Pairing: Illya/Napoleon
Rating: R
Summary: Napoleon freaks.
Disclaimer: Don't own (don't I wish I did??), don't make money (just ask my office), and it is *all* sithdragn's fault! Up one side, down the other, all her fault. All. Her. Fault. Well...Kelly Clarkson might get .01% of the responsibility for this one. The rest is sithdragn's. :-)
Notes: This is the first of a series of three stories. The second story is Storm. Thank you to sithdragn and keely for all the help and support!


Low
by Nicole D'Annais
Copyright 2003


--

Illya forced his jacket over his right shoulder, trying to ignore the pain and stiffness in his left arm as it stretched. Exercises or no, his body felt every one of the six weeks of enforced inactivity. There was only so much one could do to keep the body limber in a bed.

Well, at least as long as one was confined to a hospital bed. He'd learned many ways to test his flexibility and his muscle strength in a bed over the six months prior to his hospital stay.

Which led him back to the question foremost in his mind: Where the devil was Napoleon? It was unlike the man not to visit Illya in the medical ward. There'd been no visit since the first time Illya had woken up after surgery to find Napoleon asleep in a chair, his head resting on Illya's arm on the hospital bed. They'd had only a few quiet moments once Napoleon woke up before the nurse had come in and ushered Napoleon out.

Six weeks had gone by without another visit. And careful questions to others about Napoleon's whereabouts had yielded nothing but evasions. Illya had gone so far as to ask Mark Slate if Napoleon was dead. Mark's surprise had been enough to convince Illya of Napoleon's physical well-being, but he knew something was wrong And now Illya was finally being sent home, and Napoleon was not there to take him.

Definitely something wrong.

Mark knocked on the hospital room door, entering at Illya's invitation. "How are you feeling?" he asked--a question Illya was getting heartily sick of.

"Ready to run a marathon. Mark--"

"Waverly wants a word before we go."

Illya's eyebrows shot up. "We?"

"I'm your ride home, mate."

"But where--"

"Better not keep Waverly waiting," Mark broke in, ushering Illya out of the room and towards the elevator.

Illya bit his tongue. Perhaps Mr. Waverly would have an explanation. It was clear Mark was not going to be of any use. He was sure he wasn't imagining the look of sympathy on Karen's face as she let them through to Waverly's office without a word.

It was only as the door closed behind him that Illya realized 'we' was in fact 'he.' Mark had remained in the reception area.

"Well, Mr. Kuryakin, nice to see you up and about."

"Thank you, sir."

Mr. Waverly nodded, taking a seat at the conference table. Illya followed suit, unsure how to ask the questions in his mind. "You've still got two weeks before you're back to active duty, yes?" Illya nodded. "Well, that's plenty of time for us to find you a new partner."

Illya blinked. "I'm sorry, a new what?"

Mr. Waverly looked genuinely surprised. "Hasn't Mr. Solo spoken to you?"

"No, sir," Illya said, working to get his heart rate back under control. "I've not seen him since I first woke up."

"Oh, dear. I would have thought.... Well, I apologize. Mr. Solo has tendered his resignation from UNCLE."

Illya shook his head, wondering if he'd been given the wrong drugs that morning. "Napoleon resigned?"

"I'm afraid so."

"When?"

"Yesterday."

The day they'd made the decision to release Illya from the medical ward. There had to be a connection. But what? "And you accepted his resignation?"

"UNCLE has a great deal of power, Mr. Kuryakin, but even we cannot force law-abiding citizens to work here."

"Sorry, sir." Sensing no more answers would be forthcoming, Illya rose. "I would like to go home, unless there is anything else?"

"No, that's all. I'm glad you are recovering."

"Thank you, sir." Without another word, Illya strode out of the office. Mark jumped up, matching his stride as they headed for the elevator to the parking garage.

Illya waited until they were in Mark's car before he asked, "What's going on, Mark?"

"I'm taking you home."

"Don't be obtuse. You know what I mean."

Mark sighed. "Damned if I know," he answered finally. "Napoleon's been impossible since you were shot. I don't know what happened in that basement, Illya, but medical had a hell of a time identifying the bloke who shot you. His face was a mess."

"Really?" There had been nothing wrong with the man when Illya had last seen him, just before the bullet had ripped through his stomach. Though his vision had been somewhat strained, mostly due to the blood loss from the bullet in his right shoulder. "Then what happened?"

"Napoleon stayed in your room, refused to leave, and waited for you to wake up. Once you did, he went back to work. But he was different."

His patience sorely lacking, Illya waited only a few seconds before prompting, "Different?"

"Almost numb. I mean, the man acts superficial anyway, but since you woke up, it's like there was nothing at all behind his eyes, you know what I mean? Walking dead."

Illya frowned. While he disagreed with 'superficial,' he understood. You had to truly know Napoleon to see the hidden depths there. And very few people were allowed that privilege. But.... "I don't understand."

"It's like...what's that phrase, 'The lights are on but nobody's home?' That's been Napoleon. He acts the same, but that's all it seems to be. An act."

Illya looked out the window. "You're going the wrong way."

"No, I'm not. You live--:

"We're not going to my apartment. We're going to Napoleon's."

They drove half a block before the expected, "Illya...."

"You can drive me there, or you can take me home and I'll drive myself."

"In this traffic? With one arm?"

"Good. We agree. Now turn around."

Mark swore, but he made a sharp u-turn at the next intersection and began backtracking to Napoleon's apartment. Illya sat back in the seat and told himself the sudden queasiness in his stomach was due to Mark's driving.

***

By the time Illya reached Napoleon's door, he'd decided against knocking. No need to give him warning and time to climb out the window to escape. Illya used his key to unlock the door and stepped inside, only to decide Napoleon didn't have to climb out the window. Illya would throw him out himself. There were boxes everywhere. Packing boxes. The apartment looked as if no one lived in it. "NAPOLEON!"

He had heard packing sounds from the direction of the bedroom, but at his angry yell, they stopped. Illya stormed through the living room to the bedroom to find Napoleon standing in front of his closet, a handful of ties over an open box, looking as if he wasn't sure whether to hide or run. And the room smelled like a scotch factory. As Illya watched, a mask of calm slid over Napoleon's face. "Shouldn't you be at home?"

The words were almost calm, but someone who knew him could detect the tremble underneath. "Shouldn't you be at work?" He was impressed that he was able to keep his own voice under such tight control.

"I'm unemployed."

"So I heard. Were you planning to say goodbye?"

"Illya--"

"No." His control broke. "Whatever you're going to say, it isn't going to be enough. Six weeks, Napoleon. Six weeks! You never came to see me, and now you're leaving? Just like that?"

Napoleon dropped the ties into the box and reached for the bottle of scotch on the bed. "I did go to see you," he said, before he finished half of what little was left in the bottle. "I saw you every day."

"I know I was a bit disoriented at times," Illya responded with a scowl, "but I think I would have remembered you."

"I came to see you. I didn't go in." He finished the bottle. "I stood outside and watched you, hooked up to all those wires and machines, and I couldn't go in."

"This is hardly the first time I've been in the hospital, Napoleon." Though it was by far the worst injury he had ever sustained.

A long moment stretched between them before Napoleon moved, flipping the bottle in the trashcan by the door as he walked out of the room. The sound of breaking glass echoed through the hall as he disappeared from sight. Illya saw the remains of what looked to be at least three bottles of Napoleon's favorite scotch before he followed his partner out into the living room.

His head buried in a box, Napoleon let out a triumphant noise as he emerged with another full bottle. He headed back to the bedroom as if Illya were invisible.

"Napoleon!" Illya followed him again. "I can't even begin to count the number of times I've been injured. Why should this be any different?"

"Because."

Illya glared at him. "That's not an answer."

Napoleon wrangled the lid off the bottle of scotch and took a long drink. "You want an answer? Look somewhere else. In fact, I thought you'd get the hint by now that you should do that anyway."

"What?"

"Come on, Illya. We both knew that it couldn't last."

Illya wondered again if he should call the doctor and check to see he received the proper medication. "That's not what you said the night before...before I ended up in the hospital. As I recall, it was something to the effect of, 'forever, always--'"

"I know what I said," Napoleon broke in before taking another drink. "And I was wrong." He looked down at the box of ties. "I'm not built that way, Illya."

"Liar." Napoleon had been married, at least until--

Oh.

Illya could have smacked himself for forgetting. "Napoleon... I'm not Cathy."

Napoleon's head shot up. "What's that got to do with it?"

"I know her death was particularly hard, but--"

"What, exactly, would you know about having to pull the plug on someone you were planning to spend the rest of your life with?" Before Illya could respond, Napoleon shook his head. "It doesn't matter. It's over, Illya. You, me, UNCLE--it's over." His shoulders sagged and he went back to putting ties in the box.

"Napoleon."

"Please. Go." The words were ground out through tightly clenched teeth.

Illya sighed. Drunken, determined Napoleon was impossible to deal with. He would try again tomorrow. He could fix this. He knew he could. Napoleon just needed some time.

"Fine. I'll go. But I'll be back." Illya started to reach out to touch Napoleon's arm, but Napoleon shrunk back as if afraid of the touch. Not knowing what else to do or say, Illya walked out of the room and out of the apartment, glad of Mark's presence downstairs.

At least he didn't have to try to drive himself home.

***

Illya climbed the steps wearily to his floor. The paperwork that had piled up on his desk, thanks to Napoleon's distraction and his own convalescence, was quite large and tiring. Ten calls to Napoleon's apartment that day had been met with ten long periods of ringing with no answer, which was tiring in its own way.

He would eat something and then if Napoleon still would not answer his phone, he would go to Napoleon's apartment and try again.

Three steps inside the door, he had a feeling he was about to be even more tired. A cardboard box sat on the couch with a piece of paper on top. Even from the door, Illya recognized the unsteady scrawl on the paper as Napoleon's. Heart pounding, Illya forced himself to cross the small room and read the note.

Illya-

Here's everything you left at my place. By the time you get this, I'll be gone. Please, don't try to find me. I'm sorry--I tried to be someone I'm not for you and--I'm sorry.

Napoleon