IF THAT’S WHAT IT TAKES

by

gm

Christmas 1971

The stars were sharply visible in the cold, clear sky that seemed like a close canopy over the entire world. Their world. As far as he could see, the blanket of silent starts and dark heaven spanned from horizon to horizon. Only the center rise before them interrupted the scene to create a contrast. Storm clouds from a recent downpour had dissipated and left the clear, bright night sky behind.

“I kind of like the peace and quiet,” Napoleon Solo softly breathed out. “Interesting change of pace.” Condensed breath billowed white. “Can’t say I appreciate the cold.”

“It makes me wary,” his companion intoned suspiciously.

Solo smiled at the typical comment.

“Let us proceed. This grass is wet.”

Through night vision glasses, Solo studied the objective. “There are still lights on in several rooms. We need to wait -- ah -- yes, right on time. The guard is moving toward the lobby and flipping off the lights in the labs.”

Now interested, Kuryakin crouched up to his feet and confiscated the binoculars from his partner.

“Since when are you so worried about appearances?” Napoleon prodded with obvious amusement in his tone.

“Comfort,” came the curt reply. “The grass is damp and cold.”

“Cold? This coming from a Russian?”

“It is entirely your fault. You have corrupted me to your decadent Western ways. I am too accustomed to comfort now. And speaking of appearances, did you notice the fence is not electrified?”

“I noticed.” Solo glanced over at his friend. “So, what are you getting me for Christmas?”

“What makes you think I would buy you anything?”

“Then you’re knitting me a muffler? I could use it tonight.”

“I do not knit.”

“And I thought you were multi-talented.”

“I am. And you do not need more decadent, expensive trappings.”

Solo returned to staring through the binoculars. “You can open me an expense account at my favorite tailor shop. Savile Row.”

“Hmmm. And what are you buying me for Christmas? Only three shopping days left.”

“How about a new watch? It’s after midnight, tovarich. Two days left.”

Sometimes having a conversation with his partner was worse than pulling teeth. Most times, they were compatible with each other’s moods and silence was understood on both sides. Tonight, with the approaching holiday and frosty weather, Solo was feeling sentimental. He wanted Christmas to be something more than just another day at the office. For years, he had plotted little surprises for Kuryakin -- forcing the Russian to celebrate a holiday banned in his native country. Illya had gotten into the swing of things early in their partnership, but still had a lot to learn.

Tonight, Napoleon was sensing moody reticence from Kuryakin. An irritation with what he always complained were the capitalistic trappings of American life and Solo’s expensive and extravagant tastes in parties, women and objects. Thinking it was the Russian’s way of just being Russian, Solo was determined to knock the blond into a better attitude. So he would persecute his friend for the next two days, then comply with Illya. If neither of them were off on the other side of the world on assignment, Napoleon would cook up something quiet and personal and spend at least part of the day socializing with his friend in a quiet in celebration of the season.

Christmas Eve, that was something else entirely. He had his eye on a cute little blond in Section Five. For the big day, though, he thought he would surprise Illya with something simple and non- capitalistic. Except for the present, of course. He still hadn’t decided on that, but he was confident of finding something good.

“What do you want for Christmas?”

“You could not afford it.”

Solo frowned. Not like Illya to think of something expensive. “Anything within reason, Illya. Just don’t expect me to cook.”

“You cook? That would not be a present.”

“Come on, partner. Tell me what’s on your wish list.”

“Very well. Peace and quiet.”

“What?”

“Not your chattering about traditions, or parties, or double dates. I want quiet. I would like to spend the day at peace. Preferably alone.”

If Kuryakin had meant it, Solo would have felt slighted. He knew better, though. “Boring. You need to live. Come on. I want you to have a fun Christmas. Whatever it takes. My treat this year.”

“Then give me what ask.”

“Bah-humbug,” Solo scoffed, still not believing his Scrooge-like friend.

"Exactly.  Scrooge had the right idea.  To be left alone at Christmas."

"I know you read the classics, Illya, but didn't think that included Dickens.  He's so sentimental," Solo smiled, knowing he had caught his friend in a verbal trap.

"Dickens was a socialist ahead of his time, my friend."

"Bah humbug.  You missed his whole point.  And Christmas's, too."

"You know I can not buy into your sentiment, Napoleon, no matter how hard you try to --"

"Not buy into it?" Napoleon scoffed with a chuckle.  "I didn't see you giving me back any presents since we've been partners, tovarich."

"Nevertheless, I have given you my wishes for this year.  No presents.  No party.  I wish to go to work, go home and spend a quiet evening enjoying good music and some vintage wine.  If I am not at some obscure point in the world being shot at --

"What's made you so grouchy?"

Solo really wondered, now beginning to get irritated at the nettling attacks on the holidays.  Solo liked Christmas with it's sentimental ideas about brotherhood and peace on earth and scrumptious food and corny music.  Over the years he had made great inroads to seducing Kuryakin into the Western idea of gift-giving and holidays.  He wondered at the reversal and guessed it was something temporary and not an attempt by the Russian to return to his roots.

"I am cold and wet and ready to go home."

"Soon," Napoleon promised.  "I'll treat you to a nice hot toddy when this is all over."

"Hmm," Illya pondered in speculation.  "That will not compensate, but it is a start."

Their attention was snagged by the activity at the building.  "Ah,” Kuryakin sighed with satisfaction as he watched the building darken. “All lights out except lobby.” He gave Solo’s shoulder a shove. “Time.”

Together they sprinted over the rise and across the wet grass. It took only moments to cut through the security fence and then race on to the building. Both agents were wary, expecting anything since this was supposed to be a routine and simple assignment. For that reason, they were especially on edge. In their profession, things rarely turned out simple or easy or as expected.

Toneer Laboratories, a privately owned pharmaceutical company in the quiet suburbs of Nebraska, was an unlikely target of UNCLE. Information -- for a steep price -- had come their way that Toneer was doing a sideline business. Instead of just manufacturing low-grade painkillers for the US government, they were selling illegal drugs on the side. The contraband was packed in with Army supplies, shipped on the government’s tab to places around the world, and picked up by agents waiting in such places as Guam, the Philippines, Japan, Laos and Vietnam. The informant said next to go was a batch of bio-toxins to Thailand. The agents were to confirm or deny the allegations by finding -- or not finding -- proof. If the toxins existed, they were to confiscate them and bring them safely back to UNCLE HQ. Then a sweep team would come in and take care of arrests and closures of the plant. As the point team, everything hinged on what Kuryakin and Solo found.

At the wall outside the labs, Kuryakin set up a scanner against the plaster building. “I am picking up intense electronic energy,” he almost smiled with glee. “They have sophisticated security lacing the walls and windows. I think they wish to detect anyone who might want to get into their factory. Protecting much more than aspirin, I think.”

The lights on his box flashed red.

Solo reached into his black backpack. “I’ve brought just the thing.” Retrieving another box that looked like a meter gauge, he set that next to the box Illya had supplied. The meter-like device hummed quietly, then buzzed, and Illya’s box flashed green. Quickly, the agents sprayed a fine mist of special acid onto the edge of the window and the glass popped out into their hands. Using a hand-held monitor about the size of a lighter, Solo scanned the floor.

“All clear,” he pronounced and leaped inside.

Tensed, Illya waited for a few seconds. Satisfied they had not triggered any hidden alarms, he threw his and his partner’s backpacks inside and lithely followed.

Already knowing where the safe was with the supposedly deadly toxins, the agents flanked the large, locked vault. Again, Kuryakin went to work on the door with an electronic scrambler. Once inside the walk-in safe, Illya’s eyes scanned for correct labels on sealed shelves.

“I’m not finding anything labeled suspiciously.”

“Do I need to buy you reading glasses for Christmas?” Solo checked his watch. “I hope we don’t have to check every vial in here.”

With a thoughtful shake of his head, the Russian theorized he should be able to find what they were looking for without drastic and time-consuming measures. Although the informant did not give a specific name or formula for the toxins they were searching for, Illya’s knowledge of chemicals and science should clue him into an appropriate title.

“These are labeled with code-names. Rather fanciful I might add. We will be looking for something – colorful -- I should think.”

Solo glanced again at the time, and then scanned labels on the high-tech safety features. He released a sigh of relief when Kuryakin reported he found one called “doomsday”. As he again used a scanner to manipulate the lock for that specific shelf, Illya pulled out a tray containing two vials.

“One toxin, one antigen,” he called out. “Neat.”

He cautiously lifted the front vial. There was a CLICK and a HISS and Illya gasped, then coughed. “Tripped a trigger!” The drawer closed.

Automatically, Solo reached for him, but Illya rushed away, plunging the toxin into a secured pouch in his backpack. When his hand came out of the pouch it was red and glistening. “Get away!” he rasped. His eyes were tightly shut and his breathing heavy. “Booby trap.”

Ignoring the warnings, Solo made a grab for the remaining vial, but Kuryakin shouldered him away. “Contagious.” He kicked the backpack toward his partner. “Gloves. Get lab bag. Seal --“ he coughed -- “Seal pack in sterile bag. Get out. Don’t touch --“ he coughed again.”

Rushing into the main lab, Napoleon found the sterile suits and containers. He donned long gloves and a facemask and returned to the vault.

“Leave!” Illya commanded angrily. “Can’t open drawer again -- until you leave!”

A noise behind them alerted the agent, and Solo realized the trap must have signaled the sentry. Removing the glove on his right hand, he reached the mouth of the vault in time to see an armed guard. Shooting two sleep darts into the man, Napoleon checked to make sure he was out, then secured the lab doors. Then he raced back to his partner, pulling his friend up to a sitting position.

“Leave!”

Replacing the protective glove, Solo wasted no time breaking into the drawer again. “That would not be very polite if I left you here all sick and everything.” He removed the antigen. “Dosage?”

“Save yourself!” Illya argued adamantly, growing weak, now leaning against the sealed shelves of the safe. “Use it on you! You’re already exposed! Forget about me! Take it and go! Go.”

As he closed the seal, he noticed the glove on his right hand was torn. Only then did he feel the heat and itch on his skin. Infected.

Heart racing, he ripped off the glove, relieved to see it was not as dire as Illya’s had been. He glanced at his slumped friend on the floor. The red rash was not spreading more and Kuryakin’s breathing seemed eased. Contact infection. It had to be direct physical contact to spread the infection. Shaking, he found clean gloves and slipped them on, then went back to the vault. No more antidote. Trying to ignore the tightness in his chest and the heat emanating through his system, he convinced himself it was nerves, not illness. He still had too much to do.

Solo grasped onto Illya’s arm with more force than necessary as he shoved up a sleeve on the Russian’s jacket. “I’ll do whatever it takes to save you. How much?”

“Amount?”

Checking the container, Solo reported there were two CCs. Kuryakin authorized the whole dose, but on Solo, not himself.

Illya glanced at the vial. “Can’t see. Blurred.” He tried to pull away, but Solo’s grip held firm. “Save -- you --“

“Consider this my Christmas present, Illya. Have a good life.”

Mostly unconscious already, Illya did not flinch when the ampoule was stabbed into his arm. Quickly, Napoleon massaged the area to speed the dose into the infected system of his partner. Next, he obeyed the instructions on the sterile procedures and retrieved a sealed bag to contain the backpack. Certain he was as protected as possible, he wrapped Illya in an isolation suit. This was the best he could do. Imperative he get Kuryakin to a hospital, he knelt on the floor for a moment and caught his breath. He could search the lab and try and find more antigen. That would waste valuable time. He had no idea if Illya’s dose was correct or if it was going to save him. Taking the agent to a regular hospital, though, would blow their cover and reveal the entire mission. Plus endanger civilians.

Only in the back of his mind did he acknowledge that this was all irrelevant to him. The hot burning was traveling along the underside of his skin through his hand and arm. Under the confining gloves, he felt the prickling sweat of illness. How long would he last? Long enough to finish this, he hoped. Exiting the way they had entered, he struggled to carry his partner across the frosted lawn and back to their car. Winded, boiling up, he fumbled to find his communicator once they were in the car.

“Open Channel D.”

A pleasant female voice he didn’t recognize responded. ”Yes, Mr. Solo.”

“Emergency evac. Nearest secure medical facility.”

“That would be a military extraction –“

“Nevermind, just do it! Location Alpha. Now! Wear environmental suits. Contagion alert red.”

“Copy, Mr. Solo,” she replied crisply.

He laid his head against the back of the seat and kept a hold on Kuryakin. Illya was still breathing, still okay. Solo was searing with fever, hands shaking. He found it difficult to focus anymore.

This was the end. He’d pressed his luck and run out finally. Not surprised, he wasn’t even afraid. What he felt aside from the burning physical symptoms that were blinding him to everything else, was regret. The last frantic seconds in the lab had been the last – what Illya would take away from their partnership. Was it enough? It didn’t seem so. There were, however, years of memories before this to lean on.

Rescue teams were not going to get here in time to save him. Napoleon didn’t know if he could be saved at all. But Illya had a good chance. It was worth it. Cold, hot, shivering, he huddled close to Kuryakin, wrapping his arms around the still figure. He told his partner whatever it took to save him that was what he would do. And he always kept his promises. Illya would remember that about him. And be mad as hell that it had saved him and not Solo. Still, it was worth it.

***

Before reaching complete awareness, Kuryakin drifted toward consciousness with the knowledge he was in a hospital. The subliminal scents and sounds and even the feel of the all-too-familiar territory. With that recognition came the slight recall of his last conscious moments. Then the aches and pains of a headache and weakness, maybe a fever. The toxin, he remembered. The antigen had saved his life. He was alive! He hadn’t expected that! Of course, there would be his stubborn partner to thank for that. He told Napoleon to leave and take the antidote himself. Naturally, Solo did not take any advice and saved him instead. Not unhappy about it, Kuryakin was irritated at yet another senseless risk his partner made on his behalf. Napoleon really was so difficult to live with sometimes.

He felt the presence of someone next to him. “If you expect me to thank you, you will have a very long wait, my friend.”

Already in a bad mood when he opened his eyes, the sight of the small room did not cheer him. What startled him was the nurse standing next to the bed checking his IV.

“Excuse me,” she gruffly snapped. Young, nice-looking, her blue eyes were sharpened weapons glaring at him. “I’m just doing my duty. No thanks are necessary, sir.”

Groaning, he grimaced. “My apologies, miss. I thought you were – uh – someone else.”

Her glacial expression barely altered. “I am the only day nurse in the contamination wing.”

Looking around, Kuryakin did indeed see the glass partition and sealed double doors indicating he was in a quarantine area. He checked his hands, noting there was barely evidence of the hot rash he remembered from the lab.

“Is my condition contagious?”

“The doctors don’t think so, but you must remain in isolation until all the tests are run.”

Her tone was clipped, icy, and uninterested saying more than necessary. The price of his sharp tongue. This was all Napoleon’s fault.

“May I speak with the doctors?”

“I’ll call them.”

“And I am sorry about my comment. It was meant for my friend. Is he allowed in the observation room?”

She finished her duties and the confusion on her expression wiped away her irritation. “Friend?”

“Mr. Solo. He has probably pestered you relentlessly. Dark hair, brown eyes, he thinks most women find him devastatingly charming.” Her continued perplexity allowed filtered concern to trickle into his mind. “He makes a pest of himself . . . .” Her stare – guilty?-- now worried him. “He’s not waiting for me?”

Had he been called back to HQ? Were they in trouble with Waverly? Even through the memory of fevered panic, the last moments in the lab came back in sharp display in his thoughts and he remembered Napoleon had administered the only antidote to him!

“I must speak to him,” he demanded urgently. “He got out, didn’t he?”

“I really can’t –“

“Find out, now, please! This is very important.”

“I’ll need to get the doctor.”

She rushed out before he could stop her. Something was not right, he knew that on a level deeper than his conscious mind. He stared out the glass at the observation room. Napoleon should be there. That he was absent, that the last moments shared were in dire peril brought back the familiar dread that he lived with on nearly every mission. A fear he had harbored since some indefinable moment when he knew there was a life more important than his own – a reason to risk everything.

A white-coated physician entered and Illya repeated his demand. The doctor seemed tense and responded instead to a diagnosis for Kuryakin. The antidote had been delivered in time to save him, but he was under observation just to be safe. Illya tersely repeated his demand to see Solo. The physician took a moment before speaking. It seemed a lifetime before the explanation he dreaded came.

“Mr. Solo is in another isolation room. You were both infected with a lethal toxin and unconscious upon arrival.”

His mouth was dry. “Napoleon was infected? How is he?”

“We’ve been treating him with standard antidotes the best we could, but nothing worked.”

Cold with trepidation, Illya hoarsely reminded, “You said he is in another room. He is alive.”

“On complete life support. The toxin is basically burning him up inside. We’ve tried everything we know. He’ll be dead by the end of the day.”

“I don’t believe that.” He sat up. “I want to see him. Now.”

The doctor gave a nod and removed the IV feed. “You’ll have to remain in the observation area. Your condition is still too precarious to allow you in --”

“Precarious!” he shouted, pushing past the man. “I am alive because of him!”

Weak, his body ravaged from the affects of the toxins, he did not manage to move the physician far. In fact, the doctor had to assist his unsteady gait and escorted him to the next door observation room. There he deposited the recovering agent onto a chair. Illya was grateful for the support. His body shook as he stared into the isolation room, glared unblinkingly at the still figure on the single bed surrounded by instruments and monitors. Napoleon’s skin was blotched red, and where there was no rash he looked as pale as the sheets. A machine breathed for him.

Until this instant, Illya had not believed the medical personnel. He knew they were wrong. That they had misdiagnosed the severity of Solo’s condition. But seeing his inert friend, he had to accept they were right. There had been only one antidote tube. Napoleon had injected the serum into him, leaving nothing for Solo.

“I’ll do whatever it takes to save you.”

The haunting words beat at his brain like a hammer. Solo had done whatever it took. Suicidal heroics. Selfless generosity. Stupidity!! he shouted in his mind. How could you do this? He raged, pounding his fist on the chair, knowing the answer before the words formed in his thoughts. Unsteadily coming to his feet, he leaned on the glass and watched the chest gently pump up and down in a visible show of air moving through Solo’s lungs. If the machines stopped that would be the end.

They had discussed this very thing on several occasions. When they had seen other agents disabled – too damaged to be a useful person – they promised each other they would never let this happen. Now, on the brink of knowing this was the finish, Illya could not let this be the end. He was not ready to let go, not ready to say good-bye.

“Consider this my Christmas present, Illya. Have a good life.”

“I did not want you to do this,” he quietly lashed out bitterly. “I did not ask for this. How could you?” he accused, suddenly slamming a fist into the glass. “I hate you for this.” The last whispered words nearly caught in his choked throat and he swallowed down a cry. “I don’t hate you,” he unsteadily confessed. “I just want you to live.”

Leaning his forehead against the glass, he stared at the rhythmic movement of the chest. Lost in the blur of emotions and timeless anxiety, he stayed there until he felt his knees go weak. Staggering over to the chair, he kept watch, trying not to think of anything but the moment. Not the memories that threatened to barrage his thoughts. Not the future that would be robbed of the genial association of the past. The upcoming moment of destiny when even this meager thread of life would be removed and there would only be death awaiting both of them. He cushioned himself with the present – the knowledge that for now – his friend still lived.

The doctor entered the isolation room and Kuryakin interrogated him again. Solo’s condition was weakening. There was little time left. Asking to see the chart, Illya had to read it over several times. There was an idea coursing through his head and he couldn’t quite grasp it. Something about antidotes. Nothing worked.

“I have the antidote.” Why didn’t he think of this before!

“You were given an antidote?”

“Yes. You could analyze my blood and find the composition.”

“I doubt there is time –“

Illya grabbed him by the arm. “Then we need to hurry. Where is the lab?”

Reluctantly, the doctor took him to the lab. Disgusted with the young technicians on duty, Illya hovered over their shoulders and told them what to do. The lab was nowhere near the quality of UNCLE, but working on the tests himself, Illya sped up the process slightly. It also gave him something to do to keep his mind off his friend.

***

Early in the morning of December Twenty-fourth, they discovered enough of the properties to work up a marginally close antidote. Without delay, he ordered it administered to Solo. When he accompanied the doctor into the isolation room, he held his breath as the liquid coursed through the IV tube. There was no immediate reaction, and that disappointed him. Still, he hoped – believed – it would work. It had to work.

When the others left, Kuryakin touched his friend’s cheek with a gloved hand. He could feel the heat through the contamination suit. A lance of fear shot through his heart. He was too late. He had failed. How could he live with that? His friend deliberately sacrificed his own life! How could you, Napoleon? The rant was rhetorical. It was the only thing Solo would ever do in such circumstances.

“Why did I ever become friends with a hero?” Kuryakin whispered. Hypocritically, he knew he would have done the same thing without thought if he had the chance to save his friend. HE had even tried, he vaguely remembered, insisted Solo take the antidote. But the American had not -- had given it to him instead. “Why couldn’t you have done what I asked, just this once?” Because either one of them would do whatever it took to save the other. It was their game. The mark of their partnership. None of that would be a comfort to him after this. The emptiness was already pressing in his heart. “You are so selfish. If you were really my friend, you would not leave me alone!”

The bitter anger was startling even to him, and he was ashamed of the rancor bubbling out from some nasty, hidden grotto of fear and disillusionment in his heart. How could he hate someone he loved as a brother? How could he consider this act of heroism an act of selfishness? Because the looming trepidation of being without the only person he considered his family was frightening him. It was so close – this chasm of desperate solitude that he pretended to prize – but only because there was one other person there he could share it with, complain to, talk to. He did not equate that isolation with emptiness until now. Then the words he had spoken in slight irritation -- words that he could not take back -- could not recall from falling on the ears of his friend -- came back to haunt him.

===

“What do you want for Christmas?”

“You could not afford it.”

“Anything within reason, Illya.”

“Peace and quiet. Not your chattering about traditions, or parties, or double dates. I want quiet. I would like to spend the day at peace. Preferably alone.”

“Boring. You need to live. Come on. I want you to have a fun Christmas. Whatever it takes. My treat this year.”

“Then give me what I ask.”

===

"Moi prosbasvayu jeezn."  Aware he had slipped into Russian pleading, Illya took a deep breath and repeated in English, "My wish is your life, Napoleon.  "Please."  There was, of course, no response from the recumbent patient.  “You said you would do whatever it took to save me,” he whispered urgently. “Whatever it takes,” he brokenly whispered. “Then save me now, Napoleon. From something I fear more than my own death. Only you can do it. You have to save me.”

Silence. What if this was the last and the silence became permanent soon? How could he ever bear it? Instead of anger, the deliberate sacrifice depressed him with the cold reality of death’s nearness.

“Napoleon, you told me you wanted me to live. It is YOU who must live now! You asked me what I wanted for Christmas. Forget what I said. I do not want quiet or loneliness. I want you to live. That is my present and you must grant it.” Silence. “I want your irritating intrusions and constant attempts to cheer me and continual interference in my life. Please.”

In his gloved hands, he took hold of Solo’s hand and pressed it, feeling the heat of the virus through the protective material. He was not giving up. This was his only chance to turn it all around and save his friend. Words of desperation and essentials crowded into his thoughts, but all he could do was mentally repeat his plea that this had to work. It could not end like this. The doctor came in to check the monitors. Illya paced, struggling to find something to say -- demands, pleas, observations. Only sadness clutched at him and there were no profound words, only desperation clouding his being.

The doctor reported there was no change. Solo was at least holding his own, but that could change at any time. Illya hoped for the better, the doctor expected to the worst. Advised to go get some food, Illya refused and was soon left alone again. His place was here, his heart told him. If these were the final moments for his friend, he could at least be here beside Napoleon. In life, he had been the cause of his friend’s injury. At least in death he could prove his loyalty.

***

The incongruity of heavenly voices and music -- singing about angels -- struck Illya with a pang of unpleasantness. His friend was entirely too close to the realm of crossing over to beyond this life. How could the medical staff on the other side of the isolation room celebrate? Midnight. Christmas morning. Cups of eggnog and cheer, present exchanges and hugs. Radio music proclaiming ’Angels We Have Heard On High’ while here in his cocoon of anxiety he heard only the quiet hum of equipment.

Merry Christmas they kept repeating. A very unhappy reminder of his churlishness in the last quiet moments spent with his friend. He had asked for peace and quiet. A sarcastic dig that he wanted to be left alone. He may yet have his wish granted, and it twisted his heart to feel a glimmer of the emptiness that could await in his near future.

“Merry Christmas,” he bitterly sighed at the cheerful personnel that were oblivious of his suffering.

The morning of Christmas. He had given up the protective suit, knowing it was foolish to wear since danger of contamination was irrelevant. He stopped pacing and paused to touch Solo’s arm. It was comforting to feel his friend’s cool skin. During the dark hours of Christmas Eve the antidote had reversed some physical affects of the toxin. The fever was cooled and the skin rash nearly dissipated, but there was still no certainty Napoleon would recover. Now, however, Illya felt real hope.

Pacing again, he was lost in morose reverie when he stopped and stared at his friend. What had caught at the corner of his eye? There -- Napoleon’s hand twitched! Racing over, Kuryakin placed a hand on his friend’s.

“Napoleon?”

Had he dreamed the movement? The face was still. The body motionless. Out in the hall, someone laughed loudly. He glanced up, scowling at their intrusion. Turning back, a small gasp escaped his lips when he noted Solo’s eyes blinking.

“Napoleon!” The eyes seemed to lose the battle to open. “Napoleon, wake up!” He shook the still shoulder.

Slowly, the lids fluttered.

“Napoleon. Time to wake up.” He gently patted Solo’s cheek. “It is Christmas. You must wake up now. Santa will be unhappy if you continue to sleep.”

It was all nonsense. He didn’t know what to say, short of pleading or shouting or revealing the agonizing impatience he felt. So he relied on the typical prattle to calm his nerves and connect with his partner.

Solo groaned and Illya shook his shoulder. “Come on, Napoleon. Time to wake up.”

Eyelids opened and the dull brown eyes reflected confusion.

“Napoleon, how are you?” Inane words. After waiting so long in the agonizing silence, he fumbled for something intelligent to say. Flashing trepidation of lingering side affects shot through his mind. Forget about the clever remarks. He just needed to know his partner was returning to normal. “Are you all right?”

Solo’s brow furrowed. “Are those angels singing?”

In spite of his worry Illya would have laughed if not for the knot of emotion already stuck in his throat. Under usual moments like this they would joke. They would banter, insult and sarcastically and stoically not admit how deeply the scars -- seen and unseen -- ran. He could not bring himself to do anything frivolous now.

“Angels?”

Solo slowly shook his head. “You singing with angels?”

The raw confusion jolted Illya’s instincts and retrieved them from buried slumber under grief. Gone was his anger and resentment over Solo’s heroics. And fading were the numb tendrils of fear that had gripped him for so long. “No heavenly angels,” he lightly responded, his heart lifting up. The voices in the hall sang of ‘Joy to the World’ and he felt his own sense of joy surge inside, knowing the crisis was behind them. “Hardly what you should expect. No angels this time, my friend. You will be fine.”

Momentarily, Solo tried to focus on the scene beyond the glass. “Christmas?” he whispered in a barely audible croak.

“Yes. Merry Christmas,” he smiled, feeling a little bubbly and very emotional. He just received his fervent wish for this holiday and couldn’t be happier.

Weakly, Napoleon motioned that he conveyed the same sentiment to Kuryakin. Attempting to speak, he gestured for Illya to lean close. Kuryakin bent low until his ear was touching Solo’s chin.

“No -- present . . . “ was the hoarse message.

Patting Solo’s arm, Illya kept his head down to conceal the numbing moisture pooling in his eyes.

“My present is already delivered,” he thickly assured.  "Spasibah, moi tovareesh."

Solo nodded, offering a knowing smile.  His limited Russian was able to translate the familiar words -- grateful comments Illya had made before in their insane and dangerous partnership. 

"Thank you, my friend," Kuryakin commented in English, just to be sure the message was received clearly.

The only meaningful gift after this mission was in his possession. His partner’s life.

Merry Christmas