misty drizzle. His right hand shook with draining tension from the near fatal mistake he had made; from anger that his weapon had misfired at such a crucial moment, from a lingering anxiety that still clutched his heart in the unnerving atmosphere.

"Napoleon?"

The disembodied voice tugged him from his preoccupation. He drew out his communicator. "Yes?"

"Are you all right?"

Solo smiled at the concern in his friend's tone. "Not a scratch," he replied and released a long, shuddered breath.

"Was that Ollie who slipped out the back?"

"Yeah. I'm afraid he didn't want to stick around."

"Maybe he went back inside the warehouse."

"Maybe," Solo noncommittally deliberated. There was something wrong -- the hairs on the back of his neck were on end -- an accurate intuition that there was an unknown danger close at hand. His nerves were as taut as violin strings. The intangible feeling of vague trepidation was exacerbated by this sudden distrust of his weapon. The misfire indicated the Walther was in desperate need of a breakdown and thorough cleaning. But there was no time now, there was still an IRA agent to tend to. He would have to rely on his luck and Illya's skill.

A reverberating CRACK resounded from above as part of the precarious walkway abruptly snapped under Kuryakin's weight. The blond agent was quick enough to grab for purchase and scramble to safety on a more secure part of the slippery edge. In the melee his Walther slipped from his hand and slid a few feet away, but remained on the fragile board ledge.

"Illya!" Solo shouted, unable to clearly see what had happened. "Are you hurt?"

"Only my pride," came the exasperated reply. "I slipped," he admitted with chagrin, as he stretched out to retrieve his pistol.

From the periphery of his eye, Solo caught a shadowy blur at the mouth of the alley. His mind instantly -- subconsciously --identified it as Ollie, pistol in hand -- drawing a bead on the vulnerable Kuryakin. There was no time to issue a warning, only time to whip up the Walther, spin, and fire. Solo pulled the trigger and again the automatic jammed from the grit in the firing mechanism.

The echoing click of an empty chamber drew Ollie's attention to a much closer target. The IRA agent allowed himself a triumphant grin as he leisurely aimed and fired a hollow-tipped 9mm slug into his helpless victim's chest. The impact slammed Solo into the wall. He stared in vacant disbelief at his assailant, shocked at the attack, at his failure, at the end of his existence. As pain and astonishment crowded out reason, he abstractly felt a disappointment that his meteoric career would end humiliatingly in this filthy, fog-shrouded, midnight alley.

For a frozen moment, he was suspended at the wall like a pinned target in a shooting gallery. In almost slow-motion, blood oozed from the gaping tear in the white shirt. The IRA agent fired a second point-blank bullet and Solo's limp body lurched once, then slid onto the slippery pavement, where it rolled into the deep shadows along the wall.

Kuryakin had watched the scene with stunned horror, unable to reach his weapon before he could stop the shooting. By the time he recovered the Walther, Ollie had moved from the center of the alley. Illya loosed a merciless barrage of bullets, emptying the clip at the retreating IRA man. Ollie stumbled, apparently hit, but continued to stagger from sight.

The enemy became suddenly insignificant in the shadow of a greater tragedy. He could no longer see Solo, but had seen his partner kil . . . shot. Helplessly gunned down like a dog -- and Illya had been useless – he couldn’t do anything! Mindless of any possible danger to himself, he raced back along the narrow ledge, desperate to reach his wounded friend. Several times he nearly fell, bringing on his own doom, but he was in too much of a panic to worry about his own safety. His mind recoiled at the image, but could not wipe away the memory of his partner shot down in cold blood. It played in his thoughts as he scrabled and raced to the scene of the grisly crime.

"Napoleon!"

The anguished call echoed eerily in the empty alley where only the patter of light rain accompanied the name. An almost empathic litany of doom throbbed in Illya's chest from the vision of what he would find in the silent, tomb-like alley. Sweat mingled with the rain and he shivered from the cold wind against his wet skin, the cold, black fear inside his heart.

***

Ralph Hinkley flew into the alley moments too late. The gunshots had alerted him and Maxwell to the deadly battle and Ralph had taken instantly to the air. The fog and rain had hindered his progress and though he had arrived first on the scene, it was to the aftermath of conflict; lingering spectres of gunpowder, blood and death.

Maxwell had contacted him via their wrist comm-links. Bill had encountered the portly IRA agent on the other side of the warehouse. The man was already dead.

Hinkley slowly walked past the dead body of a thin man and on to another body he could see shrouded in partial darkness. He stopped several feet from the inert form.

"We're too late, Bill," he shakily reported into the wrist comm. He kept his distance, numbed from the shock and helplessness of the cataclysmic tide of events he felt he should have somehow prevented. "It's Solo," he muttered almost to himself.

"I'll call for an ambulance," Bill responded.

Ralph's voice shook. "He's dying, Bill. We're too late."

The young man trembled with suppressed guilt. Ever since he had met the UNCLE agents he had felt a kind of premonition of tragedy. But it had been so vague he could not define it. Now as he stood in the dank alley and could literally feel Solo's life ebbing, he wanted to scream from the anger. There was no more he could do now than he could have done earlier when he had sensed the impending doom but was unable to interpret the signals. Hinkley was crushed by the remorse of failure, immobile from the devastating impact that he had been unable to stop something he was warned about, however vague that warning had been. What good was this stupid suit anyway? He could do some fancy tricks and when it came to something really important -- like life and death -- he could not help.

An angled silhouette danced on the warehouse wall as Illya ran into the mouth of the alley and slid to a halt near Hinkley. He ignored the young man, focusing only on the sprawled body of his partner. He fell to his knees beside Solo and felt for a pulse. There was hardly a beat in the wrist vein, a very faint sign of life pulsed along the cool neck.

Kuryakin had heard the comment from Hinkley that Solo was dying and resolutely ignored the possibility, though now seeing the grievous wounds, he knew they seemed too serious to sustain even the most valiant life-force. He pushed away the haunting thought of Solo's death -- it was more than he could deal with at the moment. Kuryakin was wrestling with his own sense of shock, from which he viewed the grisly scene in a detached aura of unreality

Solo was on his back, arms flung to his sides. Small rivulets of rain washed around him and spread crimson across his torn shirt and blue suit. The mangled chest barely moved from shallow respiration drawn from raspy, torn lungs. Beneath his back flowed a macabre river of blood. The hollow-tipped bullets had torn the chest, ploughed through the fragile tissue and bone, ripping out the back with savage exit wounds.

No longer able to abide the torturous scrape of the wheezing lungs, Kuryakin carefully gathered his partner in his arms. He ignored the pasty blood that immediately soaked through to his skin. In an anguished realization of panic and fear, he knew the wounds were too serious. His friend was irrevocably dying.

Solo's new position seemed to alleviate some of the struggle of the ravaged lungs, but the painful movement snapped the wounded man to consciousness. Napoleon loosed a gurgled moan and his eyelids fluttered open. The bleary amber eyes finally focused on his companion. The pale lips parted, a trickle of blood mingled with the rain and dribbled down his cheek onto Kuryakin's arm.

A strangled agony caught in Illya's throat and there was a deafening thunder in his ears, a cacophonous echo of his rending heart. Perhaps it was the reverberating echo of a spectre fist knocking on death's door. Illya could feel the tremors of pain that palpably coursed through Solo's lacerated body and the blond agent willed his own energy and strength to his partner, hoping that through some kind of miracle he could sustain the rapidly receding life. There was no magic; no way to freeze time, no way to stave off the inevitable.

Solo was wracked by a violent spasm. The shuddering cough hit with such force his whole body shook and trembled. Specks of blood splattered on the Russian's face. Illya was oblivious to the grisly spray as he carefully brushed raindrops from the wet-slicked, starkly pale face. He gently wiped red froth from Solo's cold lips as he clutched tighter to his friend.

Solo raised a shaky hand and weakly smeared the blood on Kuryakin's cheek. "Illya . . "

Viscid scarlet rippled from blue, faltering lips. Then the hand fell limply from Illya's face and the eyelids closed as the dark head dropped heavily against the Russian's chest. Kuryakin pressed a quivering, blood smeared hand onto Solo's neck. There was no longer any trace of a pulse. The splintered, bloody chest had ceased it's labored rise and fall. Illya clung ever tighter to his friend, as if the physical contact would trap the precious life from fleeing. But it was already too late.

Napoleon Solo was dead.

For interminable moments he sat in the rain; oblivious to the downpour, to the cool wind, to the unrelenting passage of time. Motionless, he whispered pleas, promises and broken attempts at speaking his friend's name. There was no response from the cold, limp body in his arms. Inching away, he stared with unseeing eyes at the face so close to him. His mind replayed a montage of memories, images, scenes, when the familiar features had been warm and animated with boundless energy, bubbling optimism, and an exuberance for life. When he finally focused, he saw the incomprehensible antithesis of vitality; the flaccid, waxen face that was alien in it's lifelessness.

There was an aching throb in his heart, the recursive rumble of a distant explosion. He knew the shockwave would soon hit with ravaging impact; the final comprehension of a devastating loss he would never recover from.

Illya struggled in a silent battle of emotions. He suppressed the anger, anguish, and utter desolation that surged at the edges of his control -- emotions he could not yet give in to. There would be years of terrible grief ahead, a private pain he would subdue and bury, never to reveal to those who could not understand. An inescapable spectre which would forever haunt him in his sleeping and waking nightmares

The numbed mind could analyze, but still not fathom the full extent of the tragedy. A friend whose life he had loved more than his own had just died in his arms. A piece of Illya Kuryakin had died as well. Fleetingly he wished it had been his physical death instead of this emotional execution, though he knew there was no magical incantation which could enable him to trade places with Solo, though he would have gladly done anything to fold back time. Any punishment was preferable to this anguish, this agony of being the partner left behind. His fate was to survive knowing his closest friend died saving his life.

Napoleon -- dead -- even now the connection was tenuous, a contradiction to the natural order of their experiences, their careers -- his life.

Unbidden, came the memory of a childhood tale, a Russian hero named Illya, and a brave, adventurous friend. In a final, glorious battle, Illya's friend had died, and was buried in an honored warrior's tomb high on a mountain top.

This friend, of this Illya, would have no such fanciful end. Just the ignoble IRA bullet in a dank, rain-soaked, grimy alley on an anonymous street, during a mission that would be forgotten by next week. The injustice renewed the pain, and his shoulders shook from the effort it took to maintain his tenuous control. Kuryakin's orderly mind categorized these reactions: shock, guilt, anger. He recognized the textbook responses and still could not comprehend this death. With silent sobs he trembled, closing his eyes against the vision of the still, bloody face that would be seared in his memory for the rest of his life.

***

Maxwell stood next to Hinkley in silence. He had come onto the scene as Solo had died. There was, of course, no hope with those wounds. He glanced at Ralph and for the first time saw how hard this had hit his partner. Tears spilled down Ralph's face, and Maxwell himself was not immune to a tangible aura of sorrow around them. Yet the tragedy was tempered with a sense of -- comfort? -- the indefinable, but peaceful feeling of standing in companionable silence with a friend. He shivered from the eerie thought, but couldn't deny the impression. He wondered if spirits lingered after death and if the presence he felt was Solo's spirit, unable to let go -- unable to break free of the friendship he shared with Kuryakin. Even in his brief meeting with them, he'd seen that Solo and Kuryakin were close friends, an impression confirmed now by Kuryakin's stricken attitude. Maxwell shivered again, this time in sympathetic regret. He knew how much it hurt to lose a partner.

Ralph finally glanced over to the younger man. “This is a tough one,” he sighed, trying his own method of comfort -- an alien prospect that he was not accustomed to or good with.

"I couldn't do anything, Bill," he whispered softly. He again stared at the dead UNCLE agent. "I could feel his life slip away, and there was nothing I could do."

Maxwell placed a hand on Hinkley's shoulder. "I'm sorry, but we were just too late this time."

"That doesn't make it easier." Ralph clenched his fists in frustration, anger putting an edge to his voice. "This suit can do so much -- why not save a life?"

Hinkley retreated to the wall, dejectedly leaning against the firm support, wiping the cool rain from his tangled curls. Why couldn't this magic suit work for him now? What power would it take to turn this tragedy around? Why had HE been given the suit, he wondered for the hundredth time? Someone like Bill -- or even these UNCLE agents -- would know what to do with it. How to use magic to save the world. Certainly, they would be talented enough -- cool enough -- to not lose the instruction book!

He knew if Kuryakin had the suit, the Russian could have made it work. From sheer force, Illya could have made the suit accomplish anything. The blond agent was suffering so -- it was nearly a tangible wave emanating from the stricken friend who had just lost someone vitally important. Yes, Kuryakin could do it, because right now he was probably wising he could trade his soul for a chance to call back time. Ralph fleetingly wondered how he could interpret and sense such passionate feelings, but he figured it had to be the suit. Maybe not. Illya’s devastation was pretty easy to read without the benefit of magic intervention.

Maxwell didn't have an answer for his friend's confusion. He had never understood why those little green aliens picked Ralph and him to take custody of the red jammies. Nor could he answer the more complicated questions of life and death; of who would survive deadly encounters between the good guys and the bad guys. He did know he shared Ralph's frustration and remorse. If nothing else, the hopeless, tragic expression on the Russian's face was enough to make him wish they could have done something to avert this death.

"I wish we could have saved him too, kid.," he whispered wearily. "These guys deserve better than this." He let out a heavy sigh. "Let's get outta here." Slowly he walked over to join the Russian.

***

The sudden press of a hand on his shoulder startled Kuryakin. It was a touch of reassurance, but the Russian resented the intrusion on his solitary grief. He felt it was not too much to ask for the world to leave him alone. In his misery, he was still part of Napoleon. They existed together in that meshed moment of death where he suspected he would live for a very long time -- at least in his mind.

Bill Maxwell leaned close. "Sorry about your partner," he offered with quiet sincerity. "Why not get outta the rain. There's nothing you can do for him now.

Kuryakin shook his head and drops splashed off the sodden blond mop, cascading onto Solo's still face. When he tried to respond, a sob choked in his throat. He closed his eyes and forced control to return. Experience should take over, should force reason into his numbed consciousness. His reputation was one of cool, aloof reserve. He rarely allowed emotions to penetrate his facade. The mask had successfully deflected those variously difficult predicaments that could complicate the life of a spy. But it HAD BEEN a veneer, and inevitably some emotions had seeped through the barrier to pierce his very heart.

Napoleon had been perhaps the only person to really break down the iron curtain of Kuryakin's resolve. The flamboyant Solo had anchored himself firmly within the stout Russian soul. In this limbo of apathetic time, Illya had tried to block out reality, but could not. Death forced him to confront his honest feelings. Too late to be of any value to the only person he cared about, he could not ignore his dependence and affection for Solo. Just as there was no way to deny that the limp body he held in his arms was irrevocably dead.

"Go away," he grated harshly, drawing a shuddered breath as his lips trembled. Defiant to the end, because letting go of his friend would be the final surrender to the inevitable. His shaky fingers brushed Solo's dark, plastered hair off the cold forehead. "I'm not leaving."

Maxwell stepped aside, feeling like an intruder. Obviously, the UNCLE man needed more time alone to deal with this. But this alley was not the proper place. Suddenly Bill felt his skin tingle with warmth and looked toward the source. He froze at the sight.

Ralph stood a few feet away, arms outstretched, eyes closed. There was a kind of iridescent glow hovering about the young man. Trance-like, Ralph moved forward until he touched Kuryakin.

Illya felt something like an electric shock stab into his shoulder, but his skin tingled within a field of warmth. He somehow sensed who it was without looking. He jumped with a start when he noticed his body was glowing from a green-tinted light enveloping him like a florescent shield. Although he was still touching his friend, the shield did not extend around Solo. Illya turned questioningly to Ralph.

'I think I can save him.' Hinkley's voice was subdued with reassurance. A voice from mind to mind.

Kuryakin stared speechlessly at the young man.

Ralph continued. 'I felt your friend's energy level rise when you touched him. But the injuries overwhelmed his will. Maybe we can still save him.'

Illya pragmatically pushed aside the irrelevant confusion and doubt that muddled his thoughts. He pounced on the most prominent thread of concern and tried to form it into an adequate response. He had to put the staggering truth he could not face into words. 'It's too late this time. I killed him.' He confessed. Unable to stand the agony of that truth, he buried his face in Solo's shoulder.

'No, not you! He wasn't supposed to die. Through our interference he was killed. I don’t know why -- I don’t understand it -- but that’s what I’m feeling. Bill and I caused this, somehow, and now we have to correct I -- somehow.'

The words were meaningless gibberish to Illya's guilt and grief-numbed mind. 'The gun jammed,’ he remembered. Irrelevant, his mind cried, feeling the heavy weight in his arms. ‘Napoleon is -- dead. Nothing can save him now.'

The glow around them faded. 'No,' Ralph insisted firmly and some of the brightness returned. 'This is what the suit was made for -- to help people, to save lives. I don't understand how, but I think there's still time to save your friend.'

Lifting his face, Kuryakin stared at the young man. "I don't understand," he said aloud, his voice cracking. "He's dead . . . ."

The terrible scene replayed itself with vivid clarity in his mind. He saw the killing as if it was happening all over again. Then startlingly, the fatal moment was replayed, projected on the brick wall like a transmitted picture. An extension of Illya's green envelope, the scene was his memory of the shooting.

"My fault," Illya whispered brokenly. "He wanted to save me . . . "

"No! If we hadn't interfered Solo's pistol wouldn't have been damaged!"

Illya blinked back the burning sting in his eyes. In a restrained whisper, tottering on the edge of a precarious hope, he said, "You can't bring -- someone -- back from the dead."

Ralph locked intent gazes with the blond agent and tried to convey his urgency through his feelings more than his words. 'This suit gives me special powers. I -- feel -- this is what the suit is for -- I can save Solo. But only with your help. The bond of your friendship is a very positive and powerful force. But I'm not sure how . . . .' the glow dimmed as Ralph's concentration was submersed in self-doubt.

Resentment welled inside the pragmatic Russian. This man was offering him the one thing he desired most -- a futile, impossible hope that Napoleon could return to life. He suddenly hated Ralph and distrusted this glimmering possibility that was held out to him like the imaginary pot of gold at the end of an elusive rainbow. Reason denied the chance, scientific objectivity scoffed at the notion; the miracle, the magic, the phoenix rising from the ashes.

Yet, reason paled as his heart prayed that miracles could come true. Moments ago, he had been willing to trade his life to save Solo. Could the surrender of his logic be such a high price to pay? He glanced down at Napoleon's lifeless, grey face and knew it didn't matter how impossible this seemed, he would still do anything to get Solo back. Should the price be his very soul he would do whatever required. And if it did indeed require faith, or friendship -- whatever the label -- for the first time, Kuryakin realized he had that force inside him, powerful enough to will anything to happen.

'Tell me what I must do,' he urged, suddenly impatient to try the mad scheme, too freyed to put the desperation into words. Certainly, though, his heart cried out for a miracle. And if it didn't work . . . failure would be something he could not consider. The hope Solo could return was now so great Illya could not endure the crushing alternative.

Ralph sighed from released tension and placed both hands on Kuryakin's shoulders. 'I'm not sure,' he confessed, but was heartened to see the glow around them brightened, the warmth intensified. 'We're flying blind here.'

If strength of desire was a factor, then Kuryakin was sure they would succeed. He had never wanted anything as desperately as he needed this miracle.

Ralph closed his eyes and tried to read the subliminal instincts that sometimes came to him through the suit. 'Concentrate. Channel all your thoughts and energies into one focus. Think Solo is alive.'

Kuryakin focused on images readily available in the forefront of his still resonating-grief-stricken mind. The memories were heart-wrenchingly vivid: Solo's foolish wit, boundless energy, mischievous grin. As real as if Napoleon was still alive.

Kuryakin caught his breath as the green glow flared with blinding intensity and spread like a living veil over the inert form of his partner. Instead of the drain of energy he expected, Illya felt an increase in the electrical charge of the aura. His skin prickled and hair stood on end. Stimulated nerves danced from the surge of energy.

"It's working!" Ralph cried in excitement. He could feel Kuryakin's -- love -- tugging Solo back from death. As Solo's spirit brushed against his senses, he could feel an equally matched affection from Solo to Kuryakin in that magic instant when Solo was revived to life.

Seconds later a tremor shuddered through Solo's body. Kuryakin's heart skipped when he literally felt the life flood back into the recently deceased agent. Through their link in the energy field Kuryakin could feel Solo's heart beat again; the blood pump through the veins, the respiration return to the damaged lungs. Life throbbed inside the recently lifeless body. For a wisking instant Illya felt the briefest contact of physical and emotional sensations from Napoleon: pain, shock, confusion. Most surprising was the flitting touch of concern Napoleon felt for Kuryakin.

The Russian was stunned, immobile in the wash of incredulity as he watched and felt his friend travel back through the frosted portal of death's spectral gate to the land of the living.

Napoleon was alive!

For the first time in what seemed infinity, so was Kuryakin.

'I'm going to break the connection,' Ralph thought to the blond agent.

"NO!" Illya snapped loudly. He could not allow anything to disrupt this delicate life-support cell that still seemed too good to be true. Any interruption could reverse this mystical, magical spell. "We've got to keep him alive!"

Ralph tried to convey the impression, the feeling, of reassurance that he instinctively knew to be true. But the Russian's mind was now closed to anything that seemed to threaten Solo's tenuous thread on life.

"I -- sense -- that he's strong enough now, Illya. You don't need me."

Kuryakin was reluctant. "The -- power -- is coming from you."

"No, I'm only an instrument to instigate the process. Like a living jumper cable. You and Solo were the batteries. I was just a conduit."

The UNCLE operative pondered silently the response that still left so much to be explained. He really couldn't begin to understand what had happened on this devastating street on this traumatic night. Kuryakin's mind was still numb from the shock of Solo's death, even more stunned by the amazing resurrection. He could not quite grasp his role in the magic, but for now that was unimportant. The desire most paramount in his mind was to sustain this miracle and assure this most important life would continue.

Awed, Ralph felt the doubt emanating from Kuryakin and tried another tack. "You have a -- bond -- with Napoleon. Your friendship. You wanted him to live as much as he wanted to live. But his body was too injured to support his force of will and overcome the physical injuries."

Although life had returned to his friend, the dark spectre of death still shadowed his mind and Kuryakin feared he could not keep Solo alive. He shook his head, still unable to fathom the transcendental theory, not sure, he wanted to delve too deeply into the metaphysical mysticism of this event. Yet, undeniably, Napoleon was now alive. There must be a way to keep him on this side of the veil.

Illya's mind tripped carefully over his innermost feelings -- probing his hope, his faith, as if testing the thin ice to make sure it would support weight. 'Napoleon can't live with these injuries,' he reminded, almost afraid to give in to real relief.

Ralph smiled in reassurance. "He can now. The energy force has partially healed the worst of his wounds. I'm going to let go now." Kuryakin was about to protest, but Hinkley overrode him. "It's okay. It's YOUR contact that sustains the energy cycle. It will keep him alive until he can reach medical care."

Kuryakin nodded, vague comprehension beginning to seep into his muddled brain. He was starting to grasp this inchoate theory. Napoleon and he were a team; through danger, pain, friendship, conflict, and now, even deaths door. They had done it all, come through it all -- together. By whatever supernatural or alien laws that governed the universe, it was right that they should come through life-death-life-recovery this together as well.

He felt Ralph's hands release his shoulders and the green glow gradually dissipated. Yet the pulse through Solo's veins remained weakly constant, the skin continued warming as body temperature stabilized. An ominous sign of resumed body functions was the continuation of blood flowing from chest and back wounds. But the injuries had healed slightly and Kuryakin knew, without knowing how, that Solo was stable enough to last until they reached a hospital.

Solo's eyelids flickered with movement. Kuryakin held his breath as his partner laboriously struggled through the shock of death, unconsciousness, fighting toward wakefulness. The next moment the Russian was staring into the brown eyes he thought never to see again. Light-headed, Illya laughed with amazement, tickled by boundless elation -- a giddy reaction from overstressed nerves and shredded emotions.

Solo's face screwed up with confusion. "Illya?" he whispered with a weak, timorous voice.

Extreme emotions bubbled inside Kuryakin, and he suppressed the conflicting urges to simultaneously laugh and cry and shout for joy. He cleared his throat and calmed his tumultuous feelings.

"Yes, Napoleon?" he finally responded hoarsely, blinking back the tears. He suddenly smiled with amusement. "We seem to be repeating ourselves."

The brown eyes were filled with pain, but clearing from the shadow of death. A hopeful indication that despite his wounds, Solo's mind was as incisive as ever. Those discerning eyes were now filled with questions.

Kuryakin felt such a tangible connection between them he could nearly read Solo's mind. He wondered if it was a result of their link and if the energy force was still operational. He was suddenly reluctant to release the warm bond that was a surprising aftereffect of the ordeal.

It was an almost fearful calm after the terrors of the evening. Illya's deepest fears had preyed on him here. Now Napoleon, and he, both had second chances. Friendship and concern were gifts he had never fully appreciated or understood until he had literally touched souls with his friend. They were now precious commodities he would not take for granted again. Not that there would much outward or obvious alteration in their partnership, he figured. But there would be a difference in perceptions (for both of them, Kuryakin felt), and both of them would understand. They practically read each other’s minds now, this might make the bonding, the gift, even more literal.

"Thought -- was -- dead," the dark haired man wheezed out.

Kuryakin fervently shook his head, unable to speak.

"Bright -- not alone . . . ." He seemed to focus more sharply on his companion. "You -- me --" he gasped, wincing as he drew in painful breaths.

"Nevermind," Illya reassured quietly. "You're all right now."

"Not -- no --" the wounded agent grated. But he accepted the assurance without question. He could not surrender his impressions. "I -- dead --"

Kuryakin lied smoothly. "You don't think I'd let you go out like this, do you? It would ruin my reputation."

A smile twitched at the corners of Napoleon's mouth. "Felt you -- tugging -- too stubborn -- to let go." He fought to keep alert, but the fatigue still inundated his shattered systems. Tired lids shaded brown eyes rapidly fading from alertness. "Glad -- didn't leave," he sighed as he was overcome by unconsciousness.

For several moments, the Russian remained motionless, still tightly clinging to his injured friend. He gradually became aware of his surroundings again. The rain had ceased and clouds were moving across the dark sky, leaving thin, translucent patches where the stars shone through. Hinkley and Maxwell were standing nearby, watching, waiting to offer assistance. On the distant night air the faint timbre of a siren mingled with the city-sounds and gull cries.

When the ambulance arrived, Illya still held onto his friend’s arm and stayed with him to the hospital. The night shift in the ER cast him grave glances through the several hours while Solo was in surgery and Kuryakin paced the waiting room with icy aloofness.

He projected the image of tragic dread, no doubt, but it was a veneer only skin deep. Inside, he still felt that glow and that deep connection with his friend. Napoleon was still alive. The bond was faint and heroically struggling to sustain energy, but it was there. Not understanding any of this miracle, he yet strove to project his own mental thoughts and powers to keep a connection to his friend, to feed energy to eh patient in OR and to reassure both of them that Solo would live.

***

Refusing to leave his friend’s side, Kuryakin remained with his friend in Recovery, then ICU. He had utilized his communicator (while still in the waiting room) to convey the bad news to Devlin, their SANSTAR contact. He was assured that Brian would somehow retrieve the microfilm from the now dead IRA agents. The mission was a success. Or would be when Solo recovered, the Russian amended.

Pacing, he glanced up at the peripheral image of someone in the doorway. He was surprised it was a young man with a wild array of blond curls. It took him a moment -- there was no red suit -- to identify the man as their mysterious benefactor. Just behind him, was Bill Maxwell. Illya crossed the room and gratefully shook Ralph’s hand.

“Thank you. You saved his life. He’s in surgery now.”

“Is he going to be all right?” Maxwell asked.

“Yes, he will,” Illya assured confidently.

Ralph nodded. “The suit. I mean, you’re still connected, aren’t you?”

“Well, yes,” the Russian agreed, not sure he could explain it to himself let alone aloud. “I -- uh -- I can sense that he’s still alive and he’s all right. Not weak. And I just have -- confidence -- I suppose -- that he will come out of surgery just fine.” It was more of an admission than he expected to give, but he felt unable to conceal anything talking to Ralph. A residual effect of the experience they all shared he supposed. “Do you feel it?” he wondered.

“No,” the young man shook his head and the curls bobbed wildly. “I can’t feel any connection anymore. It was all you, “ he reminded.

“Thank you for being there to -- uh -- “

“Do his magic,” Bill supplied easily. “Yeah, kinda impressive, isn’t it?” He straightened his khaki jacket. “Well, we just dropped by to see how things turned out. Good luck.” He shook hands. “And if you’re ever in need of some help, I’m, at the local office.”

“You never know,” Illya nodded, wondering if Bill and Ralph were candidates for the SANSTAR Confederation. He would have to do a little research, but you never knew.

***

So the free world was safe again, Kuryakin sighed, pacing the small room clogged with equipment. We saved the world and inspired a miracle, he mused, staring at his still friend.

A twitch in his mind alerted him and he moved to the bed side, knowing his friend was about to awake. A residual power of the energy link? That was a disconcerting thought. They were so close -- but to literally read minds --

The brown eyes blinked open. Illya smiled. Solo’s lips twitched.

“About time you woke up.”

Solo gave the merest nod. After a moment of studying his partner, his sleepy expression turned perplexed. “You are calm.”

Illya blinked in surprise. Many moments just like this had been enacted between them. Most were filled with inane comments and badly concealed concern couched in light quips and trying-to-be-clever flippancy. While he had no pithy comment ready today, the off-center comment took him off guard. Before he could formulate a response, Napoleon continued in a turgid, slurred voice.

“Missing. Your usual tension. Missing.”

While a few witty reposts sprang up instinctively, Illya understood exactly what was meant by the cryptic words. They were past the desperate moments of life and death now. There was a deep assurance, thanks to the incredible and supernatural bond they had shared, that Solo was on the mend. Nodding, he replied. “The worst is over.”

In turn, Napoleon offered a slight incline of his head and a hint of a grin. “I feel it. What you feel. Peace.” His brow scrunched in perplexity. “Not like before. Death was peaceful too. A different kind of peace.”

Illya choked on his breath and inhaled sharply. “You remember?”

“I died,” he nodded. “Then I was back. It hurt.”

As usual, the morphine was dulling the pain and acting like a truth serum. Napoleon had no defenses against his inner thoughts and they tumbled out easily. Illya usually found it amusing and a source of great teasing of his friend. Now, it was all too serious. The vivid, stark memories of that blood-soaked alley and his dead friend in his arms was not thought of lightly.

“Yes, it did.” He had gone through it too -- a different kind of pain -- a different plane of existence -- still as painful as Solo’s death, because it had been Illya’s death, too. “I’m very glad it’s over.”

“How?”

“I don’t know.”

“Thanks.”

The blond bangs shook as he refuted the gratitude. “I didn’t do anything.”

Napoleon gave a slight nod. “You did. I felt it. Still feel it.” He frowned and cocked an eyebrow. “I can still feel -- you -- there -- in my head or -- or something . . . .” he trailed off, puzzled and confused. “More than usual, I mean.”

For most of their partnership they had been inexplicably close -- able to read each other’s movements and actions and sometimes, it seemed, thoughts. It was an edge that had saved their lives many times over. Now, it was deeper and different -- the same and yet, subtly altered. Illya wondered if it would stay with them, or fade with time and distance form he crisis. He wasn’t sure which option he wished to happen. His real wish had already come true.

Kuryakin did not understand what had transpired; magic and supernatural were beyond his realm of reality. He DID know he was grateful for whatever powers intervened between his partner and the valley of the shadow. Explanations could wait. What mattered was that Napoleon, and he, had been given a second chance, and they would not let it go to waste.

THE END