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The Mirror, Mirror Affair

by Nix
(crimsonquills AT crimsonquills DOT com)

---

Author's Notes: I have many thanks to tender with this one. First of all, to Nicole D'Annais, who sat with me through literally every hour that I spent writing this. That's a whole lot of hours. To my beta, who pointed out two huge errors (one structural, one emotional)--I sure hope I have fixed them sufficiently. To Sithdragn and Nicole (again) for answering bizarre and obscure MfU questions, since at the time I started this I had not seen a single episode. And to my parents, strangely enough, because they (a) answered weird questions about the 1960's nearly every day I worked on the story, and (b) didn't get pissed off at me when I woke them up in the middle of the night to ask how much a really expensive tuxedo would cost in 1967. I swear, I didn't realize what time it was.

---

Mirror, mirror on the wall / Who's the fairest of them all?

The first thing to slide into Napoleon's awareness was the smell, the harsh scent of antiseptic that marked hospitals everywhere. Well, not quite everywhere, which meant he was in a city large enough to have a modern hospital. Either that or UNCLE medical, which he felt was more likely.

He found himself automatically listening for the heart monitor, but the steady bleep was missing. I know I'm not dead, Napoleon thought wryly, so where is it? It didn't seem likely that medical would run out of them, not unless things had gone very badly indeed on their last affair. So if he wasn't injured badly enough to need a heart monitor, then why was he in medical at all?

For that matter, what were his injuries?

Napoleon, concentrated, eyes still closed, trying to orient himself before he admitted consciousness. He and Illya had been trying to take down a THRUSH scientific installation. They'd gotten inside without much trouble, had actually surprised the scientist in her lab. She'd had a little more common sense than the usual THRUSH--she'd tossed the beaker she'd been holding and bolted for the back door.

Tossed the beaker...

Illya had stepped away from him, trying to flank the woman, and she'd flung out her hand. Napoleon had flinched away, hands coming up instinctively to protect his eyes. What the hell was in that beaker? he wondered. It had felt wet for an instant before the pain started... The only thing Napoleon remembered between that moment and now was a momentary coldness.

He turned his attention from the past to his current situation. There were dressings on his chest and right arm. My hand? He almost panicked for a moment, but a slight twitch told him that his fingers weren't dressed, though they did hurt a little.

"Napoleon?"

Illya. Napoleon slowly blinked his eyes open and found his partner leaning over from a chair next to his bed. It was UNCLE medical, not a hospital. He tried to speak, but his mouth was startlingly dry. Illya glanced aside and reached out. A moment later his hand came into view holding a cup with a short straw sticking out of it. Napoleon sipped gratefully.

"Illya," he managed, "what happened?"

"What do you remember?"

"We surprised a woman in the THRUSH lab," Napoleon said. "She threw something at me. After that...not much."

Illya just nodded. "The chemical in the beaker was very much like an acid. Something THRUSH had been working on, we think." He hesitated. "You should know, as these things go, it was not a particularly...corrosive compound and I got you into the emergency shower as quickly as possible. You will recover full use of your hand and arm and there was no lung damage at all, which is remarkable--"

"Illya," Napoleon interrupted. "You're practically babbling." Which, they both knew, was very much unlike him. A knot began to grow in Napoleon's gut. Where was the doctor? Usually they appeared to harass him almost immediately after he woke. Illya hadn't even called for one.

"I just want you to know," his partner was saying, "that you'll be out of here soon. It'll be two weeks, perhaps less, before Waverly will put you back on active status."

Napoleon was listening with half an ear. Still no doctor. Normally he'd be happy enough not to be poked and prodded, but a departure from routine in UNCLE's medical section was worrisome. Normally the staff hardly let Section Two agents out of their sight, as if afraid they'd sneak off at the first opportunity.

Why would they leave him alone with his partner for this long? And why was Illya blathering on like this? Well, there was one way to find out...

"Illya," Napoleon said firmly, "you're avoiding something. That's not like you."

Illya's mouth snapped shut and he glared at his partner for a moment. But only for a moment. "You--" he cut himself off. "There will be some scarring."

Napoleon was surprised. That was all? "Illya, we both have more than our fair share of scars."

But his partner was shaking his head. "Not like this. They will be very obvious."

"Ah...where?" Napoleon asked.

Illya demonstrated on his own body. "Your chest," he said, passing his spread fingers over the right side of his chest and up to the shoulder. "Your arm," he wrapped his hand around his upper bicep, then passed it over the back of his forearm. "A little bit," he touched the back of his right hand, "of your hand, but not enough to affect your grip." Illya trailed off, but Napoleon could tell that he wasn't quite finished.

"And?" he prompted.

Slowly, Illya lifted his hand and raked it across his forehead and back into the hair. "Here."

He traced out an irregular patch starting at the corner of his eye, ending at his chin, and covering most of his cheek. "Here. And...small splashes here," Illya touched the side of his nose, "here," his cheekbone, "here," his cheek, "and here," his jaw line. He let his hands fall to his lap. "That is everything."

Napoleon automatically lifted his left hand--his good hand--to find the damage on his own face, but Illya caught his wrist before he could touch. "Napoleon, no," he said urgently. "There are no dressings there, and a burn is an open wound. You will only make it worse."

Napoleon took a shaky breath. "It doesn't hurt."

"The doctors applied a local anesthetic," Illya explained, still holding Napoleon's hand.

"But my hand hurts," Napoleon said, trying to think of the puzzle and of the facts.

"With this kind of burn there is not much pain, but they didn't want you to know about...about the rest until someone could tell you."

Napoleon tried for a smile but the movement sent a lance of pain through his jaw. "So, did you draw the short straw, then?" he said lightly.

Illya shook his head no. "I volunteered. The others...I don't think they understood why--" He broke the sentence off there, but Napoleon could think of half a dozen equally accurate ways to end it. Why I had to tell you. Why it would be better for you to hear it from me. Why you should be upset despite knowing that it could have been so much worse, it could have been the end, he could have been dead, but he wasn't, not dead, just dis--

He cut the thought off there, before he could finish it. Instead, Napoleon curled his fingers around the hand that held his and squeezed once. "Thank you." Illya smiled slightly, just a brief flicker, before pulling away. "So," Napoleon said briskly, trying for normalcy, "when do I get out of here?"

Illya tilted his head back and raised his voice. "That is your cue." A doctor promptly appeared in the doorway, chart in hand. Napoleon glanced as his partner, who just shrugged.

"Mr. Solo," the doctor said with false brightness, "chafing at the bit already, are we?" His gaze flickered to Napoleon's face, then down to the chart, then back again. He met the agent's eyes evenly this time.

He could have just been checking the chart, you know, Napoleon told himself firmly. "You know Section Two," he said easily. "Always impatient to be back in the thick of things."

"Well, it won't be too long this time. We'll keep you here for three or four days just to make sure infection doesn't set in. That's the real killer with burns, not the trauma. After that you can go home, although," he glanced down at the chart again, "we'll have some pretty detailed care instructions for you."

The doctor flipped through several more pages on the chart. Medical history, Napoleon presumed. There was a lot of it. "I see here you've never been burned this extensively before. You'll have to be scrupulously careful about--" he cut himself off and looked up at Napoleon again. "Well, we'll go over that in detail when you're released. In the meantime, don't touch either the dressed or undressed injuries, even if it itches. If you're in pain, call one of the nurses and have them apply the anesthetic for you. Clear?"

"Perfectly," Napoleon said. "Thank you, doctor."

***

It was a conspiracy, Napoleon decided. It had to be. Why else would there be a mirror missing from the washroom? He could understand why one would be left out of the utilitarian bedroom. And it was entirely plausible that the nurses could have forgotten to bring him a mirror when he asked. Twice. But there should have been a mirror in the bathroom, tiny as it was.

Okay, maybe they wanted to give me a chance to adapt, he thought, frustrated, but they're releasing me soon. I need some idea of what it...I...look like.

He'd watched as they changed the dressings on his chest and arm. Most of the area was still healing, but there were spots that were a smooth, shiny white. The rest, the doctor had told him, would probably end up shades of white and gray. Napoleon had tried to picture it, tried to convince himself it wouldn't be so bad, but he knew the color, the texture, would only be a part of it. Already he could feel the growing scar tissue tugging at the corner of his eye, his lips, the lobe of his ear. The only question was, how far askew would everything settle?

Napoleon reached up, but managed to catch himself before he actually touched. The tug of the IV in his hand helped. He'd be grateful to get the damn thing out, even if it was useful reminder.

As if summoned by his thoughts, a nurse appeared in the doorway. "Mr. Solo," she greeted him cheerfully. "I've come to free you from the bonds of medical equipment and release you into the wide world."

Napoleon smiled, ignoring the twinge of pain. "A veritable angel of mercy," he said, perching on the bed and holding out his hand to have the IV removed.

She set down a stack of clothing beside him. "Oh, I don't know that I qualify as an angel," she said, glancing at him. Her eyes quickly slid away to focus on the IV.

Napoleon concentrated on radiating warmth. "Well, angels are supposed to minister to those in pain," he said philosophically, "and you've done that. They say they're merciful and," he lowered his voice just a little, "your visits have been a mercy." There was a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth now. "So you've been an angel for me, Christie."

Christie's smile bloomed at that. She looked at him as she coiled up the IV. "You wouldn't think that if I'd had to do more than change your dressings and your IV," she argued lightly.

"I'm quite certain," Napoleon said, risking a half smile, "that you have a light touch regardless."

"You are a flatterer, Mr. Solo," Christie said, shaking her finger at him. "Be careful or we might not let you go."

Napoleon pressed a hand over his heart--conveniently on the uninjured side of his chest. "Sadly, I have an appointment I can't miss."

"Oh?"

He nodded to the doorway just as Illya appeared in it. "My ride home."

"I'll be going then," Christie said, nodding politely to Illya. She turned back to Napoleon. "Be careful when you're getting dressed. Don't button the top two buttons on the shirt and don't do up the cuffs. You don't want to chafe the burns. The doctor will be in with instructions once you're dressed."

"Thank you, Christie," Napoleon called as she left.

Illya glanced down the hall at the departing nurse and turned back to Napoleon with raised eyebrows. "Another conquest?"

Napoleon scooped up his clothing and retreated to the bathroom to change. "Regretfully, no," he called out in answer. "Just doing my best to put her at ease."

"As you were leaving?"

"Practice never hurts, my friend." Gingerly, Napoleon eased his right arm into the sleeve of the dress shirt, but there wasn't really any pain. The dressings, themselves loose, prevented the material from catching on tender flesh.

"Since when do you need to practice?" Illya asked from the other room.

Napoleon paused, his fingers on the last button. Since there was a reason no one will bring me a mirror, he thought briefly. He said nothing aloud, though, just pulled on pants and socks and shoes. When he returned to the other room the doctor had arrived. Napoleon sat impatiently through his instructions and, when handed a sheet of paper reiterating them, folded it and stuck it into his pocket for later. The came the words he was waiting for.

"So, Mr. Solo, do you have any questions?"

"Not a question," Napoleon said firmly. "A request. Before I go out there," he pointed at the door, "I want a mirror."

Behind the doctor's shoulder Illya tilted his head, gave Napoleon a long, searching look, and vanished out the door. The doctor himself was frowning. "Mr. Solo, your appearance now won't necessarily reflect your appearance six months, even one month from now. The flesh is still red, almost raw. That will change as you heal more completely. Parts of the scars will fade almost back to normal skin tone and texture."

"I'm aware of all that," Napoleon interrupted. "I am also aware that when I walk out of medical and through headquarters and into the garage and through traffic and into my apartment building that I am going to be dealing with people who are seeing me now. I would prefer to be prepared to deal with their reactions." Still the doctor hesitated. "Let me point out two things that may have escaped your attention," Napoleon said impatiently. "One, dithering like this is only convincing me that things are even worse than I first imagined. And two, there are three perfectly good mirrors on my car."

The doctor sighed. "All right, Mr. Solo. I'll go and get you a mirror."

"That won't be necessary," Illya said from the doorway. He held up a hand mirror in explanation. The doctor frowned but made no further protest as Illya crossed the room to hand the mirror to his partner. Napoleon smiled his thanks but held the mirror in his lap, suddenly reluctant to look into it, now that he could. Slowly he looked down into the silvered surface even as part of his attention registered Illya ushering the doctor from the room.

Napoleon studied his image for a long time. He gripped the frame with both hands to remind himself not to reach up to touch the tender new skin. It should hurt more than it does, he thought, staring at the damage. But then, burns did tend to damage the nerves. The doctor had warned him he might have some loss of sensation.

The shifting of the bed told Napoleon that Illya had sat down next to him. "Somehow," he said, amazed at how normal he sounded, "I'd forgotten the splash had taken some hair off."

"It will grow back," Illya answered. "But...it will probably grow back white."

Napoleon tried a smile and couldn't help but flinch at the reflection. He looked up at Illya instead. "They say a touch of gray lends an air of distinction."

"I didn't think you could get much more distinct."

The words fell unintentionally heavy between them. Napoleon glanced down at the mirror. "I'm not going to be much good for undercover work, am I?"

"I hate to break it to you, Napoleon," Illya said dryly, "but you never were much good at undercover work."

Napoleon laughed and set the mirror aside. "That's what my partner is for. Come on, let's get out of here."

The corridors of medical were unusually quiet. Napoleon sincerely hoped it was because he was their only guest at the moment. The only other possibility that came to mind was embarrassingly self-pitying. Napoleon kept it to himself. The admitting nurse looked up as they approached and smiled at Illya. She glanced at Napoleon, her gaze sliding away to fix on a point somewhere over his shoulder. "It's good to see you up and around, Mr. Solo," she said.

"It's good to be up and around," he said. Illya had slowed, but Napoleon glanced at him and shook his head slightly. He had no intention of stopping to chat. Not today.

The entire trip through headquarters went more or less like that. Everyone looked at him automatically and everyone's eyes slid away almost immediately. Every now and then someone would jerk their eyes back, as if they realized what they'd done. Napoleon resisted the urge to duck his head. They were going to have to get used to it. He was going to have to get used to it.

***

Napoleon was staring into the fire he'd lit in the fireplace and listening to music when the knock on the door came. It was Illya's knock. Napoleon levered himself off the couch and went to disarm the security system.

"Checking up on me?" he asked as he let Illya into the room.

"Of course," Illya said with a sidelong glance. Napoleon stared at him, startled, and realized suddenly that Illya was going to check the contents of the garbage can under the sink.

"Hey!" he exclaimed, lunging for the kitchen, but it was too late.

Illya scowled at clutter of delivery containers and replaced the lid with rather more force than was necessary. He looked up and pinned Napoleon with a hard look. "Have you even left the building in the last three days?" he asked bluntly.

"Just following the doctor's orders," Napoleon shrugged. "Taking it easy."

"Now I know something's wrong," Illya said. "You never follow doctors' orders."

"And you're the model of obedience."

Illya lips curved just a little. "Perhaps not. I am, after all, here giving you a hard time."

Napoleon had to laugh at that. "While you're in there," he said, nodding at the kitchen area, "you might as well get the drinks."

"We could go out for drinks," Illya suggested evenly.

Unconsciously, Napoleon lifted a hand, his fingers skimming over the surface of his cheek, not quite touching down. Past his hairline his fingers brushed the stubble of returning hair. The sensation suddenly reminding him of what he was doing, Napoleon lowered his hand sheepishly. "I'd rather stay in."

"It's not like you to be so...anti-social," Illya said. Napoleon watched him retrieve two bottles--brandy and vodka--from their customary places. The glass clinked as he poured. Less than half a glass each, Napoleon noted, and he put the bottles away. There'd be no getting drunk tonight.

"I'm not much like myself at all," he said at length.

Illya handed him the brandy and watched as he sipped it. "Is that," he indicated Napoleon's face with a gesture, "so important to you that you can't function without it?"

Napoleon winced and took a long slug of the brandy. Long enough to almost finish it. Illya simply waited, and eventually he had to look up from the glass. "It's not that I can't. It's that I don't know how to."

Illya snorted at that. "You know people, Napoleon. You are very good at predicting what they're thinking and how they will react. The fact that one of the variables in the equation has changed doesn't mean you've lost that skill."

"One the variables..." Napoleon shook his head and turned away from Illya, back to the fire. "I'm not used to people flinching when they look at me."

"You can't hide in here forever."

Napoleon winced but couldn't argue the point. He was hiding. Theoretically he could live on delivery food indefinitely, but in eleven days he'd be back on active status. Which meant he'd have to go to headquarters, and from there to wherever their mission took them. If he wanted to be in half-decent shape when he did get back into the field, he'd have to venture out of his apartment even sooner. Muscles lost their conditioning remarkably fast when they weren't being used every day.

"Well," he said, finishing the brandy and setting it back on the kitchen counter, "I can at least give myself time to get used to it."

"You can't get used to anything by yourself," Illya argued. "You haven't changed. Just how people react to you." Napoleon cast an incredulous look over his shoulder, but Illya was completely serious. "Come out for dinner with me, Napoleon."

"I don't think--"

Illya raised an eyebrow. "I'll buy."

Napoleon chuckled. "Pulling out the big guns, are you?"

"Whatever gets the job done."

Napoleon sighed internally. He truly didn't want to go out, but he hated to turn Illya down when he was trying so hard. Whatever the reason. "All right," he conceded. "Let me change and turn the music off."

They ended up at an Italian restaurant. As they spoke to the host and found their seats Napoleon caught himself ducking his head. Don't hunch over, he reminded himself sharply. It doesn't help and you know it. He lifted his chin and forced himself to smile--just a little--at the waitress when she came around with their water. After a quick glance, she kept her eyes on the glasses.

"I'm not so sure this is a good idea," Napoleon muttered, scanning the menu but not really seeing it.

"Don't you trust me?" Illya asked lightly.

Napoleon looked up at him, detecting an undercurrent of...something in his tone. "Always. But--"

"Would you rather being doing this at headquarters?"

It was obvious to Napoleon that Illya didn't mean eating. He meant the hunching over, the moments of discomfort, the distraction. I'd rather not be doing this at all, he couldn't help thinking, but bit down before voicing the thought. "I suppose not," he said instead.

"Relax," Illya commanded. "You're so tense it's unnatural."

Napoleon treated Illya to a glare, but put a little thought into untwisting his shoulders regardless. When their waitress came back Illya ordered briskly and handed over his menu. He met Napoleon's gaze with a challenging look.

Turning to present the waitress with more open body language, Napoleon turned on the charm full throttle. "You'll have to excuse my friend," he said smoothly. "His grasp of the social graces is sadly lacking in some areas." Napoleon ignored the snort from the other side of the table. "It's unfortunate. The pleasantries do tend to make even the little things more...pleasant."

Almost involuntarily, the waitress looked directly at Napoleon for the first time. "The little things?" she asked.

Napoleon carefully measured out a smile. "Such as ordering dinner."

A smile tugged at her lips. "Speaking of which?" she held up her notepad.

"Of course," Napoleon turned back to the menu and picked out his selection. "I'd like the manicotti with the diavolo sauce, please."

"Certainly," she made a note. "Wine?"

Napoleon turned his menu to the wine list but didn't take his eyes off their server. "Do you have a recommendation?"

"Oh," she glanced down at her notepad. "I'm not a connoisseur..."

"But surely a woman such as yourself picks up a few things after working here for awhile," Napoleon said, turning the wine list toward her.

"Well," she looked over the list and pointed after a moment, "this one is very popular alongside the tomato based sauces."

"Then that's what we'll have," Napoleon said, handing over the menu.

She smiled at him. "I'll be back with your orders."

Napoleon turned to site more squarely in his seat and found Illya smirking at him. Responding with a dirty look of his own, he had to restrain the urge to throw a breadstick at him.

After that dinner went surprisingly well. Napoleon kept his attention on their waitress, when she was there, and on Illya when she wasn't. For over an hour he almost managed to forget why Illya had had to drag him out of his apartment for the evening.

Funny, Napoleon mused, watching Illya. I don't think I've ever paid him quite this much attention before. He tended to reserve his concentrated interest for beautiful women, members of THRUSH, and Mr. Waverly. As Illya leaned forward, a piece of pasta forgotten on the end of his fork as he spoke, it suddenly didn't seem right that he'd left his partner off that list.

Perhaps it was because Illya was his partner. Napoleon never had to concentrate on connecting with him; the connection was there regardless of his attention, or lack of it. Sipping at his wine, smiling, Napoleon was silently grateful for that.

***

Napoleon stood in his bathroom naked to the waist and stared hard at his reflection. He'd been cleared for a return to active duty as of this morning. Two weeks off duty, plus four days in UNCLE medical. Eighteen days total. Long enough for the scars to finish forming. Those on his chest and arm were smooth and shiny in shades of white and gray. Spots were still tender, but careful exploration had revealed no loss of sensation.

The patch on his cheek was a different matter. Parts of it were wrinkled, almost corrugated. Those parts were numb. The tightness of the tissue pulled his eyebrow, eyelid, earlobe, and lower lip slightly askew. It could have been worse. He didn't have any trouble seeing or sealing his lips.

His hair was coming in nicely. It always had grown fast. That didn't seem to have changed, though it was coming in mostly white where he had lost it.

Napoleon pulled on his dress shirt and buttoned it up briskly. He finished dressing quickly, glancing at the mirror only to straighten his tie. He had the elevator to himself this morning, a small blessing. The compartment quickly became claustrophobic when he had to share it with someone who was trying simultaneously not to look and not to stare.

For all the people whose eyes slid away, there were an equal number who seemed fixated. Not that he hadn't gotten long looks before...well, before. But he'd known why they were looking then. Not that he didn't know now--

Shaking his head sharply, Napoleon stepped off the elevator and turned his thoughts to driving. The trip to headquarters seemed shorter than usual. He found a parking spot less than a block away--luck was still in his favor, apparently. He pulled neatly into the spot, turned off the ignition, and rested his hands on the steering wheel for a moment.

The next step is to actually get out of the car, Napoleon reminded himself ruefully. Still, he hesitated with his hand on the door handle. If you don't get out of the car now, you'll be late. If you're late, Illya will come to get you. And then you'll really feel like an idiot. He could just imagine the look on Illya's face when he found Napoleon still sitting there.

He got out of the car.

Napoleon's feet dragged and the pedestrians on the busy street jostled him impatiently. Soon Del Floria's storefront was staring him down. Forcing himself to step lively, Napoleon pulled the door open and stepped inside. Del Floria himself nodded genially and moved to the steam press, though Napoleon was hardly halfway across the store. With a brief last glance, Napoleon stepped into the change room and pushed the hidden door open.

"Good morning, Wanda," he greeted to the receptionist, lifting his chin as he leaned over for his badge.

"Good morning, Mr. Solo," she said, biting her lip as she pinned on the badge. "Ow!" She stuck her finger in her mouth and shot him a sheepish glance. "Sorry, sir. That's the fourth time today."

"It's quite all right," Napoleon smiled a little, lifting one hand. He caught himself just in time, patting the top of her desk instead. "We all have our off days."

By the time he got to the elevator the tendons in the back of his neck felt like they'd been transmuted into iron bars. At this moment a sniper could take a bead on his head and he'd never notice. The little hairs on the back of his neck were already standing on end. At last the elevator doors opened. Napoleon stepped inside automatically, registering the presence of two others in the car only after the doors had closed.

A man and a woman. From research if he wasn't mistaken. Names. Napoleon wracked his brain, but none came to mind. A second glance brought a small smile to his lips. It didn't matter. They were rather absorbed in each other. Napoleon suspected, as he arrived at his own destination, that they'd missed theirs more than once.

Walking ahead of him, nose buried in a file, was his partner. Napoleon's smile stretched a little. "Illya," he called out, quickening his step.

Illya looked up, closing the file. "There you are," he said mildly.

Napoleon resisted the urge to check the time. "Where else would I be?"

"Any number of places," Illya murmured. Napoleon opened his mouth to respond, but Illya interrupted, nodding in the direction of Waverly's office. "He wants to see you."

"Right." Napoleon tapped the file his partner held. "Anything I should know about?"

Illya tilted his head. "Possibly. It's the final analysis of the chemical from our last affair."

Napoleon's stomach twisted, but he just raised a surprised eyebrow. "It took this long? The boys in the labs are slipping."

"They couldn't get an uncontaminated sample."

"Ah." Napoleon lifted his chin and half shrugged. "I'd better see Waverly. I'll be back."

"Of course." Illya lifted the file in momentary farewell.

Napoleon was still smiling as he approached Mr. Waverly's secretary. "He's expecting you," she said with a quick nod.

"My thanks." Napoleon tipped an imaginary hat to her and opened the office door in one smooth movement.

"Ah, Mr. Solo," Waverly said, looking up. "Please, have a seat." Napoleon sat down, folding his hands over one knee. Waverly tapped one of the reports occupying his desk. "Medical tells me you should be back in top shape. Do you have anything to add to that?"

"No, sir," Napoleon said, bowing his head for a brief moment. "Everything seems to be working properly."

"Good, good. When you're done here you'll have to go down to the firing range and requalify, of course."

"Sir?" Napoleon asked, taken aback.

Waverly gestured. "Standard procedure when there's an injury to the hand, Mr. Solo. You know that."

Napoleon glanced down involuntarily at the streaks of scar tissue on the back of his right hand. "Of course. My apologies, sir. I didn't think it was serious enough to qualify."

"Not to worry. Now, while you were out..."

Napoleon concentrated his attention on the briefing, but there really wasn't that much to absorb. A few courier runs, but nothing vital. Research had apparently been a flurry of activity for a few days after finding a loose thread in the financial records they'd long suspected of being a THRUSH cover. Unraveling it was apparently the most exciting event in research in years, but the actual shut down had gone off without a hitch. They'd lost an agent in Los Angeles, but not in the line of duty and not under suspicious circumstances.

As he headed for his and Illya's office, Napoleon rubbed his fingers absently over the back of his right hand. The new texture still wasn't quite familiar. He tried to recall the last time he'd had to requalify and couldn't. Napoleon frowned. Surely I've injured this hand before. I don't exactly take particular care with it.

He stuck his head into the office and found Illya diligently doing paperwork. "I'm going to be a little longer than I thought," Napoleon said, a little less apologetically than he'd intended. Shouldn't there have been less paperwork after a quiet week? Illya leaned back in his chair and shot him an inquiring look. Napoleon displayed the back of his hand and waggled his fingers a bit. "I have to requalify."

Illya snorted. "More red tape," he said, giving the stack of paperwork a dark look. "You," he pinned Napoleon with his gaze, "will be helping me with this."

Napoleon leaned against the doorframe and slipped his hands into his pockets. "Did I say I wouldn't?"

"No. But I notice that you are neither sitting down nor hurrying off to finish on the firing range."

Napoleon raised his hands and turned out of the office, smiling.

Ben Rogers, the agent in charge of the firing range, gave Napoleon a cursory glance when he stepped inside and turned back to the rifle he was rebuilding. "Practice?"

Napoleon shook his head, despite the fact that the man wasn't looking at him. "Actually, I have to requalify."

That earned him a longer, harder look. "Eye?" Ben asked after awhile.

Napoleon tilted his head, jaw tightening. "Hand, actually." He held it up to clarify. "There wasn't any real damage to the eye."

"That was lucky," Ben said, coming out from behind his counter to escort Napoleon to a cubicle. Requalifying agents were required to be supervised. Even the CEA.

"Relatively speaking," Napoleon allowed.

"Relatively, hell." Ben took two pairs of ear guards off a hook at the end of the cubicle but held onto them. "You should have lost that eye, from what I heard. Came close to losing both of 'em. A Section Two agent is more than just a pretty face. A blind Section Two agent isn't." Something in Napoleon's expression prompted him to clarify. "Isn't Section Two, I mean. Not anymore. Here," Ben held out one set of ear guards.

Napoleon just barely managed not to snatch them out of his hands. Instead he plucked them out of Ben's grip almost politely and settled them over his ears carefully. With the background noise comfortably muffled, he drew his UNCLE special and carefully checked the clip and chamber. He'd cleaned it last night, expecting to be coming in to practice today.

The familiar movements settled his nerves. By the time he lifted the weapon into the firing position his focus had narrowed down to the texture of the grip in his palm and the paper target at the end of the firing range. Extraneous thoughts and feelings faded with practiced swiftness. You couldn't afford to be distracted in the field.

The gun jerked in his grip like a live thing, but Napoleon recovered and corrected automatically, his eyes never leaving his target. He emptied the clip, ejected it, and exchanged it for a full one. When that, too, had been emptied into the target Ben flicked a switch and they waited while the target fluttered along the track towards them.

Two clusters of holes had been punched out of the paper. One dead center of the head target, one center mass of the chest target. Both clusters could be completely covered by the splayed fingers of Ben's hand. Napoleon removed the ear guards and checked his special once more before holstering it.

"You didn't have to show off," Ben muttered, tearing the target out of the clip that held it.

"I wasn't," Napoleon said mildly.

"Yeah, yeah. Well, you may be number one, Section Two upstairs, but down here you'll have to settle for second place."

Napoleon restrained a grin. "Mind if I ask who gets the number one spot?"

Ben glared at him. "Don't play innocent with me. You know very well that Kuryakin comes down here and embarrasses the rest of us on a regular basis."

Yes, Napoleon thought, but it is nice to hear it now and again. "So, is that it?" he asked aloud.

"Yeah," Ben confirmed, taking the target with him back to the counter. Regular practice targets were destroyed, but an official requalifying target had to be stored for records.

Napoleon ran into Brian Donnelly, a relatively new Section Two agent, at the elevator. New to New York, anyway. If he recalled correctly, Donnelly had four years of experience under his belt, but had transferred in from Tokyo barely a week before Napoleon had been injured. "Agent Donnelly," Napoleon nodded a greeting. "How are you liking UNCLE New York?"

The elevator arrived and Donnelly paused to let Napoleon board first before answering. "I'm not quite sure, sir," he said. "Things have been a little unsettled. I'm told the atmosphere is different when you're handling things."

"Oh?" Napoleon inquired, raising an eyebrow.

"I didn't mean...ah," Donnelly looked away, flustered. Napoleon realized after a moment that he'd automatically lifted the right brow. How on Earth does that look? he wondered, feeling rather unsettled himself. "I just meant," Donnelly managed finally, "that the CEA tends to set the tone for their Section. You've been on leave, so I haven't had a chance to see what that's like, sir."

"Well, I haven't had any complaints recently," Napoleon said. Blessedly, the doors opened at that moment and Donnelly escaped to his own destination. Napoleon rode up one more floor and walked briskly to his office, despite the paperwork awaiting him.

Illya was, predictably, still buried. He looked up as Napoleon came in. "How did it go?"

"Routine." Napoleon slid into the chair behind his desk and found a stack of paper occupying the center of the desk.

Illya pointed at it with his pen. "That is yours." His own stack was considerably smaller, Napoleon noted. On the other hand, he'd been doing it for two weeks--Napoleon had just gotten here. Still...

"A present? Illya, you shouldn't have."

His partner sighed. "If it was a present, you could send it back."

Napoleon uncapped a pen with a little dramatic flair--wasted on Illya, who only gave him a look--and leaned over to examine the first sheet. "Sometimes," he said shrewdly, "you can send them back anyway." After a moment he frowned. "But, alas, not this one," and set to with the pen.

***

A bullet whizzed past Napoleon's ear and buried itself in the concrete in front of him in a shower of razor sharp chips. His eyes shut instinctively, but he kept running. Risking a glance a step later, Napoleon focused on the cluster of crates he'd been aiming for and all but dove behind them. Splintering wood told him that these particular THRUSHes had significantly better aim than the usual lot. At least the contents of the crates were stopping the bullets.

Panting a little, Napoleon pondered drawing his own weapon to return fire. Once again he discarded the idea. It would be easier--and safer--to run with it holstered. If he could make it one set of crates closer to the wide rolling doors of the warehouse, he'd have help anyway.

Crouching, readying his muscles for another breath-stopping sprint, Napoleon found himself grinning. The crack of gunfire resounded from the direction of the warehouse entrance. Just three single shots, as opposed to the hail of bullets coming from the direction Napoleon was fleeing. Conservative and effective, he thought. If he could have grinned harder, he would have.

Instead he made use of the next surge of adrenaline and launched himself out of his temporary hiding place. There was an instant of silence before the hail of bullets resumed. Napoleon zigzagged as best he could without losing speed.

As he drew even with the last set of crates a hand shot out and grabbed him by the arm. Napoleon crashed to the ground, but the action did effectively stop him from overshooting the narrow slice of cover. Illya used the same grip that had brought him down to help him into a crouch.

"Fancy meeting you here," Napoleon quipped, drawing his gun and glancing around their cover.

"You are enjoying this entirely too much," Illya said, squeezing off a few more shots. An abortive cry and the thud of a body hitting concrete were his reward.

"What's not to enjoy?" Napoleon laid down a little fire of his own, not really aiming, more forcing the THRUSH agents to keep their distance. "We got the ambassador and his family out safely, we blew up at least part of this installation, and we took out about a dozen generic THRUSH on the way."

"The escape could use a little work," Illya critiqued, reloading his gun. "Running unprotected through the middle of a crossfire was not one of your better plans."

"Well, that wasn't originally in the plan," Napoleon allowed. "I was improvising."

"Are you done improvising? I'd like to go now."

"By all means."

Illya pulled the pin on the grenade he'd been saving and waited for a brief count before lobbing it well over the crates and towards the enemy's cover. In the instant of silence after it clattered to the ground Illya caught Napoleon's gaze. This time they grinned together.

The explosion was gratifyingly large, though not large enough to reach their location. Illya had a good arm. Napoleon cautiously leaned around his side of the cluster of crates and examined the opposite end of the warehouse. It was entirely caved in, not a hint of motion anywhere. He glanced back at Illya, just turning from his own check. Illya nodded.

Napoleon stood up and casually holstered his special. Illya followed suit and, with a last glance at the wreckage, they turned to saunter out of the warehouse.

The car they'd rented for this affair was parked just outside, miraculously untouched despite the fact that they'd put it through its paces more than once. Napoleon slid in behind the wheel, but as he moved to turn the key in the ignition, Illya leaned over from the passenger seat. "Napoleon. You're bleeding."

Napoleon glanced back at him, surprised. "Really? From where?" he glanced down at himself automatically, but while his suit was smudged with dust and a little grease he couldn't see any blood.

Illya reached out and stroked one finger across his cheek. Napoleon blinked at the warm touch and shifted his eyes to Illya's finger only after his partner nodded towards it. There was blood on the tip. Peering into the rearview mirror, he spotted a shallow cut on his right cheekbone. The smear of blood was startlingly red against the white scars. "Odd. I didn't even notice." Napoleon reached up and poked the cut. "Still can't feel it."

"Just because you can't feel it doesn't mean you're not doing damage," Illya said, batting Napoleon's hand away when he would have prodded the spot again. "Leave it."

Napoleon shot him a wry glance but reached for the ignition instead.

***

Napoleon spread a dizzying array of forms across his desk. They covered the entire surface. Two layers deep. He picked up one titled "P1AZ4 (Property Damage - Public)." After a bit of rifling he found its companion, form "P1BZ4 (Property Damage - Private)." I wonder which category THRUSH falls under, he thought, bemused.

"Illya," Napoleon said as his partner walked into their office, "how is it that none of these forms are familiar?"

"Probably because you've never seen any of them before," Illya said dryly. "Normally you're off on a date immediately after our missions."

Napoleon set down the property damage forms and picked up "C1AX9 (Casualties - Suspected THRUSH)." Briefly he wondered how many varieties of casualty forms there were. He could think of five off the top of his head. "Do you fill all of these out after every mission?" Napoleon asked, a little dismayed.

Illya leaned over Napoleon's desk and briskly shuffled the forms into a single pile. "Yes. Well, except for this one," he plucked a single sheet of paper of the top of the pile and handed it to his partner. "That one we only have to fill out for the first mission after one of us has been injured."

It was the only familiar page in the lot. "H1AO1 (Health - Return to Field Duty)." Napoleon frowned. "I thought we did this one every time."

"We do tend to get injured on a regular basis," Illya shrugged.

"So what you're telling me," Napoleon said, coming around to lean against his desk as Illya went and sat at his, "is that I've been dumping all this paperwork on you every time I go on date after an affair."

Illya looked up, startled. "It's not a problem, Napoleon. I have a system."

"A system?"

"Yes." Illya plucked three sheets from the stack he'd made, apparently at random, and laid them out side by side on his desk. Then he uncapped a pen and leaned over them, jumping from form to form apparently at random. At one point Illya opened his desk drawer and pulled out a red pen. He made some obscure notation in the margins of each of the forms.

When he was done with those three--or so Napoleon assumed--he turned them face down and placed two in one stack and the other by itself. Two more forms came out of the original pile and the procedure repeated, only this time with a much longer margin note. One each went into the two "finished" piles.

Reaching for another set of forms, Illya looked up at Napoleon as if surprised to still see him there. "You don't need to hang around, Napoleon," he said. "I've got everything taken care of, as long as you write up the summary for Mr. Waverly like you usually do."

"I think I'm mesmerized," Napoleon declared, followed the motions of Illya's hand. He still couldn't decipher any order.

"Napoleon. Go on your date."

"I think I'm more amused right now than I would be on a date," Napoleon said, shifting his weight a little. "Besides, I don't have one."

Illya stopped writing and raised his eyebrows. "You don't have a date?"

"No, Illya. I have no date," Napoleon said patiently. He hadn't had a date, actually, in several weeks.

Illya frowned. "Is something wrong?"

"Because I don't have a date?"

"It's one of the constants of the universe," Illya said dryly. "You always have a date after a mission. If not with someone new, then with someone from headquarters. I think I would be less concerned if there was a change in the speed of light."

To be honest, Napoleon told himself, I could stand to burn off a little energy. But he didn't make a move toward the door. Illya went back to the paperwork. He was already halfway through. "When you're done there," Napoleon said after a quiet moment, "let's go to dinner. My treat."

"If you're trying to appease the sudden dawning of years of accumulated guilt over abandoning me to the paperwork," Illya began, "I'd rather have a new record."

Napoleon smiled. "Not guilt. Just a desire for a little company."

Illya finished the set of forms currently in front of him and leaned back in his chair. He gave Napoleon a long, considering look. For a moment Napoleon wondered if he'd made a mistake. After all, they both knew very well that Illya wasn't his usual brand of "company." If Illya called him on it Napoleon wasn't quite sure what he'd say. Aside from that he abruptly really wanted to have dinner with his partner.

"All right," Illya agreed at last. "But sit down. You're hovering."

Napoleon sat. After a moment he realized that the "H1AO1 (Health - Return to Field Duty)" form was still on his desk. Shrugging, he lifted his own pen. This one he knew how to do.

Halfway down the page he hit an unexpected snag. Standard procedure was to itemize the prior injuries, noting any resulting changes in fitness or efficiency. Napoleon had done it dozens of times for broken bones. Typically there was some residual weakness, easily corrected through a little extra weight training. Once he'd had the unpleasant experience of discovering that a broken arm broke much more easily the second time around.

He stared down at the page for a long time before carefully inscribing "Chemical burn--chest--right side. None." And below that, "Chemical burn--right bicep. None." Below that, "Chemical burn--right forearm. None." And again, "Chemical burn--right hand--back. None."

Despite the way the words glared up at him from the page, there was no question about any of that. The doctors had been entirely correct. The residual tenderness had faded. Any potential tightening of the tissue had been held off by diligent physical therapy.

Napoleon stalled again on the last line. Eventually he formed the letters with exquisite care. "Chemical burn--face--right side." The splash marks on the left, he reasoned, were too small to really count.

The question now is, he thought, did it have an effect on my fitness or efficiency? He hesitated for a long time, pen hovering over the page. Napoleon went over the mission once more in his mind and slowly realized that he hadn't thought of the damage even once during the course of it. From the moment he and Illya stepped out of headquarters on business it was as if a switch had been flipped in his mind. It had only come back to him at the end, seeing the blood Illya held out and realizing he still couldn't feel the tiny cut.

So he wrote "None" on that line, too.

Napoleon scrawled his signature across the bottom of the form and looked up to find Illya standing over him. Surprised, he glanced over to his partner's desk and discovered that the varied paperwork had been consolidated back into a single stack. "Ready to go?" Napoleon asked, setting his pen aside.

"Obviously." Illya was looking down at the form he'd just finished.

Napoleon stood and came around his desk. "Let's go, then."

He drove them to a small restaurant, more of a cafe, really. They seated themselves and accepted menus from a passing waitress. She returned a moment later with water but didn't linger at the table. Napoleon let her go, turning his attention on his partner instead. "You know," he said, "I did used to do my own paperwork. I should have recognized something."

"Are you still on about that?" Illya asked, picking up his water. Napoleon just shrugged. "They've reorganized the filing system since we were partnered."

"They have?"

There was a smile flitting around the edges of Illya's lips. "Twice."

"Well. I am capable of doing it," Napoleon insisted.

"Napoleon," Illya said, "the Records personnel tell stories about the forms you used to turn in. Epic stories."

"Such as?" Napoleon prompted, hoping to tempt the smile Illya was flirting with out into the open.

"It's not like I have them memorized. But my favorite..." he paused and the smile slowly came into full bloom "...involves a coffee stain, a jar of peanut butter, three Records personnel who actually had to go into the field for three hours, and sixteen pages of amendments to a three page report."

"You must be joking," Napoleon said, grinning. His partner grinned back, setting off a little cascade of warmth in Napoleon's chest.

Illya shook his head. "I swear, it's the truth. It has to be--the first time I turned in a report for one of our missions they bought me chocolates."

Napoleon broke down laughing. Predictably, their waitress showed up at that moment. Illya ordered for both of them, though Napoleon did manage to reduce himself to the occasional chuckle. "I'm surprised no one ever said anything to me," he commented when she'd gone.

Illya shrugged. "Waverly knows that paperwork is the smallest part of what makes a good field agent."

Napoleon leaned back in his seat, the last of his laughter dying out. "He's a good man to work for."

"So he is," Illya agreed. "He knows when to trust his people. I could not say as much for any of my prior superior officers."

"Not even UNCLE London?"

"Not even them," Illya confirmed. "To give credit where it is due, they assigned me there because I had done my education in Britain. The hope was that I would settle in more quickly. But the London CEA didn't want me and he most certainly didn't trust me."

"Which why you requested the transfer," Napoleon deduced. Illya cast him a surprised look. "What?" Napoleon raised an eyebrow. "You think I wouldn't have pulled my new partner's file? I wanted to know how deep I was getting in."

Illya flashed him a grin. "Over your head, I suspect."

Napoleon saluted his partner with his water glass. "Hopelessly."

"Well, it's only fair," Illya said casually. Too casually. "After all, I pulled your file."

Napoleon stared for a moment. "You wouldn't have been authorized for my file."

Illya blinked innocently. "Oh really?"

Napoleon laughed and shook his finger at his partner. "That could have got you in serious trouble."

"It was worth the risk," Illya shrugged. "You have a very colorful reputation. I needed to know how much of it was deserved, and which parts. At that point I was prepared to return to the Soviet Union if I didn't like what I found."

Napoleon felt a sudden chill at the thought of how close he must have come to never even meeting the man who now sat across from him. His closest friend. His partner. "It's fortunate, then, that we liked what we saw," he murmured.

Across the table, Illya smiled a small smile.

The waitress returned with their orders a moment later, disrupting the tenor of the conversation. Napoleon waited a few minutes, letting both of them settle the initial hunger pangs. Illya ate with a concentration that bordered on distraction. Idly, Napoleon wondered if THRUSH had ever considered trying to divert him with a particularly well presented meal. He grinned around his fork at the thought.

"So," Illya said eventually, "who won the pool this time?"

Napoleon swallowed. "Annie Hawkins."

"From Communications?"

Napoleon shook his head. "From Records."

"I thought Records personnel were barred," Illya said, frowning.

"Only if they're actually assigned to the case," Napoleon corrected. "We had George this time."

"How did she do, then?"

"She cleaned up," Napoleon said. "Apparently the odds were on you this time."

"They always are," Illya sighed. "If I didn't know better I'd find it insulting. We're the only partners in the office who have a pool going on who will be captured on the next mission."

"Oh, there's a pool for everyone," Napoleon assured him seriously. "It's just the topic that changes."

"Jenkins and Howard?" Illya named two near-rookie partners skeptically.

"Who'll get shot first," Napoleon filled in promptly. "And a secondary pool on how."

"A secondary pool?" Illya's eyebrows shot up. "Do we have a secondary pool?"

"There's too much money in our primary pool to support a secondary one," Napoleon said dryly. "Annie won nearly a hundred dollars for betting we'd both come through without being held."

Illya narrowed his eyes. "You were held."

Napoleon shook his head. "Not according to the pool referee. I was alone in enemy territory for several hours. It doesn't count as capture unless we're actually tied up or locked away somewhere we don't want to be."

"Technicalities."

"For which we have reason to be grateful," Napoleon reminded him. "If not for this particular technicality, you'd have had to come in after me."

"Granted," Illya conceded. "A hundred dollars... Tell me again why we can't get in on this pool?"

"They'd feel odd about running it if they knew we knew." Napoleon shrugged. "It doesn't do any harm and it does let the support staff feel involved. A little good will always comes in handy."

"Do you think Mr. Waverly knows about it?"

"Sometimes I think Mr. Waverly knows everything," Napoleon said with a quiet chuckle. "It makes me wonder if I'll be the same way when I'm number one, Section One."

"Assuming you do succeed Waverly."

Napoleon paused, fork hovering in the air. "Why wouldn't I?"

Illya shrugged. "Everyone assumes you will, but I've never heard you say that you wanted to."

"I can't be a field agent forever," Napoleon said reasonably, "and I can't imagine what it would be like to not work for UNCLE. Though..." he allowed himself a speculative moment, "...private life does have its attractions."

"Like not getting shot at," Illya suggested dryly.

Napoleon smiled. "Among other things. What about you? What will you do when you're not in Enforcement anymore?"

"Research, probably. My doctorate is hopelessly out of date, but I think I'd do well on the practical side of things."

Napoleon pictured Illya at fifty--a little heavier, a little grayer, wearing his glasses full time, bent over a lab bench--and caught himself smiling. "You would."

They lapsed into companionable silence for awhile, each clearing their plate and allowing it to be taken away. Napoleon glanced at Illya when he was offered coffee and, at his partner's nod, accepted. Illya substituted tea.

"Did you hear about Daniel Cade?" Napoleon asked as he stirred cream into his coffee.

"No. Did something happen?" Illya poked at his teabag with his fork.

"He got engaged. Popped the question yesterday, apparently." Napoleon sipped the coffee slowly. It was good. Better than what they had at work.

"Napoleon," Illya said slowly, "are you sure there isn't anything wrong?"

Napoleon tried to keep his gaze on his drink, but that tone out of Illya demanded that he look up. He didn't even bother trying to lie. "Why do you ask?"

"You have been very introspective lately. And we have been out on at least half a dozen occasions when you'd normally have spent the night with a woman."

"Am I cramping your style?" Napoleon teased gently, despite an underlying disappointment.

Illya raised an eyebrow. "You've told me before that I have none," he said. "But I suspect I may be cramping yours."

Napoleon quickly shook his head. "If I didn't want to be here, I wouldn't be. I'm just...working some things out."

"If you--" Illya stopped, frowning, and started the sentence again. "You know that I am here. If you should need me. For anything." He shifted in his seat a little uncomfortably but held Napoleon's gaze with his own.

"I know. I've already taken advantage," Napoleon said simply.

Illya relaxed and went back to his tea. Napoleon went back to his coffee. It was better than he'd thought. Sweeter. He smiled.

***

Cosmetics.

Incredibly, the thought first occurred to Napoleon during a mission. Well, strictly speaking, it occurred to him immediately after the affair. He’d watched Illya smear the black paint over his cheekbones with no more thought than that it would break up the telltale oval of his face. But later, back in their hotel, Illya had gone to the bathroom to remove the make up and Napoleon caught himself thinking that the right combination of paint and powder could cover up all sorts of things.

He’d dismissed the idea with a silent snort at the time, but the more he tried not to think about it the more it cropped up. He’d even caught himself covertly studying the make up of the women at headquarters.

In the end Napoleon had waited for one of his infrequent days off and driven three hours out of his way to find a department store he never expected to go back to. The girl at the cosmetics counter had been too gentle. Napoleon would have rather had someone with a brisk, impersonal touch. Regardless, he sat quietly while she carefully matched skin tone. If he was going to do this, he was at least going to do it properly.

Most of the day had gone by the time he got back to his apartment, supplies in hand. He nodded politely at all the right people and reminded himself silently that no one could see through the bag he held in one hand. You’re being foolish, Napoleon told himself as he shut his apartment door behind him. If you use it, it’s going to be rather obvious that you bought it.

He hung his coat up and carried the bag of make up into his bathroom. Napoleon lined the jars and compacts up on the counter and studied them for a moment. The lines of them were unmistakably feminine. This sort of thing was almost entirely marketed to women, after all.

Napoleon removed his suit jacket and tie and glanced around the bathroom. Finding nowhere to drape them, he went into his bedroom and hung both up in the closet. He went back to the bathroom and, after a moment of thought, unbuttoned the top button on his shirt and rolled up his sleeves. He removed his watch and set it on the counter.

The face of the watch read 5:48. Pursing his lips, Napoleon glanced back at the row of cosmetics. Then he went and made dinner.

It was seven-thirty by the time he returned to the bathroom. Taking a deep breath, Napoleon started by washing and drying his face thoroughly. Remembering the explanatory patter of the cosmetics clerk as she’d handed him each item, he started with the foundation.

Blending the skin tone was harder than he’d thought it would be. It took three attempts before he was satisfied with the shadows he’d created. Napoleon hesitated a long time over the rouge, the final touch. It seemed...silly. A critical look in the mirror assured him that the clerk had been right to include it. There was a flush of life in unadorned skin that was missing from the made up side.

When he’d finished Napoleon pushed the array of cosmetics to one side and leaned against the counter. He looked at himself in the mirror and realized he should have bought hair dye. The thatch of white was startling against the background of dark hair and slightly tanned skin. Aside from that, he had to concede that he’d done a good job. The skin tone was spot on. The shadows looked natural, at least in this light. He’d blended the edges so well that it was difficult to see where the scar tissue left off and healthy skin began. The only flaws were the patches of corrugated skin and the slight distortion of ear, lip, and eye. It was much less obvious.

Napoleon stared at himself and felt a momentary surge of disgust. “Look at you,” he told his reflection, fingers tightening on the edge of the counter. “Now you’re not only damaged, you’re demonstrably self-conscious about it.”

Snatching up the jar of cold cream, Napoleon removed the make up with broad, impatient strokes. When he was done he washed his face again and swept the whole array of paint and powder into the garbage can. He looked down at the discarded make up for a moment before pulling the liner out of the can, tying it off and carrying the whole mess to the garbage disposal.

Napoleon went to bed before ten that night and lay staring up at the ceiling. There, in the dark, he raised his left hand and carefully explored the expanse of the scars with sensitive fingertips.

***

The next morning, Napoleon found a smudge of foundation on the counter next to the sink. He wiped it away quickly and stared at the spot for a moment. Shaking his head, he returned to shaving. I need to go on a date, he thought, rinsing the razor. I don’t think I’ve gone nearly three months without a date since I was in high school.

With that thought in mind, Napoleon went to his closet and picked out his clothes with care. Dressed, he went to his mirror and studied himself carefully. He had to resist the urge to run his hand over the white patch of hair. It was still a little shorter than the rest. He'd considered cutting the rest of his hair down so that it would at least match, but he wore it short enough regularly that any further trim would probably reduce it to a buzz cut.

Well, it couldn't be helped. It's not like it was the most obvious detail. Still, he frowned at the mirror before turning away.

By the time he crossed the threshold of Del Floria's Napoleon had injected a lively note into his step and a little warmth into his eyes. He got a smile from the receptionist--a good sign--but dismissed her as a potential date. He didn't expect to get down to reception again today.

At ten o'clock he had the girl picked out. He'd spoken to her once or twice over the course of the morning, just enough to ascertain that she was currently single. Of course, he hadn't got anything else done all day. Staring unseeing down at a junior agent's report--he wasn't quite sure whose it was--Napoleon mentally went over his approach.

Maureen was a technician in the lab. She wasn't the most beautiful woman at headquarters, but she definitely prompted an admiring look or two from most of the men. Napoleon included. He'd been out with her once before, if he recalled correctly. The evening had been low key. Once he'd gotten the conversation rolling properly she'd proved to be one of his more interesting dates. He hadn't taken her to bed and had still felt the evening a success.

She'd also been just a little shy, which called for a more subtle strategy. Women who responded to his more outrageous lines tended to like to deliver a few outrageous lines of their own. Napoleon felt someone who responded to subtlety would be more appropriate this time. He wasn't certain he could carry off the more overt possible overtures.

On the other hand, there was something to be said for the direct approach. Conservative, but direct. Napoleon didn’t want her to miss the point, after all. He could just ask her to have dinner with him. Sometimes that was the best thing to do with the shy type. Half the time you could surprise them into saying yes just by asking. Of course, he was unlikely to surprise Maureen, since they’d been out before.

How had he asked the first time? Napoleon tried to remember, frowning when he realized he couldn’t remember. He recalled the date itself perfectly, thank God. Forgetting that would be tantamount to admitting he couldn’t keep his women straight. But despite the clarity of the evening itself in his memory, Napoleon had no recollection of how he’d actually set the date. It had just seemed to follow naturally from the rest of the day.

Just ask, Napoleon told himself firmly. The direct approach was a much safer bet than trotting out some line that he might have used before.

Now, where to go and when? Friday would probably be best. Napoleon could just take her straight from work. Except she might want to change. Very few women wanted to go on a date in the same clothes as they went to work in. Maybe Saturday would be better. He’d be working, but she wouldn’t be. He could come by her apartment after.

As for the place, Napoleon thought he might let her choose again. Repetitive, yes, but at least then he’d know they were going somewhere she’d enjoy. Was that putting too much pressure on her? She might--

“Napoleon.”

Napoleon's head snapped up so fast his neck actually hurt for a moment. Illya was watching him curiously. I'm guessing that's not the first time he called my name, Napoleon thought sheepishly. "Sorry," he said aloud. "I'm a little preoccupied today."

"If you'd just go ahead and do whatever it is you're agonizing over," Illya said reasonably, "you could relax."

Napoleon leaned back in his seat. "I'm not agonizing. Just...making sure all the angles are covered." Illya tilted his head and cast Napoleon a speculative look, but let the explanation stand. After all, the plan was Napoleon's particular area of expertise. He breathed a silent sigh of relief.

His partner did have a point, though. Napoleon looked down at the stack of Section Two agent reports with real attention for the first time all morning. There had to be one in there somewhere that would give him an excuse to head down to the labs.

Napoleon read quickly, trying not to skim the reports despite an almost overwhelming need to get this done. He found his excuse in the third report down in the pile. "I'm going to run downstairs for a few minutes," Napoleon told Illya, standing. Illya waved one hand absently, absorbed in his own report.

Arriving at the labs, Napoleon found the door he wanted standing open. He stepped into the frame and leaned to the side a little, letting his right shoulder take his weight. A quiet rap of his knuckles against the open door drew the attention of Robert Daniels, the chemist hard at work within.

"Napoleon," Daniels acknowledged. Further down the lab bench Maureen was monitoring an experiment. At Daniels' greeting she actually took a moment to look up and smile. Something unwound inside Napoleon. "I thought you'd be dropping by after I got a good look at that truth serum," Daniels went on.

"Do you have a summary ready?" Napoleon asked. He stepped into the lab and leaned against a clear counter instead, half an eye still on Maureen.

"I do." Napoleon dragged the whole of his attention to Daniels. He would need to know this, sooner or later. Daniels took up a perch on a stool and launched into his report. It was as clear and precise as Napoleon has expected, and wound down after just a couple of minutes. He thanked the chemist and hesitated, experiencing the sudden, desperate wish that Daniels would remember some errand that would take him out of the lab, or that he'd need to use the washroom, or that he'd come to a stopping point in his experiment and decide to go to lunch. But the man simply turned back to the lab bench and turned on a Bunsen burner. Napoleon almost asked for a moment alone, but caught himself when he realized how out of character it would seem.

Instead he sauntered further into the lab, hands in his pockets. He came to rest beside Maureen, back to the bench she was working on, left side toward her. "And how is the lovely Maureen?" he asked, injecting a definite note of interest into his tone.

"Not feeling so lovely at the moment," she sighed, sitting back from the bench. "I think I've run this experiment six times, with six different results."

There's your moment, Napoleon told himself. Go for it. "It sounds to me like you could use a break from the routine," he said casually. Come on, get it out there... "Have dinner with me Saturday."

Maureen looked up, eyes wide with startlement. He'd surprised her after all. "I can't," she blurted, and looked away. Napoleon held his friendly, interested expression only with an effort of will. Inside he'd gone so cold his bones ached. He barely heard Maureen's excuse. "I... My brother is coming up from Pennsylvania."

"Of course," he said easily, feeling as if his voice had been cut free of his body. "Family must come first. Perhaps another time?"

"Perhaps," she smiled weakly and quickly went back to her work.

Napoleon left the lab as casually as he had entered it. He even nodded at Daniels on his way out. By the time he got off the elevator on the third floor he was running on autopilot. It was an odd feeling. Normally Napoleon only got that disconnected feeling when he was dosed with some THRUSH drug, or suffering from a concussion.

Under those circumstances, he was usually too busy trying to hold his thoughts together to notice much of anything else. Walking down the hall, Napoleon watched himself nod politely and making charming comments and wondered that no one noticed how hollow it all was. When he got to his office Illya was gone. Napoleon closed the door behind himself and sank down into his desk chair.

It was the reports on his desk that shook him out of the daze. I really shouldn't have skimmed those, he thought, looking at the three he'd set aside. He picked them up and placed them back on the top of the stack. Napoleon straightened the edges of the paper carefully before lifting the first and starting to read.

He worked through lunch, not even leaving his office to bring something back from the commissary. Then he worked through dinner, and still managed to keep going until nine. When he finally left the only person he had to nod at was the receptionist.

Back in his apartment Napoleon automatically went to the kitchen. He opened the fridge but there wasn't much in it. He picked up the phone, then put it down again. In the end the only thing he got out of the cupboards was a bottle of whiskey and a glass. Sitting on the couch, he put the glass on his coffee table, and carefully poured a shot into it.

He was not going to be sipping tonight.

The alcohol hit hard and fast. It occurred to him as he poured yet another shot--he'd pretty much lost count--that his empty stomach probably had something to do with that. Napoleon gave a mental shrug and lifted the glass, but the doorbell rang before he could take the shot. He looked from the glass to the door with deliberation and drank the whiskey.

The doorbell rang again and Napoleon ignored it again in favor of inspecting the bottle. There was no one out there that he wanted to see. The bottle, on the other hand, was cooperating nicely, though it was a little less than half empty. Not good enough.

Unfortunately, as it turned out, there was someone out there that knew how to get in anyway. The security system chirped off willingly and a key turned in the lock. Napoleon didn't look up from pouring. There was only one other person who had both code and key.

Half-expecting to be interrupted, he quickly knocked back the shot before looking up. To his surprise, he found Illya coming back from his kitchen with a bottle of vodka and a glass of his own. He sat down next to Napoleon and silently poured himself a double, which he downed with impressive speed. Napoleon nodded to himself and waited before pouring himself another drink. After all, Illya had some catching up to do.

Why is Illya drinking? Napoleon wondered belatedly. He knew why he was drinking. Which obviously meant he hadn't had enough yet. The neck of the bottle clattered against the rim of the glass as he attempted to pour out the next shot. The trembling was apparently contagious, because it migrated from the bottle through the glass and into his other hand. Some of the whiskey slopped onto the polished surface of the coffee table.

Napoleon quickly set down both bottle and glass, but his hands kept shaking. He pressed them hard into the tabletop. The tremors stopped on the surface, but he could feel them under the skin, migrating up his arms and through his shoulders and down into his chest and gut where they felt like they were shaking him apart.

Reaching up to rub at sore eyes, Napoleon's fingers touched down on taut scar tissue. He jerked his hand back as if burned and sent it towards the whiskey instead, but his body wasn't working quite the way he was used to. His knuckles struck the bottle. It started to tip over. Napoleon watched, knowing he couldn't catch it before it spilled, maybe smashed.

But other fingers darted out and caught the neck of the bottle before it could fall. Napoleon looked up at Illya as he set the whiskey securely back on its base. To his horror, he felt his eyes start to burn.

Quickly he looked down and tried to take a breath, but the tremors in his chest escaped and his breath stuttered. As Napoleon fought his way through another breath a warm hand came to rest between his shoulders. Bringing his own hands up, Napoleon pressed the heels against his temples and let his wrists shield his eyes as the tears spilled over.

For a moment he thought that might be it, but apparently he hadn't finished trembling. His breath was coming out in long hitching gasps now, not sobbing, but certainly not normal. The warmth of Illya's hand seemed to be sinking down through his skin, fracturing the hard knot in his chest.

Go away, Napoleon thought desperately at his partner, unable to speak it, hoping for a moment of telepathy. Go away, get out of here. But when Illya's arm slid further around him he leaned into it even though he wouldn't, couldn't look up.

He cried until the trembling stopped. Or maybe he cried out the trembling. He wasn't sure, and it didn't seem to matter. When he was done, Napoleon blotted his eyes on his sleeve and stood up. He went to his linen closet and got out spare sheets and made up the couch, even though Illya had only drunk the one double.

Illya just stood and watched him. The sheets tucked in and folded back, a pillow resting against the couch arm, Napoleon looked up at Illya to say...something. But the moment their eyes met he knew there was nothing to say, so he turned and went to his bedroom instead. Illya followed and leaned in the doorway, arms crossed, and watched Napoleon get undressed and slide into bed. He was still there when Napoleon gave in to exhaustion and slept.

***

Napoleon woke to the harsh buzzing of his alarm clock. He forced himself to wait a moment before turning it off, letting the grating sound rouse him thoroughly. His muscles were still heavy with sleep, his neck and shoulders sore. Napoleon rubbed the grit out of his eyes and reached over to shut off the alarm.

Eventually he managed to swing his legs out of bed and stand up. God, how long has it been since I slept like that? he wondered. It felt more like he'd woken from dead than rolled out of bed. Pulling on the pajama pants he hadn't bothered with the night before, Napoleon wandered out into the living room.

The bottles had been returned to their cupboards, the whiskey spill wiped up, and a quick glance found the glasses standing in the sink. Illya was stretched out on the couch, one arm hanging off the side, one curled across his belly. He'd discarded jacket, dress shirt and shoes, but his gun lay on the coffee table, ready to hand.

Napoleon left him to sleep and went to confront his reflection.

The man that stared back at him from the mirror was disheveled from sleep and a little puffy around the eyes from drinking. Not my best morning, Napoleon thought wryly. Surprisingly, the hangover wasn't too bad. Still, he found a pair of aspirin and swallowed them dry.

Catching a flicker of movement in the corner of his eye, Napoleon to glanced towards the door. Illya was a little wrinkled but otherwise looking far more together than his partner. He nodded towards the mirror. "Is it familiar yet?"

Napoleon could think of a dozen ways to answer that, but all he said was, "Not quite." Pulling out a drawer, he found a spare toothbrush, still plastic wrapped, and handed it to Illya. His own he plucked from the holder and adorned with toothpaste.

Illya moved up beside him, unwrapping the toothbrush as he went. Napoleon handed over the toothpaste absently and ran his own brush under the tap briefly. Looking up as he stuck the brush in his mouth, he caught sight of Illya's face next to his in the mirror. His eyes were a little bloodshot, too. Napoleon smiled suddenly and set to brushing briskly.

He watched the two of them brush and rinse and spit and shave and comb their hair, despite having done it all a hundred times before. When they'd finished he hesitated to turn away. Slowly, Napoleon raised his right hand and ran his fingertips over his cheek. Meeting Illya's eyes in the mirror he smiled sheepishly and let his hand drop.

"Come on," Illya said, turning to leave the bathroom. "You're already making me late."

Napoleon had to fight the urge to reach out and touch Illya, just to hold him there for a moment, just to feel his partner under his hand. Instead Napoleon followed him back into the living room, saying, "I'm sure your superior won't mind."

Illya snorted as he shrugged into his dress shirt. "You may technically be my boss," he challenged, "but there is serious question as to whether you are my superior."

Napoleon laughed and went to dress. "Now where's your respect for your CEA?" he called from in front of his wardrobe.

"Waiting," Illya called back impatiently. "With the rest of me."

It was only upon actually reaching their office that Napoleon realized he'd done all his paperwork the day before. Twice. He sank into his chair and regarded the pristine desktop with dismay. "Is it wrong of me," he asked aloud, "to wish for just a small emergency?"

"If it was only a small emergency, we still wouldn't be handling it," Illya countered.

"You're only tempting me into wishing for a major emergency."

"What gets you out of the office gets me out of the office."

Napoleon smiled and drummed his fingers on the empty desk. Thanks to whatever errand had taken Illya out of the office yesterday, he still had paperwork to do. THRUSH has discovered a more certain killer than bullets, he thought. Boredom.

Still, there were a few things that needed doing. All of them required the involvement of people not in this office. Napoleon sighed and forced himself to get moving.

Among the joys and pleasures of being CEA was the job of resolving complaints made by Section Two against personnel in other sections. One such complaint had come across Napoleon's desk the day before. He'd read it over twice and was forced to admit he was going to have to talk to all parties involved before he made any decisions.

'All parties involved' were Michael Burnet, Section Two, and Angela Anders, Section Three. In this case, it probably also meant Sam Donaldson, the head of Section Three. For all their importance in the field, Section Three could occasionally get touchy about how they measured up to Section Two.

Sighing, Napoleon went after Michael first. He found the agent at his desk, filling in paperwork. It seemed everyone was getting caught up. Anders had helped Burnt out on a case with a little bit of misdirection. He'd been appropriately grateful and she, apparently, had taken that as license to lord it over him. More than a little, given that she'd been at it for two solid weeks.

Brunet had finally had enough, and now it was Napoleon's job to convince her to give it a rest...without alienating all of Section Three. Fortunately, Angela Anders had a penchent for gossip, and that gave him an in.

"It's only gotten around Section Three," she protested.

"And Section Two," Napoleon pointed out.

"But it's still within UNCLE HQ," she argued.

Napoleon sighed internally. "And our people would never spread talk about an active affair," he agreed. "But once everything is over and done with...well, we all know the best stories have a habit of slipping through."

"I don't want to get chained to my desk," Angela pouted. "I'm needed out there."

"Well," Napoleon struggled for a casual tone, "you could do a little damage control. That would certainly help."

"Damage control?" she looked confused for a moment. Napoleon waited for the idea to dawn. "Oh! I could play things down a little," she suggested. "Move the grapevine along, so to speak."

"That would be perfect," Napoleon said, letting a little relief leak through. "You've taken a weight off my mind."

"My pleasure, sir." Angela waved cheerily as he wove his way through the desks and out of Section Three territory.

One down, Napoleon thought. How many to go? He shook his head at himself and made for Records. There had been a familiar name in yesterday's stack of reports, but he couldn't for the life of him remember where he knew it from.

Looking around Records, he spotted his quarry at a filing cabinet. "Sarah," he said coaxingly. "Why don't you come and help me navigate the depths of our filing system."

She turned to face him, a file in her hands, and raised an eyebrow. "You're more than capable of navigating the filing system yourself, Napoleon Solo."

"I wouldn't venture into the Amazon without an expert guide, and I won't risk our reservoirs of paper without you by my side," he said earnestly. Sarah relented. "Now, here's what I'm looking for..."

Napoleon escaped to his office two hours later and leaned back against the door, sighing. Agent Howard had not been happy about being asked to requalify on his gym requirements. Napoleon could sympathize with him--the man was only two months out of Survival School--but he could have been a little more graceful about it.

"Illya," Napoleon said, "let's go for lunch."

"I should..." Illya began, but broke off when he looked up at his partner. "Lunch. The commissary?"

Napoleon shook his head. "Somewhere I don't have to talk to anyone."

Illya raised his eyebrows but set his pen down and shrugged into his jacket.

They walked to a small deli not too far from HQ. Illya ordered for both of them and they ate the sandwiches as they walked, enjoying the afternoon sunshine. "When I said I didn't want to talk to anyone," Napoleon said as he wadded up the wrapping paper, "I wasn't including you."

"You never do," Illya said with a small smile.

Napoleon knew he was teasing, but couldn't help frowning anyway. "I take you too much for granted, my friend."

Illya shrugged and pocketed his own wrapper in the absence of a nearby bin. "I don't mind being taken for granted. It means you trust me enough not to question that I will be there."

"Put that way," Napoleon said, smiling, "I wonder why people always assume it's such a bad thing."

Illya shot him a sly glance. "Terrible, gnawing insecurity. They assume that if they are not told they're needed, then they aren't. I, of course, have no such weakness."

"Illya," Napoleon said solemnly, "you are an absolute paragon. I salute you."

"Someone must set an example for you Americans," Illya sniffed, eyes twinkling.

"Alas, I seem to be beyond help," Napoleon said mock-mournfully.

"No one is beyond help," Illya responded steadfastly. "I have made you my personal project."

"Careful," Napoleon warned, feeling unaccountably pleased, "with all that personal contact I might start rubbing off on you."

"Impossible," Illya scoffed.

"Oh?" Napoleon arched an eyebrow. "I seem to remember someone of my acquaintance all but drooling over his last Christmas present."

"There is nothing wrong with enjoying a little music," Illya defended.

"Rare, hard to find, jazz..." Napoleon shook his head. "See how far gone you are already? Next thing you know it'll be bubble bath and silk sheets."

"Both of which you have," Illya said pointedly.

"And where did you spend last night, hmmm?" Napoleon grinned.

"On the couch," Illya shot back.

"One small step, my friend."

Illya snorted. "Napoleon, you are the only person I know who considers their couch a pit stop on the way to the bedroom."

At that, Napoleon sighed. "Lately," he admitted, "it's been considerably less than that."

"Sometimes a couch is just a couch."

"And sometimes it's a symptom of a larger problem," Napoleon said, rubbing a hand over the right side of his face.

Illya watched him for a moment before speaking. "People are getting used to the change much more quickly than you seem to think."

"Then why do so many of them have a hard time looking me in the eye?" Napoleon asked.

"If they are uncomfortable," Illya said, "that is their problem, not yours."

Napoleon sighed. "I like it when people are comfortable with me, Illya. I'm not used to having to work so hard to make that happen."

"I'm not sure you should get used to it," Illya muttered.

"Believe me, I wish I didn't have to," Napoleon said. "We're getting a little far from headquarters. We'd better turn back."

Illya frowned but made no argument as they reversed their stroll.

***

Rachel Thompson was exactly the sort of innocent Napoleon liked to work with on an affair. Smart, pretty, and entirely willing, once he'd explained what the stakes were in the game they were playing. She wasn't a screamer, either, which was a particular bonus considering the pit full of spiders she'd ended up fishing him and Illya out of.

"Mr. Solo," she'd said briskly, brushing a stray arachnid off his sleeve, "how is it that it's the poor, helpless innocent who has to help the professionals out of this scrape?"

"Luck," he'd responded, smiling. "That, and I have doubts about how poor and helpless you are, Miss Thompson."

"No doubts about my innocence?"

Napoleon had put a hand on the small of her back to hurry her out of the vicinity of the spider pit as Illya moved off down the hall. "How could I impugn the innocence of a woman clothed in a little more than a nightgown?"

Rachel had smiled suddenly. "Take me dancing," she challenged, "and I'll show you."

Illya had cast an exasperated look over his shoulder and it had been so much like old times that the words had slipped out without hesitation.

"It's a date."

Which was what put Napoleon here, in front of his closet, contemplating his wardrobe. Usually confronted with too much choice, he now found himself wondering if he had too little. He didn't often go dancing--why bother wearing yourself out at the beginning of the evening? But they were going for a light dinner and dancing, and he had to be dressed appropriately.

Eventually he settled on a navy blue pinstriped suit, white dress shirt, and tie. If necessary, he could leave the jacket on his chair and roll up his sleeves. The cut of the pants worked well without the jacket. Napoleon examined his shoes with as much care but more expertise and selected a pair with the soles about half worn away.

He went to give himself a last check in the mirror and found himself frowning. The suit had the unfortunate effect of creating faint blue shadows in the contours of the scars. Napoleon spared a momentary thought for the cosmetics he'd pitched more than a week before, but dismissed it just as quickly.

Rachel hadn't paid much attention to them before, he told himself firmly. She wasn't going to back out because of a change in clothes.

Napoleon picked her up at her apartment at seven o'clock precisely. Rachel answered the door immediately and gestured for him to step inside for a moment. "Just let me get my purse and jacket," she said, turning towards the couch where they lay draped.

"Don't hurry for the coat on my account," Napoleon remarked, running an admiring eye over his date. She was dressed in a bright, emerald green dress that ended mid-thigh with a little ripple of the hem. The neckline was a modest vee and the back consisted of criss-crossing, snug, green straps. With her dark hair done up in a long braid and gold hoops in her ears, Rachel looked very good.

She smiled at him over her shoulder as she slipped into a long beige raincoat. "You can look all you want when we get there," she said, picking up a purse that might more appropriately have been called a bag. It didn't seem to fit the rest of her outfit. Rachel must have caught his glance, because she opened it to reveal a pair of black heels. "My dancing shoes," she explained, stepped into a pair of battered flats at the door. "They've got special soles; I can't wear them just walking down the street."

Napoleon was impressed. Good dance shoes were an investment usually reserved for professionals and would-be professionals. Rachel was neither, that he knew of. "Have you thought of dancing professionally?" he asked as they left her apartment.

Rachel just laughed. "You haven't even seen me yet," she said. "I might be terrible."

"My dear," Napoleon put a hand on the small of her back guided her around to his left side, "I doubt very much that you are terrible at anything."

"Oh, sure I am," she said lightly. "I'm a terrible cook. And I tried to learn to type and never managed. I just can't coordinate these," she waggled her fingers, "properly."

Napoleon captured the fingers of her right hand and brushed his lips over them. Rachel smiled but drew her fingers firmly out of his grasp. Napoleon let them go and glanced away, resisting the urge to brush his own fingers over the twist at the corner of his mouth. Surely it wasn't that noticeable.

The restaurant Rachel directed him to was designed to center around the dancing. The tables were small, since no one would be sitting at them very much, and the dance floor claimed more than half the space. But it was a restaurant and not a club--there was a full menu and a small group of tables roped off for the non-dancers.

The music confirmed Napoleon's guess as to the type of dancing. Ballroom. The dancing shoes had hinted in that direction and he was pleased to see the suspicion borne out. Ballroom dancing he could do. Given her enthusiasm, Rachel could probably dance rings around him, but he thought they'd at least enjoy themselves.

Napoleon and Rachel were led to a table just off the dance floor and left with menus and glasses of water. Rachel automatically requested a second water for both of them. "You'll need it," she told Napoleon. "Particularly if you don't go dancing that often."

"Is my inexperience obvious?" Napoleon asked, half an eye on the other diners. The pinstriped suit wasn't too out of place, he noted. There were a few men dressed more casually, but they quickly proved to also be among the most skilled dancers. Apparently skill earned you a break from the dress code.

"Oh, not at all," Rachel assured him. "You move like a dancer," she said. "It's the first thing I noticed about you."

"It's the martial arts," Napoleon replied automatically, covering his surprise. How long had it been since someone noticed how he moved first? Since about twenty, he thought wryly. He'd come to expect a certain kind of look in people's eyes when they looked at him, and it had always been there. At least until recently.

"Napoleon?" Rachel prompted. He blinked and refocused on her. "I lost you for a minute there..." she trailed off inquiringly.

"Sorry, my dear," Napoleon smiled. "I was lost in thought for a moment. What did you say?"

"Just that I suppose that dancing and the martial arts require the same sort of body control," she said. "Have you studied a great deal?"

"Of body control?" Napoleon asked with a little smile.

Rachel reached over and thumped him lightly on the arm. "Of martial arts," she scolded, smiling back.

"More than most agents, I suppose," he answered. "Both Illya and I have. It has a tendency to come in handy."

"I can see that," Rachel said, brow wrinkling as she thought back on the mission they'd just completed.

"So tell me," Napoleon said, endeavoring to bring her mind back to more pleasant matters, "what would you recommend? You are a regular here and I'm just a visitor."

She smiled, opened her menu and, glancing down, began a running commentary on the options. At a table next to theirs a couple returned, flushed and a little breathless, from the dance floor. The man glanced over idly. His gaze touched briefly on Napoleon, eyes widening visibly before flicking to Rachel and back to Napoleon.

Napoleon's jaw tightened uncomfortably. He dropped his eyes to his menu, pretending to follow along with whatever Rachel was saying.

"...don't stare," the woman hissed to her companion.

The menu might as well have been in Greek for all that Napoleon absorbed of it. Illya's words--If they are uncomfortable, that is their problem, not yours--drifted through his mind but did nothing to ease the sick feeling in the pit of his stomach. Napoleon glanced up to see if Rachel had heard just in time to catch her finishing up her evaluation of the menu.

"...and the salmon isn't bad, either."

"I'll have that, I believe," he said smoothly. "I don't want to weigh myself down with something too heavy."

"My thoughts exactly," Rachel said comfortably. She must not have heard.

To Napoleon's relief, their waiter came around to the left side of their table. They both ordered the salmon but passed on the recommended accompanying wine. "I don't drink," Rachel confided. "But I assumed you would."

Why? Napoleon wondered. "Normally I would have a glass or two," he said easily, "but not when I'm planning on navigating a crowded dance floor."

Rachel glanced over at the floor. "It's not so bad tonight," she assured him. "That's why I suggested we go out Sunday."

Napoleon allowed a small smile to curve his lips. "You have this down to a science."

She laughed. "Maybe so. I just like to dance."

Napoleon caught himself keeping half an ear on the surrounding conversations as they waited for their dinner to arrive. Fortunately, Rachel didn't seem to notice, because he couldn't seem to stop. The chitchat rolled off his lips automatically, but when their meals arrived, interrupting the flow of conversation, he couldn't recall where he'd left off.

You've been off your game too long, he scolded himself as they dug into dinner. You have a date with a beautiful woman and a guaranteed chance to hold her close for a couple of hours. So why can't you concentrate?

"Napoleon," Rachel said tentatively. She paused and tapped her fork on her plate nervously. "Do you mind if I ask you a personal question?"

"Please," he said, setting aside his fork in favor of the water glass.

Rachel caught his eye, so he paused before sipping. "How did this," she touched her own cheek, "happen?"

Napoleon set the glass back down. At neighboring tables two conversations trailed off. It couldn't possibly have been as quiet as it seemed, with the music playing, but Napoleon swore he could hear echoes of the word.

"I'm sorry," Rachel glanced down at her plate. "I shouldn't have--"

"No, no," Napoleon assured her. He picked up his water, then set it down again without sipping. "I was...splashed with a beaker full of an experimental chemical. Illya got me into the emergency shower almost immediately, of course, but the damage had been done." He paused and picked up the water again, actually sipping it this time. "Fortunately," he swallowed, "the damage was entirely...superficial."

"Thank you," Rachel said softly.

Napoleon picked up his fork and concentrated on eating, unable to look up for the moment. Clinking sounds from across the table told him that Rachel had followed suit.

By the time he'd cleared most of his plate, eating so intently he couldn't help but think of Illya, Napoleon felt ready to look up again. Rachel was sitting back in her chair, sipping at her water. "Your partner is a big part of your life, isn't he?" she asked after a moment.

"Yes," he said, a little surprised, "but...what prompted that?"

Rachel smiled. "Up until our mandatory first date awkward moment, his name featured in every third sentence. It wasn't a hard conclusion to draw."

Napoleon opened his mouth to tell her that that wasn't usually the case, but stopped himself just in time. He couldn't very well admit he'd been making small talk without really thinking about it. You were supposed to pay attention to your date. "We work together," he said, shrugging, "and we work a lot."

"We haven't been talking about work," Rachel pointed out.

"Well," Napoleon smiled, "we also eat together, and vacation together, and...I suppose he's been my mainstay the last three months."

"Three months?"

"Since, ah..." Napoleon flicked his fingers towards the scarred side of his face.

"Oh," Rachel said, visibly chagrined. "I didn't realize it was so recent."

Napoleon forced a casual shrug. "You can't tell, now that the, ah, hair has grown back in." They lapsed into a moment of silence. "Come on," he said briskly, standing up. "We came to dance. Let's get out there."

Rachel smiled broadly and accepted the hand he offered to her. "Let's."

Once they got out on the dance floor, the evening sped by. Napoleon focused on Rachel, everyone around them focused on dancing, and thinking too much was suddenly no longer a problem. But it wasn't the kind of evening that stretched late into the night. Rachel wore him out before ten o'clock.

"I'm not used to being the one to call an end to the date," Napoleon said as they retrieved their coats at the door. "You ran circles around me."

Rachel laughed. "I've been doing this at least once a week for ten years," she confessed, leaning down to switch shoes. "I have a friend I go with when I can't talk a date into it."

"Well, I hope I measured up well enough," Napoleon said.

"You did just fine," she assured him. "Call me any time you want to be run off your feet," she said with a grin.

Napoleon took her home and walked her up to her apartment, but restrained himself to a kiss on her hand to close the evening. She smiled with no apparent regret and closed the door as he turned to go.

***

Napoleon leaned back in his desk chair and contemplated the two tickets that lay on his desktop. The date printed on them was for the next day. He'd been counting down to that date for six months. Now it was right on his doorstep and he found himself confronted with a dilemma. Napoleon heaved a sigh.

Across from him Illya tossed down his pen and sat up in his desk. "That is the fourth ostentatious sigh this morning," he accused. "So all right. What is it?"

Napoleon blinked at him innocently. "I wasn't hinting at anything." Illya narrowed his eyes and made an impatient 'come along' gesture. "It's just that I bought these tickets six months ago," Napoleon conceded.

"What, has the show been cancelled?"

"No," Napoleon said. "It's just...it's looking like I'm going to have to go alone." He picked up the tickets and tapped them on his desktop, frowning.

"Napoleon, you never have to go out alone."

Napoleon shook his head. "For once," he argued, "I bought these tickets because I wanted to go, instead of to tempt someone I had my eye on. Six months ago I didn't think I'd have a problem finding a date, but now..." He pressed his lips together and stared at the tickets. "I don't want to spend the night making sure she has fun. I just want to watch the show."

"You misunderstand me," Illya said quietly. Napoleon looked up and raised an eyebrow. "I meant that you never have to go alone. If company is all you want, I'll go with you."

"Illya..." Napoleon hesitated to discourage his friend, but felt compelled to full disclosure. "It's 'Man of La Mancha.' Broadway. Black tie. Not exactly your preferred fare."

Illya shrugged. "The company will be good."

Slowly, Napoleon felt a smile bloom. "It's tomorrow night. Is that okay?"

"I'll have to check my busy social calendar," Illya said dryly. "Tomorrow night is fine, Napoleon. I will meet you at your apartment at...?"

"Seven," Napoleon filled in. "But you'll be going four floors in the wrong direction. I could come by your place."

A tiny smile curved Illya's lips. "If I come by your place, I will actually be there at seven. The four floors won't kill me."

Napoleon pressed a hand to heart. "Illya, you wound me. Aren't I punctual?"

"Only when it counts," Illya said, picking up his pen and going back to work.

Napoleon frowned. "Was that a compliment or an insult?"

Illya smirked.

***

With Illya's comments in mind, Napoleon started dressing nearly half an hour before he'd originally intended to and was actually ready to go when his doorbell rang at seven o'clock. He pulled it open, smugly poised to point out his own readiness, and froze.

Beautiful.

It was the first thought to break through. Napoleon couldn't help himself. He ran his eyes over Illya from head to toes and back again. He's beautiful.

The tuxedo was obviously custom cut to Illya's slender frame. It emphasized the breadth of his shoulders and the narrowness of his waist. The crisp lines of the pants drew the eye down the length of his leg and broke perfectly just above polished black dress shoes. Gold cufflinks, Illya's only accessory, accented the soft shine of his hair in the ordinary hall light. The stark black of the tux made him look paler than usual.

Napoleon drank him in and felt a stirring of heat in his blood.

Eventually he became aware that Illya was waiting for him to say or do something. He managed to scoop his coat off the hook next to the door and step over the threshold, but when he opened his mouth to say 'Hi' or 'Good evening,' what came out was:

"You look beautiful."

Illya glanced down at himself skeptically. "You don't have to flatter me, Napoleon. I'm not your date."

Starting to feel a little more in control of himself, Napoleon slid into his jacket as he walked. "I'm not, and you are."

Illya cast him an amused look. "Since when am I your date?"

"Since you agreed to come with me tonight," Napoleon said, smiling.

"I agreed to nothing. It was my idea, if you recall."

Napoleon broke into a broad grin and cast a sidelong glance at his partner. "I guess that makes me your date."

"I didn't bring you any flowers," Illya said, starting to smile back.

"You never do," Napoleon sighed, "but I've learned to live with the neglect." As they stepped onto the elevator Illya shrugged into his coat, which had been draped over one arm until that moment. Napoleon watched, a little regretfully. Well, he'd be taking it off again.

At the show, of course.

They took a cab instead of driving to avoid the inevitable hours-long search for parking. At the theatre Napoleon climbed out of the cab and automatically turned to offer a hand to Illya. To his belated surprise, Illya actually accepted, though he cast his partner a deeply amused glance. "Are you going to throw your jacket over puddles for me, too?" he asked as he shut the cab's door and waved it off.

Napoleon flushed a little. "Are you kidding? This is a two hundred dollar tux."

Illya was still smiling. "Now that I know my precise monetary value in your eyes..."

"Well, it all depends on how you look at it," Napoleon said, walking side by side with Illya into the theatre. "After all, I did wear the two hundred dollar tux."

"You would have more than one," Illya said, shaking his head.

"What? The other one is for missions. HQ even paid for it."

"HQ pays for an astonishing amount of your wardrobe," Illya said dryly.

"It's only fair," Napoleon argued. "I destroy an astonishing amount of it on the job, after all." They paused to exchange their coats for check tags.

"I think it would be interesting to find out how much more expensive your taste has grown since you got access to an expense account," Illya mused as they stepped away from the counter. "Perhaps I shall have to have a word with the Records personnel."

"Now, let's not be hasty," Napoleon said, still smiling.

"Your fate hinges on a single question," Illya went on, then paused dramatically. Napoleon leaned forward intently. "Did you spring for box seats?"

Napoleon laughed and took Illya's arm to point him towards the stairs. "I did," he confirmed. At the base of the staircase Napoleon paused to buy a program.

"Only one?" Illya asked.

"You don't mind sharing, do you?" Napoleon asked, then grinned. "They're ridiculously expensive."

Illya laughed a little and shook his head. "That depends entirely on what I'm sharing. The program, I believe I can handle."

They reached the top of the long staircase and glanced at the ticket stubs to find the appropriate box. There were four seats, but none were occupied, so they claimed the front two. Napoleon sank into his seat and glanced to his right. Finding Illya standing at the rail, looking down at the slowly filling seats below, he felt a sudden surge of contentment.

Watching Illya, Napoleon let his smile soften. His partner looked even better leaning against the burnished rail, illuminated by the house lights, than he had in the hall of their apartment building. He was suddenly grateful for everything that had led him to this particular moment in time.

Illya glanced over his shoulder and caught Napoleon's gaze. He turned and leaned back against the rail. "You're grinning like an idiot," he pointed out. "Should I worry?"

Napoleon shook his head but couldn't stop smiling. "Just glad to be here."

Illya shook his head and held out his hand for the program. Napoleon turned it over and watched as Illya, apparently deprived of his reading glasses, proceeded to squint down at the text intently. "This doesn't look too bad," he admitted after a moment. "But if I get show tunes stuck in my head I will be forced to kill you."

"Mr. Waverly would be a little upset with you."

Illya took his seat and handed the program back. "Mr. Waverly would understand the extenuating circumstances."

"Well," Napoleon murmured, "if you can't stop thinking about the lyrics I will try to turn your thoughts to other things."

"You will have to try very hard," Illya said seriously. "Show tunes are insidious things."

"If necessary," Napoleon responded, equally serious, "I will consider it my new purpose in life."

Illya smiled a little and leaned back in his seat. "That would be acceptable."

The house lights went down a few minutes later and the stage lights slowly came up. Napoleon turned his attention to the performance and gave himself over wholly into the fantasy.

The intermission seemed to rush up on him. When the house lights came up Napoleon actually blinked in surprise before sitting back, realizing then that he'd been all but leaning on the railing. Leaning back with a satisfied sigh, Napoleon glanced over at Illya and found himself being watched with amused eyes.

"What do you think?" Napoleon asked, tilting his head towards the stage.

"I think it suits you," Illya said after a moment. "And I think I have never seen you so enthralled."

"Does that mean you're enjoying yourself?"

Illya said nothing as he rose from his seat, but his eyes were pleased. "Come, Napoleon. Let's stretch our legs and go for a drink."

Napoleon rose agreeably and followed Illya down to the bar where dozens of other theatergoers were milling. He glued himself to Illya's side and they managed to reach the bar together, though everyone else seemed to be calling to companions over the heads of strangers. They collected their drinks and wove their way back to the relative safety of the stairs.

Illya cast an eye back at the churning crowd, then down at their still-pristine tuxedos. He looked up at Napoleon and quirked an eyebrow. "An unexpected benefit of UNCLE training."

Napoleon almost snorted his drink and raised an admonishing finger. "Warn me before you do that!"

Illya shot him an innocent look. "What would be the point, then?"

Shaking his head, Napoleon half turned and tilted his head towards the head of the stairs. "Come on. I want to get settled before the lights go down again."

Illya gestured for him to go ahead and followed close behind.

Napoleon finished his drink just as the lights dimmed. Carefully, he set it aside before turning his mind back to the story. It drew him back in immediately despite the intermission, always the acid test of a show, in Napoleon's estimation.

Near the finale, at the end of the already poignant 'The Impossible Dream,' an unremembered lyric actually sent an ache of empathy through Napoleon.

That one man, scorned and covered with scars, Still strove, with his last ounce of courage, To reach...the unreachable star...

Actually breathless, Napoleon had to blink back the prick of tears. When the house lights came up for the last time he found himself on his feet without really thinking about it, applauding with the rest of the audience until his hands hurt. At length the applause died away and the audience started moving towards the exits.

Napoleon turned to Illya and found his partner watching him with warm eyes. "You're glowing," Illya observed. "If I didn't know better, I'd ask you if you'd had a...good night."

"But I have had," Napoleon said, letting the innuendo go for the moment. "The best night."

They headed down to reclaim their coats. Napoleon realized as he was fishing his claim ticket out of his pocket that he was babbling, but Illya didn't seem to mind, so he kept going. Illya let him ramble on all the way through the trip back to their building and up the elevator.

Napoleon got off the elevator at Illya's floor automatically, still talking. Outside his partner's door he managed to still the commentary for a moment. "You want to come up for a drink?"

Illya tilted his head and cast him a speculative gaze. "Didn't we decide that you were my date?"

"We did," Napoleon conceded.

"So...do you want to come in for a drink?"

Napoleon grinned. "Yes. Absolutely."

Illya let him into the apartment, discarding his jacket just inside the door. Napoleon followed suit and perched on the edge of Illya's couch as he watched his partner head for the drinks. Illya had undone his tie and the first two buttons of his shirt before he even reached the appropriate cabinet.

Watching, Napoleon felt his pulse rate pick up a little, a suggestion of excitement that was quickly growing familiar. Illya poured their drinks and paused to remove his tuxedo jacket before bringing them over.

Illya half out of his tux, Napoleon decided, looked even better than Illya perfectly turned out in it.

Reaching out to take the drink he was offered, Napoleon let his fingers brush over his partner's as he curled them around the cool glass. Illya captured his gaze and held on a bare moment too long before releasing the glass into Napoleon's grip.

Eyes never parting, they lifted their glasses and drank a silent toast.

The silence didn't last, of course, but as Napoleon waxed eloquent about the show he couldn't take his eyes off his partner. Illya was relaxed in a way Napoleon rarely saw. Mostly, he suspected, that was because Illya rarely relaxed like this at all. He felt a flash of pride that he'd managed it, mind already spinning with ways to recreate the feat in the future.

He'd have to weasel Illya out of jacket and shoulder holster, of course. Even Napoleon could relax properly with a reminder as heavy as his special under his arm. Then put a drink in his hand. Not to get drunk--Illya could hold his liquor better than that--but just to set the mood. Casual. Maybe Napoleon could convince him to to accept a shoulder rub. Women always seemed to love massages. He'd lost count of the times that a touch meant to ease sore muscles turned sensual, and God knew Illya had more than his fair share of strained muscles...

Stop! Napoleon thought suddenly. His hand actually lurched, as if he'd physically pulled up short. A little of his drink slopped over the edge of the glass. Napoleon raised his fingers to his lips without thinking, then froze in the act of licking the liquor away, suddenly aware of how the gesture must look. Quickly, he fought down and blush and retreated to Illya's kitchen for a damp cloth, instead.

What the hell are you thinking? he asked himself, scrubbing at his fingers with the cloth rather more enthusiastically than the small spill warranted. Illya would deck you just for thinking about it. God only knows what he'd do if you actually tried it.

After a moment, Illya followed him into the kitchen, still chatting companionably, blissfully unaware of the direction of Napoleon's thoughts. And Napoleon couldn't seem to change the tenor of his musings. Not with his partner standing there, smiling and talking and looking so unconsciously gorgeous. I should leave, Napoleon thought, feeling dangerously helpless. If I can't control myself, I should just go.

But he didn't. He didn't leave until nearly two am, and when he crawled between his sheets with a pleased sigh, he couldn't bring himself to care that he was going to have to wake up in hardly more than four hours. The night had been worth considerably more than a little lost sleep.

***

Napoleon woke at the first bleat of his alarm clock and knew immediately that he had no right to be this thoroughly awake. He was stepping into the shower before he actually remembered why. Smiling, he turned on the water absently and caught a face full of freezing spray. Sputtering, Napoleon lunged for the taps and managed to moderate the temperature. He leaned against the tiled wall for a moment and shook his head at himself. If he hadn't been awake before, he certainly was now.

The rest of his morning routine went smoothly, though making breakfast suddenly and inexplicably struck Napoleon as incredibly domestic. He must have made breakfast for himself and a companion, whether a woman or his partner, a hundred times. He'd never put much thought into those moment before the day got going. But this morning, wrapped in a robe, a glass of orange juice in one hand, sitting down across from an empty chair, a brief thought flickered through Napoleon's mind. This is your life.

He arrived at UNCLE headquarters with a smile and a friendly word for the receptionist. He'd half hoped to run into Illya on the way so that he could thank him for the company the night before, but had no luck in that department. Well, it hardly mattered. He was often ahead of Napoleon in the mornings.

Breezing into their shared office with a cheerful 'hello,' Napoleon glanced at his partner and made it to his own desk largely due to momentum. Illya wasn't wearing anything special. They were just at work, after all. An off the rack suit and tie would do. In some cases they were preferable--at least according to the accounting department.

But somewhere in the utter ordinariness of the moment, Illya was still beautiful. Napoleon tore his eyes away quickly, seated himself, and found his gaze inexorably returning to his partner. As Illya bent his head to read the file spread out on his desk his hair fell in his eyes a little and he distractedly pushed it back. Futilely, as it turned out. Illya's hair wasn't quite long enough to tuck behind his ears.

A small smile tugged at Napoleon's lips. Illya looked up just then and scowled a little. "You're cheerful this morning," he observed.

Napoleon shrugged. "I slept well." Illya raised an eyebrow. "I didn't say that I slept a lot," Napoleon backpedaled a little. "Just that I slept well."

Illya snorted and went back to reading. Napoleon went back to watching his partner. Illya had strong hands, he noticed. More so than his own, though Napoleon took better care of his. Napoleon took better care of himself in general. Which, he reflected as he studied his partner, is probably why most people judged me the more attractive of the two of us. There certainly hadn't been any basis for that opinion when you stripped the two of them down to the basics.

Lately, opinion had swung decidedly in Illya's favor.

Napoleon abruptly straightened up and turned his attention to the copy of the report waiting on his own desk. When his communicator beeped for attention a few minutes later he had to restrain himself from snatching for it.

"Mr. Solo," Waverly's voice came over the tiny speaker. "Would you and Mr. Kuryakin meet me in the conference room."

"Of course, sir," Napoleon said and closed the channel. He and Illya rose together and filed out of their office, down the hall and into the conference room. Two files waited on their side of the round table. Napoleon scooped one of them up and automatically began to scan the contents.

"Benjamin Johnstone," Waverly said briskly, "is a millionaire with a penchant for 'causes.' Save the whales, preserve the rainforest, legalize the so-called recreational drugs--"

"And a host of others," Napoleon observed, eyes still on the file. "He's not too particular, is he?"

"No," Waverly confirmed, frowning. "What a man does with his money is his own business, but Mr. Johnstone has been throwing his money around a little too freely lately. Considerable amounts of it have filtered into THRUSH coffers."

"Through convincing fronts, no doubt," Illya said, flipping ahead in the file.

"Indeed. Convincing enough that we believe Mr. Johnstone remains unaware of the ultimate use his money is being put to. You two will travel to San Francisco and attempt to persuade our wayward millionaire to be a little more discriminating in his investments."

"That might be a little more difficult than usual," Napoleon said, looking up from the file. "No family, few apparent friends, and no business built of blood, sweat, and tears. All that money is inherited. Benjamin Johnstone doesn't seem to have invested himself in anything."

"I am sure," Waverly said mildly, "that you will rise to the challenge. Your flight leaves at noon. Please see Lisa for the details of the arrangements."

The two agents excused themselves and stopped by Lisa's desk for the necessary information. "Is it just me," Napoleon asked as he glanced over the plane ticket, "or do our flight arrangements always leave us just barely enough time to get organized and to the airport?"

Illya shot him a look. "You'd prefer to have a day or so to mull it over?"

"No," Napoleon said, stopping in their office to retrieve a briefcase. Some things, including mission files and various gadgets, were best kept closer to hand than the overhead compartment. "But I can't shake the feeling we're being rushed out the door."

"When has anyone ever rushed you out?" Illya asked dryly.

"Illya! I had no idea you had such confidence in my charms," Napoleon said with exaggerated pleasure. Though, it was less exaggerated than it should have been. How can everything seem so normal? he wondered. Something had changed the night before, hadn't it?

The elevator arrived and they stepped onto it together. "I would have confidence in anyone who practices as frequently as you do," Illya replied. Despite the even cast of his features, there was a mischievous light in those blue eyes. Napoleon felt a surge of appreciation fo