Ilya was released from the infirmary and the two agents rode home to their apartment. Kuryakin undressed and went to take a shower. Napoleon picked up his lover's discarded clothing and started dinner. Leaving his stew to simmer, Napoleon checked on Ilya. He found him seated on their bed staring into space, tears running down his cheeks.
"Is there anything I can do?" Rarely had Napoleon seen his lover crying. Remembering one of his female cousins complaining about mood swings accompanying her pregnancy, Napoleon assumed the hormones being pumped into Ilya's system were behind the Russian's lachrymose state. He wasn't surprised when Ilya shook his head. Both men had a tendancy to want to lick their wounds in private.
"Ilyusha, moi liubov. I'm all at sea here. I don't know what to think. The only thing I'm certain of is that your well-being supersedes any other consideration. The chemical soup that crazy quack put into you is playing with your feelings, mon vieux. Dinner will be ready in about an hour. If you think you can eat, have some. If not, we'll find something that will stay down long enough to do you some good."
"Spasibo, Polya."
"Oh-oh," Napoleon thought. "He's back with the Russian vocabulary." Napoleon sat down next to his lover and hugged him. "Shhh, my love. Sidney is going to find a way out of this. You're going to be fine. Until then, we can both take a little vacation time to figure out what's next." Napoleon instinctively rocked back and forth; his arms full of shivering Russian. "Are you okay?"
"Yes." Ilya managed to get out, then started laughing. Napoleon shook his head and continued with the rocking motion. Ilya finally got his feelings back under the iron control that hid them from everyone except his lover. "How can you be so calm?"
"I'm not. My mind is racing along at a fair clip for which I'm grateful since the thoughts galloping through there are anything but coherent. I'm simply giving you the greatest performance of my career." Napoleon leaned back and brushed the golden strands out of his lover's eyes. "Tell me what you need from me to get through this, and I'll move mountains to do it. If you want to be left alone, I'll make like a hermit. If it's a concerned pair of ears, then I'm your elephant. When you know, tell me. Until then don't forget that I love you, have loved you, and always will love you no matter what you decide or what happens." Napoleon kissed Ilya gently. "I'm going to check on dinner." He stood up, caressed Ilya's cheek and left the bedroom.
Ilya smiled. Napoleon's ability to sense his partner's moods and thoughts was uncanny. Ilya's childhood would have made Dickens shake his head in disbelief. Kuryakin's parents had been murdered before his eyes. He was sent to a gulag and from there to an orphanage that was actually a child brothel. A lifetime of guarding his feelings; weighing every syllable he uttered enabled him to scare the shit out of his UNCLE colleagues when he'd finally made it to the West.
He'd been called the "Ice Prince", the "Silent Siberian" and worse. Ilya had all but given up on making friends with the other agents when Mr. Waverly decided to pair him with Napoleon Solo. Solo was everything Ilya was not: gregarious, urbane, sophisticated, and charming. Wary of each others' reputation, the early months of their partnership were rocky. Solo, as his name implied, preferred working alone. Nevertheless, he set about to woo the prickly Russian whose delicate appearance was excellent cover for a human killing machine.
"A mind like Aristotle's and a form like mortal sin", was how Napoleon secretly described his partner.* Somehow they managed to refrain from killing each other and became tentative, then very good friends. Just over four years into their partnership, Ilya suddenly reverted to his taciturn demeanor. He'd fallen in love with the womanizing Napoleon at their first meeting. Pride kept him silent. A craving for companionship kept him at Solo's side. He'd reached a breaking point.
Mr. Waverly, in another move that seemed like second sight, guessed Ilya's problem and gently nudged Napoleon to look again at his partner. Napoleon needed no urging. He was finding it increasingly difficult to look anywhere else. His numerous "dates" were actually closeted lesbians who used his amorous reputation as "cover". Now, on occasion, Napoleon wondered what these lovely ladies were doing to keep up appearances. When he declared himself to Ilya, he happily took himself off the market.
Ilya rose and went to wash up for dinner. His stomach still ached, but he could live with it. His ability to endure pain was legendary. Once, when an UNCLE nurse was delayed on the way to remove stitches from yet another injury, she walked in on Ilya calmly pulling them out. He never made a sound. The stew smelled delicious. So far so good. He never knew when an aroma would send him hurtling for the nearest waste receptacle.
Napoleon dished up a smallish serving for his partner and a regular portion for himself. Ilya fell on the food like a starving man. When he asked for a second helping, Napoleon urged him to wait awhile. It was a good thing he did, fifteen minutes later, Ilya ran for the bathroom.
"Sorry, Napoleon." Ilya came back still looking a little wan. "It was wonderful even if it didn't stay where it belonged." Ilya was still hungry despite everything.
"Ilya, I've been thinking."
"I recommend the pastime highly." Ilya sipped some water.
"Sidney said the thingie is located over your stomach. Perhaps it's exerting pressure, making it harder for you to digest solid food."
"Why Polya, I'm supposed to be the scientific genius, remember?"
"Yeah, liubov. But it's my turn to experiment." Napoleon scooped some of the stew into their blender and set the controls for "puree". Pouring the thick concoction into a large mug, he handed it to Ilya. Another mugful later, and there was no sign of impending disaster. The two men looked at each other and grinned. "Okay, problem solved. You're now on a liquid diet and eat maybe six or seven small meals a day."
"Brilliant. My teeth will fall out due to lack of excercise, but I think you may have something."
"Don't worry about your teeth. Look at it this way, if you decide to retire, you could make a fortune giving blow jobs."
NS*IK*NS*IK*NS
Ilya tried to return to his work in the lab but found himself unable to concentrate. Pain and nausea made enforcement work impossible. His emotional state had evened out somewhat due to sheer force of will. The pain however, refused to be ignored. His co-scientists respected Kuryakin's brilliant mind but they did not find their boss a very sympathetic character. Ilya's chief assistant, Vashti Suda was a former child prodigy like himself. She noticed her superior moving stiffly and saw the beads of perspiration on his upper lip.
UNCLE was like any other large corporation; a rumor mill. News of Ilya's recent stay in the infirmary had filtered its way through the building. As the two scientists waited for the centrifuge to do its work on a compound they were analyzing, Vashti seized the Russian by the horns. "Ilya Nicolaievitch, you are obviously still in pain from your last mission. Why don't you stretch out in the lounge. I'll call you when this is ready for analysis." Her voice was low. No one else heard.
"I'm fine, Miss Suda. Thank you, but I prefer to keep working." Ilya's attempt at a reassuring smile was grotesque.
"With all due respect, Ilya Nicolaievitch, you are *not* fine. Your hands are shaking. This solution seems to be fairly benign. What happens when you try to handle a less friendly one? If anyone else was acting as you are, you would have sent them home hours ago. I know what it is like to be reluctant to show weakness. You are not in any danger of losing your rank or privileges here."
"Miss Suda...", the centrifuge came to a stop. Both scientists reached for the test tube. Vashti lightly batted Ilya's hand away and retrieved the compound. Frowning, she held it up for him to see.
"The inert material has separated itself very nicely, let me draw off the suspicious portion and we'll run it through the chromatograph." She stood up and headed to another workstation. Ilya remained where he was. When Vashti looked back she nearly dropped the compound. Ilya's face was dead white, his teeth were clenched. Hastily setting the test tube into a secure rack, Vashti went to help her boss.
The other scientists glanced up as the odd pair walked slowly to the lounge. Assuming Ilya was suffering from the flu or some such, they returned their attention to their projects.
"Would you like me to call Mr. Solo?"
"No! Sorry, no thank you. One mother hen is more than enough." Ilya groaned and leaned over towards a trash can.
Vashti waited for her boss's stomach to settle itself. "Can you tell me what's wrong?" She handed him a cup of water from the cooler.
"I might as well. I'd planned to ask for your assistance anyway; just not yet."
"Okay, I'm listening." Ilya explained everything they'd learned thus far and waited for Vashti's humorous reaction. She disappointed and thereby impressed him."I would like to see what's left of Weingarten's notes and all of the results from your tests."
"You believe me?"
"Of course. Ilya Nicolaievitch, although you possess an excellent, if somewhat unorthodox, sense of humor, you'd never make a joke of this sort. Your partner perhaps..." Her light brown eyes shone. "You are a scientist first and last. Your other activities are merely field tests of the work you do here. You do not have to concern yourself with my ability to keep my mouth shut. I knew you were in love with Mr. Solo three weeks after Mr. Waverly assigned you to work with him."
Ilya's mouth fell open. His pain was forgotten for a moment. "How?!?..."
"You and I are a lot alike, Ilya Nicolaievitch. We keep to ourselves and rarely admit anyone within the barriers we've erected against the distractions of what is called human social interaction. We are both cursed with fine minds encased in physical forms that are also highly distracting." She actually blushed and Ilya realized for the first time that she was a very beautiful woman.
"Finally, we are both rather obvious minorities. Although your skin is pale, your accent and national origin belong to a country most Americans consider to be a deadly enemy. I broke your 'code' not long after I started working here. But since my discoveries had little to do with science, I never referred to them."
"Thank you, Vashti. I am in your debt." Ilya said solemly but with a twinkle in his eye.
"Now, why don't we get those files from Dr. Rosenthal and figure out how we can help you walk, stand up, and all of that other nonsense without looking like an eighty year old."
NS*IK*NS*IK*NS
Napoleon wasn't lying when he said his mind was racing. After reading the same paragraph for the fifth time he gave up. Sidney had briefed Mr. Waverly who'd asked to be kept informed of his number two enforcement agent's health status. Citing an unwillingness to unduly tax Ilya's emotional equilibrium, Sidney recommended that both men be pulled from field duty. Mr. Waverly agreed with the stipulation that if an emergency arose, he would have to send Napoleon out with another partner.
Getting himself a sandwich from the cafeteria, Napoleon figured Ilya had forgotten to eat. He added a bowl of chicken noodle soup and some crackers to his tray and headed for the lab. He met a very pale looking partner and Miss Suda on their way to the infirmary. Napoleon swung in behind them.
Dr. Rosenthal was on his own lunch break so the four of them sat down. Napoleon pushed the soup towards his partner who shook his head. He'd gone from an unbecoming white to a bilious green. Sidney got up and fetched a hypodermic from his office. "Drop your trousers a bit, Mr. Kuryakin."
"What is that stuff, Sidney?" Napoleon wanted to know.
"Compazine, a moderate dose." The middle-aged doctor replied as he swabbed a spot high on Ilya's buttocks. Ilya didn't even flinch when the needle went in. Napoleon looked away.
"Chicken." Ilya muttered to his partner.
"Yeah, tovarich and my sister is waiting in that bowl along with a few noodles so eat already."
"Okay, what brings you people to my office? As if I didn't know." Sidney washed his hands and seated himself once more.
"I would like to see Weingarten's notes and the test results you have on Mr. Kuryakin." Vashti said simply. "I'm a chemist; a good one. I'll leave it to the medical professionals to deal with the moral and psychological aspects of this situation. I'll stick to what I know best: pure science. You're going to need someone you can trust to verify the accuracy of your own case notes and process any blood work or tissue samples. I volunteer."
"Thank you, Vashti. The fewer people we bring in on this the better. My partner is a surgeon, so when the time comes, we'll have his expertise *and* his total discretion."
"Ahhm how long have you two worked together?" Napoleon wanted to know.
"We don't. Geoff and I are partners in the same sense that you and Ilya are."
"Why Sidney, you've been holding out on me. My mother always wanted me to marry a doctor."
"You did, Polya. My doctorate is in quantum physics."
"So it is, moi liubov."
"How are you feeling, Ilya?"
"Like shit."
_____________________________________________________________
* ...form like mortal sin. This line was lifted verbatim from James Goldman's play, "The Lion in Winter."
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