Work Text:
Act I: The Catalyst For a Date Gone Wrong
Napoleon Solo sat staring down into the amber liquid as he awaited the arrival of his date. A beautiful redhead, Vanessa was the independent type that Napoleon felt drawn to of late. This one liked to make a grand entrance, all eyes on her, depriving of the gallantry of picking her up and walking in with her on his arm, hence the reason he was seated alone, waiting. His thoughts drifted as he thought of the wonderful evening ahead.
“Are you ready to order, sir?”
Napoleon returned from his musing to look up at the waiter standing by his side, motioning toward the chair across from his. “The lady appears to be running a little late.”
With a slight nod, the waiter left, his presence soon replaced by that of the hostess. Giving her his most charming smile as she handed him a folded note, his smile vanished as he read that his date would not be able to make it after all. With a sigh, he folded the note then slipped it into his vest pocket, then picked up his glass and finished it off.
He had never liked dining alone so he decided to have one last drink at the bar before leaving. “Once more, Bobby,” he requested as he sat down on a stool. In reality he wasn’t really that disappointed that Vanessa had failed to show. Sure she was gorgeous and talented in bed, but she lacked personality. In effect she was a dumb blonde, without being blonde. He was so very tired of dating women of low intellect. His drink arrived and he smiled, his thoughts drifting in another direction-to his partner. Now there was a conversationalist, someone who could talk about almost any subject. He might not chat much, but once on a topic he really had an interest in there was no stopping him.
Napoleon smiled into his drink. Illya wasn’t bad looking either…he frowned…just where had that thought coming from. He’d never thought of his partner in that way before, and he was damn sure Illya never had such thoughts either. Besides with his partner’s various skills, he wasn’t ready to die in one of a hundred different ways. Finishing his second drink he didn’t remember ordering the third or the fourth or…
Illya Kuryakin was ensconced in a comfortable chair catching up on one of the many technical journals he had not had time to read. Suddenly his communicator emitted a piercing beep. He absentmindedly reached over to pick it up off the side table, barely missing the remains of pizza that he had ordered earlier.
“Kuryakin here.”
“Mr. Kuryakin…Illya?” Illya looked at his communicator in surprise. Mr. Waverly’s confidential assistant rarely used his first name.
“Yes?”
“We’ve just received a call from the Oak Room.”
The Oak Room, ah yes, Napoleon was meeting his current love interest there for a romantic supper.
“They requested we send someone over to pick up Mr. Solo.”
His eyebrows rose to the top of his forehead. “Did they say why?”
"Evidently he’s had too much to drink.”
Illya frowned. That was very unlike his partner. “Does Mr. Waverly know?”
“I didn’t feel it necessary to inform him.”
Thank goodness for small favors. “I’ll leave now. Kuryakin out.” He hurriedly walked into his shoes and reached for his gun. Grabbing his coat, Illya wondered what could have caused Napoleon to lose such control that someone had to be called to cart him home. As he entered the posh restaurant, Illya noticed the looks of distain cast his way for his casual attire. He did not let this bother him as he searched the dimly lit room for Napoleon.
“Mr. Kuryakin.” It was the familiar sexy voice of the hostess. “He’s gone to the men’s room. We’ve never seen Mr. Solo like this before and thought it best to call,” she said softly.
“Do you know why?” Kuryakin questioned.
The hostess shrugged. “He got a message from his date canceling?”
Nodding he turned toward the men’s room in time to see his partner making his unsteady way back to the bar. Behind him trailed an anxious looking waiter. Solo was a regular here and a big tipper, which meant he was treated very well.
Illya’s eyebrows rose as he saw his partner weaving over toward a stool, and try to sit down almost missing it. Making his way over to Napoleon, Illya gave a grateful nod to the waiter who looked relieved that someone had arrived.
Napoleon catching sight of him hailed him. “Hiya, Hiya, Hiya,…if it isn’t my…good friend …Ill…Illya…hick…what brings you here?”
“I’ve come to take you home.”
“Don’t wanna go.” Napoleon shook his head vigorously, managing at the same time to signal for another drink.
“I realize that having the spectacular Valerie cancel…”
“Pfzzzz! Her name’s not Valerie… it’s…it’s…” Napoleon frowned unable to remember. “It dos’n matter… don’t care….she lacks intell….intelly…brains.”
“Really?” Illya asked curiously. He would have thought that little distinction would not matter and was more curious as to what had brought about Napoleon’s inebriated state. “Never mind, just answer me this. Why are you so discombobulated?”
“What?” Napoleon looked at his partner unsteadily and seemingly surprised. “Is that a word?”
Illya pointed to the many glasses set in front of him. “Why are you drinking so much?”
Giggling Napoleon looked fondly at his friend. He winked and put a finger to his lip. “Can’t tell. You…urp…wouldn’t understand.” He frowned and muttered to himself. “Hell , even I don’t understand.” Blinking he looked closer and saw that there were two Illya’s. “Though, he might.” He pointed to a blank space just to the left of Illya.
Illya looked to the side and let out an exasperated sigh, shaking his head he reached for his partner. “Let’s get you out of here.”
With as much dignity as he could muster, Napoleon stood up tall. “I…I’m purfactly cupble of walking by myself.”
With a slight smile, Illya moved back and waved him forward. With a confident cockeyed grin Napoleon took three steps forward before passing out. Fortunately Illya managed to catch him before he hit the floor. Bringing one of Napoleon’s arms over his shoulder, Illya proceeded to cart him out of the restaurant amid stares from the other patrons.
Arriving at the door to Solo’s apartment, Illya propped him against a wall and reached into his pocket for his keys. Unfortunately while he turned the key in the lock Napoleon started to slide down the wall. Gathering him by the front of his jacket, Illya quickly pulled him back up and held him in place while he opened the door, dragging him inside.
Somehow Napoleon managed to get away from him and staggered toward the sofa where he promptly fell, face down over the arm.
Shaking his head with amusement, Illya moved around the sofa, enjoying the ridiculous spectacle Napoleon made with his legs hanging over the edge of the sofa arm. Squatting down to Napoleon’s level, Illya lifted Napoleon’s eyelid to check to see if he was okay. He fell backwards as Napoleon quickly came off the sofa, surprising Illya, and made swiftly his way to the bathroom.
Illya started to follow, paused upon hearing sounds of retching and decided the better course would be not to.
Soon Napoleon, his tie undone, staggered back out into the living room looking much the worse for wear.
“Are you feeling better now?” Illya couldn’t remember ever seeing this side of his partner, he usually held his liquor better than this.
Napoleon stood holding onto the door jam and nodded. Suddenly turning a sickening shade of green he turned back around and headed back into the bathroom, this time Illya followed him. He found his friend kneeling in front of the porcelain bowl, his head lying against the rim. “Didn’t you eat anything?”
Napoleon just shook his head no, not having the strength to do anything else.
Illya went to the sink, filled a glass with mouthwash, and offered it to Napoleon. After he used it to rinse his mouth, Illya carted him into the bedroom and dropped him across the bed. He went back into the bathroom, wet a washcloth and proceeded to place it on Napoleon’s head. Turning on the light on the bedside table, he managed to remove Napoleon’s jacket and holster, removing the clip from the gun he set them on the dresser within easy reach. Next he removed Napoleon’s shoes and lifted his feet up onto the bed, reached for the blanket to pull over the now comatose man.
At least that’s what he thought until he turned to leave and a hand grabbed the sleeve of his jacket. He looked down, seeing a petulant little boy pout on Napoleon’s face.
“Don’t go.”
Turning back, Illya settled with his back against the headboard and sighed. “I won’t,” he promised as the hand changed from a grip of his jacket to a grip on his wrist. Illya leaned back having decided it best not to leave Napoleon alone.
Illya opened his eyes the next morning and remembered the reason for his being in Napoleon’s bed. He looked down at his partner who had at least released his grip sometime during the night and looked a lot more peaceful. Carefully so as not to disturb Napoleon, he got up and headed for the kitchen to make some coffee.
He was pouring a cup when Napoleon appeared at the door, looking better than he had the night before. “Do you want to talk about it?” Illya asked as he handed him a filled cup.
Shaking his head ‘no’ Napoleon took a couple of sips from the steaming cup. “Thank you.”
“For what?”
“For looking out for me.”
“It was nothing. You would do the same for me.”
Napoleon’s lips twitched upward. A queasy look came over his face and suddenly he dropped the cup, covered his mouth, rushed to the sink as the coffee hit his stomach and came back up. Straightening up Napoleon turned to assure Illya that he was all right when he started to convulse and dropped to the floor.
Illya rushed over and squatted down to check his vital signs even as he pulled out his pen communicator to contacted U.N.C.L.E. Headquarter. “Channel D. Emergency, Agent down this location.” He threw the pen down when he noticed Napoleon was no longer breathing and began giving mouth-to-mouth resuscitation.
Act II: Death Comes Knocking
The medical team rushed the gurney down the hall, with Kuryakin racing behind. As Napoleon was lifted onto a table, Illya found himself being pushed into a corner while the doctors hurried over to examine his partner. They no sooner started his examination when Napoleon started to convulse again.
Suddenly nurses were everywhere, the doctors were shouting orders and Illya found himself pushed outside the room. He was still standing there, staring at the closed curtain when Mr. Waverly arrived.
“Mr. Kuryakin, what’s the status on Mr. Solo?”
Before Illya could answer one of the doctors came wearily out from behind the curtain. He slowly shook his head. “I’m sorry…” Sorry?
Illya was suddenly paralyzed with fear. It wasn’t possible…he couldn’t mean…no!
“Are you positive?” Mr. Waverly’s demeanor was one of agitation. “And the cause?”
“We won’t know until the autopsy is performed. I’m afraid it will have to be later today.”
Nodding, Mr. Waverly turned to look at the younger man. He started to say something then changed his mind. With a deep sigh of regret at the loss of his top agent Alexander Waverly turned to go back to his office. Arrangements would have to be made.
Illya’s mind was a complete blank; he couldn’t quite take it all in. The doctor had left him alone with his grief and he had to lean against the wall for support. Slowly he slid down, and buried his face against his knees. This could not be happening. He was still in that position when Lisa Rogers arrived.
Mr. Waverly had sent her to…she wasn’t sure why…to comfort him perhaps? Stooping down to his level she placed a hand on his arm and suggested, “Mr. Kuryakin, Illya, you need to go home. We’ll call you once arrangements have been completed.”
Illya looked up, his eyes stony. Just then a gurney was wheeled out of the room with a sheet covered body and one toe hanging out along with a tag denoting time of death. Illya got up, nodded to Lisa, and followed the gurney down the hall. He sat in the sterile room, his face in his hands.
The only other thing in the room was the gurney holding Napoleon’s body. Napoleon was an agent. Agents come and go, some die. He should not let this death affect him so much. But this wasn’t just some agent; this was his partner, his friend, the CEA of U.N.C.L.E.
Suddenly there was a sound, a gasping of breath as if that of a drowning man. Illya looked up in shock to see his partner’s supposedly dead body sitting up.
Napoleon sat up gasping for breath, trying to slow down his breathing. He felt his partner beside him and reached out to clutch him, grounding him to the here and now. “I had the most horrible dream. I dreamt that I’d died…” He stopped in shock, noting the fact that he was covered by only a sheet and that there was a tag attached to his toe.
“I will go get the doctor,” Illya informed him, alarmed yet relieved that Napoleon was not dead.
Napoleon grabbed at him before he could move away. “No. No. Please don’t do that,” he begged.
Illya looked at him questioningly.
“Get me out of here, Illya, I can’t explain why yet. But I need to be away from here…to sort this all out.”
“At least let me contact Mr. Waverly.”
“No!” Napoleon shook his head vehemently. “No one, please.”
Sighing, Illya agreed. “Well, you can’t go anywhere dressed, or should I say not dressed like that. I’ll go find you some clothing.” As he turned to leave he glanced back at his partner who was lying back down to await his return.
Getting Napoleon out undetected could pose a problem. But Illya wasn’t Number Two Section Two for nothing. There were a few tricks he knew of that might work.
Act III: The Truth Comes Out
They made it to Illya’s apartment. Sitting on the couch, running his hand through his dark hair, Napoleon Solo did not look his usual dapper self, dressed as he was wearing the sweat suit Illya had managed to retrieve from his locker.
Illya went into the kitchen to fix some coffee, and then thought better of it remembering what happened the last time, bringing Napoleon some water instead.
“Thank you,” Napoleon said as he took the glass.
Staring at his partner with piercing blue eyes, Illya asked, “Why did you not want me to call medical?”
How could he explain even to Illya that his reason was so thin, that there were no facts to back them up? Looking into the worried eyes of his partner, Napoleon ventured the only excuse he could come up with, “I’d already been pronounced dead once, I didn’t want it to happen again.”
Illya’s eyes widened at that and he had a sudden thought. “What exactly do you remember?”
Leaning back against the cushion Napoleon thought. “The Oak Room….you…my apartment…” his heart started beating faster. “You,” his voice sank to a mere whisper and he started to convulse again.
Illya jumped up from his chair and pulled Napoleon down to the floor. Laying him flat, he checked Napoleon’s airway and decided to give him mouth-to-mouth again. As he went to work, his mind raced with plans of what to do if this didn’t work, suddenly Napoleon let out a gasp trying to pull in fresh air.
Illya pulled Napoleon to a sitting position against his chest, holding him for dear life. Willing him not to die again.
Napoleon came back to conscience only to find his upper body pressed against Illya’s, feeling his arms holding him in place. He put his hands over those arms to keep them there. Taking a deep breath, he twisted his head to look Illya in the eye. “Would you mind doing that again?”
“Napoleon!” Illya scowled down at the dark head in front of him. “Let me call medical.”
To which Napoleon violently shook his head.
“At least let me call Mr. Waverly.” He’d already lost his friend once and didn’t want to chance losing him again.
Napoleon just looked at him with those warm brown eyes and brought his arm up and around Illya’s head, pressing his lips to Illya’s own. The kiss was soft and gentle and he was grateful that Illya didn’t resist.
In fact Illya seemed to be getting into the spirit of it when…his communicator went off. Pulling away from Napoleon, Illya reached into his pocket for his communicator. Clearing his throat first, he said with just a slight breathlessness, “Kuryakin here.”
“Mr. Kuryakin, where exactly is here?” came the grumpy voice of his superior.
“My apartment, Sir.”
Napoleon was still leaning against his chest and he felt no desire to remove him.
A sigh came over his pen. “I’m sorry to have to inform you of this, but it appears Mr. Solo’s body has disappeared. You wouldn’t by any chance know anything about that would you?” Waverly’s voice made it plain that he suspected something of the kind.
Napoleon took hold of the hand containing the communicator and pulled it to him. “I’m here, Sir.”
There was a pause on the line and Napoleon wished that he could see Mr. Waverly’s expression.
“I take it you’re not dead,” Mr. Waverly responded dryly.
Napoleon considered those words. Waverly’s reaction had not been to say you’re alive, but you’re not dead. “I’ll have someone from medical over there in twenty minutes.”
Illya took back the pen. “Sir, Napoleon refused to see anyone from medical.”
“Hummph.” Mr. Waverly considered the fact that Napoleon had arrived in medical and been pronounced dead and countered it with the fact that he was most definitely alive now. “I see your point. Perhaps it would be best if you stayed were you are now, in Mr. Kuryakin’s capable hands. I’ll contact a doctor I know…not U.N.C.L.E…and get back to you. Waverly out.”
Napoleon turned in Illya’s arms and looked up at him with a wide smile. “You heard the man.” He reached up to pull Illya’s head down for another kiss.
When they finally broke for air Illya shook his head. “We shouldn’t be doing this. What would Mr. Waverly say?”
“I know,” Napoleon murmured softly as he drew Illya’s lips down once again to claim them. “We could always say we are working on Russian-American relations.”
“Napoleon!!” Illya pushed him away and tried not to smile. He was beginning to fill a little cramped, sitting on the floor. “This position is not very comfortable; I suggest that we adjourn to my bedroom?”
They entered Illya’s rather stark bedroom and Napoleon looked around, his facial expression one of distaste.
Illya shook his head. “Napoleon, I realize this is not the Ritz, but I hadn’t really planned that we…”
“I know,” Napoleon’s voice was one of regret. “It’s just that some silk sheets, a couple of fluffy pillows would be nice.” Napoleon’s criticism was met by Illya throwing his partner on the bed and stripping him of all his clothing. Holding Napoleon’s arms down above his head he said menacingly, “Decadent American. Remember this could be a dark and dingy THRUSH cell.”
Napoleon tried very hard not to smile. “Sounds interesting, remind me the next time we’re trapped in a THRUSH cell.” With a twist he managed to maneuver his partner underneath him intent on returning the favor. Soon they were both out of breath and breathing hard. Napoleon broke away reluctantly. “We need something…do you have any lubricant?” he asked breathlessly.
Illya looked at him indignantly. “No, why would I need…”
Napoleon just made a growling sound and scooted off the bed heading into the bathroom to raid Illya’s medicine cabinet. Toothpaste, deodorant, aspirin, baby oil…baby oil? With triumphant he grabbed the bottle and headed back to the bed.
Illya was lying on his side, his head propped up on his hand watching Napoleon’s approach with a soft smile.
* Beep*
Not now, Napoleon thought with total frustration, as Illya leaped from the bed in search of his pen. Finally managing to locate it he activated it. “Kuryakin, here.”
“Mr. Kuryakin, it took you long enough. I was beginning to worry, I hope nothing is wrong?”
“No, sir.” Illya glanced at Napoleon and saw him mouth the words, “not yet.”
Waverly continued, unaware of what he had unintentionally interrupted. “I’ve manage to get Mr. Solo an appointment with an old friend of mine for nine o’clock tomorrow morning. Here is the address…”
Illya tried to write the information down, but Napoleon was standing behind him, nuzzling his neck, making it difficult to concentrate. Illya tried to swat him away, finally managing to push him toward the bed. “I have it, sir.”
“Very well, Mr. Kuryakin, carry on. Waverly out.”
Napoleon relaxed on the bed looking smug. “You heard the man, Kuryakin, carry on,” he said with a lascivious grin.
With a chuckle Illya climbed back onto the bed and took the bottle of oil from Napoleon’s hand. “Yes, but you are not well and should not exert yourself.” He proceeded to play Napoleon’s body like a musical instrument.
Napoleon lay back enjoying the sensation of someone else taking the lead. Eventually he turned Napoleon over on his stomach and put both pillows beneath him.
Opening the baby oil, Illya coated his fingers. He gently massaged the muscles of Napoleon’s rear cheeks, than parting them, slid one finger into the puckered hole. Napoleon was extremely tight. Leaning closer to him, Illya whispered. “Napoleon, you need to relax.”
Relax?….the man wants him to relax…how? And suddenly he let his imagination take over.
Before long Illya could feel Napoleon relaxing against his fingers. He positioned himself before entering him and looked down at Napoleon’s face. Napoleon had a dreamy look on his face and as Illya took him, he had to ask, “Napoleon, what are you thinking of?”
“Augh.” His muscles tightened for just a minute as he was pierced, then relaxed again. “Floating on a blue ocean…with a bright blue sky…the color of your eyes.” Illya was pumping into him gently. “A white sandy beach…and you…you remove your trunks.”
Illya froze. “In front of all those people?” he asked, shocked at the thought.
Napoleon chuckled. “No, it’s a private beach. I come out of the water toward you…in a suit no less and…”
About that time both of them lost all coherent thought as the passion of the moment claimed them both. Napoleon slowly came back to awareness and turned over to look at his partner. Then his nose twitched as he noticed the wet and sticky spot he was currently lying in. Getting out of bed he gingerly made his way to the bathroom. What he needed was a nice warm bath. He filled the tub wishing Illya had some bubble bath, and lay back sort of floating away on the memories of what they had just done.
Illya came into the bathroom and threw the dirty sheets in a corner. Going over, he sat on the edge of the tub watching his friend, whose eyes were closed, looking totally relaxed. He couldn’t help himself, he had to know. “What are you thinking about now?” he asked softly.
Napoleon opened one eye and then closed it again. “Um a big tub…lots of bubbles…” He opened his eye again. “You. Care to join me?”
“That tub is much too small, and I fear if I join you we’ll be very late for your doctor’s appointment. I too need to clean up you know.”
So with a grunt Napoleon pulled the plug and got out of the tub. “Groan.”
Illya grabbed hold of him to help. “Does it hurt?” he asked anxiously.
“A little, but this hurt is the kind I could grow to love.” Illya smirked. Napoleon toweled himself dry and put on the only clothes he had, the sweat suit from yesterday.
Illya soon emerged from the bathroom, his hair still damp, and dressed in his usual black. “We do not have much time.” They drove in silence on the way to see the doctor Mr. Waverly had recommended.
Act IV: Diagnosis
Illya was doing the driving since he didn’t dare trust Napoleon not to have another attack while behind the wheel. After all they still did not know what had caused the reaction. What had followed would change everything. Perhaps, if they were very, very discrete. He spared a glance at his partner. Napoleon was staring out the window. “Napoleon?”
“Yes, Illya?” Napoleon responded calmly.
Illya sighed. “You’re not going to make this easy are you.”
Napoleon turned to look at him, the ends of his mouth twitching. “No.”
Trying to be reasonable Illya continued, “We’re playing with fire here.”
“Come on, Illya, have a little faith in the Solo luck.” Napoleon reached over to caress Illya’s thigh.
Illya had to clamp his jaw shut to keep back a moan. “Napoleon, I’m trying to drive here.”
Taking his hand away Napoleon just smiled.
They had been shown into an examination room and Napoleon was asked to undress and put on a skimpy gown. The nurse had tried to get Illya to wait in the waiting room, but hadn’t been successful. When Napoleon had changed, she came back in to do the preliminary checkup, making notes on a chart before leaving.
Sometime later the doctor came into the room, reading the chart and ignoring his patient. He was tall and thin, with dark hair going grey on the sides. Looking over his glasses he assessed the situation. What he saw was a dark-haired young man sitting on the examination table and a smaller blond man fidgeting in a chair in the corner.
So this was the hot-shot agent Alex was always talking about. “I’m Dr. Benjamin Pierce. Alex asked me to check you over. Care to tell me what happened?”
Solo stared at him and said simply, “I died.”
Smartass, Dr. Pierce thought. “I see, would you care to elaborate on that a just a tiny bit more?”
“Not really,” was the stony reply.
Illya broke in, coming to the rescue, giving a complete and concise account of what had occurred.
Dr. Pierce took it all in and asked, “And you are?”
“Illya Kuryakin, his partner.”
Nodding, Dr. Pierce turned back to Napoleon and asked, “Do you have any idea as to why you suddenly stopped breathing?” Napoleon glanced at his partner then looked down, said softly, “No.”
He’s lying, thought Pierce, I wonder why? But all he said was, “Okay take off the gown and let’s get this examination rolling.”
Sometime later he stood there flipping through his chart. This had been a very thorough examination since he didn’t really know what he was looking for. Blood pressure was a little high, but that was to be expected. Respiration was normal, temperature normal, nothing in the urine sample. Hmmm, that was odd. He spared a glace over to Kuryakin who seemed a little tense and put two and two together. “Get dressed and both of you meet me in my office.”
An hour later, alone in his office, Dr. Pierce picked up the phone and dialed Alexander Waverly’s private number. “Alexander Waverly, please. This is Dr. Pierce calling”
“Benjamin, how are you?” came the voice over the phone.
“Finest kind, Alex, Finest kind.”
Mr. Waverly grunted. “So what’s wrong with my top agent?”
“Not a thing.”
“Not a thing? The man died!!”
“So I hear, I checked him out from top to bottom. EKG, everything, there is nothing wrong. The only thing I can figure is, it’s psychosomatic. Should come in handy in his line of work.”
“Hmmph, Benjamin, is it going to be a problem?”
“Not really, just keep that little blond guy near him and he’ll be fine.”
“How can I thank you, Benjamin?”
“Think nothing of it. Wait until you get my bill.” A spark of evilness lighted his eyes. Setting the phone back on its cradle, Dr. Pierce leaned back in his chair and propped his feet on his desk.
He went over the talk he had had with the two men right before he made the call. He smiled as he remembered the twinkle in Solo’s eyes when he had given them the a huge tube of a new lubricant, one that a pharmaceutical representative had left with him, nor the blush that had come over Kuryakin when he had warned them about the necessity of not letting too much time pass between encounters. He’d gotten a smirk out of Solo with that. He supposed he could have explained it all to Alexander, but really he didn’t have a need to know, patient confidentiality and all. Plus they did make a cute couple.
The End