Nothing to Hide
by Charlie Kirby

He had nothing to hide. That thought almost made Napoleon Solo snort, but right now being quiet was a distinct advantage. The fact was he had everything to hide. He carried a microdot in his signet ring, a microdot that carried information that could cripple the world... or half of it at any rate. His partner had the other microdot with the rest.

His partner... Napoleon wondered if Illya was even still alive. He thought he was; he felt he was. They split up as they exited the building. They'd drawn straws and Illya lost.

"Me..."

"Illya... I..."

"No, we both had an even chance and I won." Even now Napoleon could see the ghost of Illya's smile. There was a formal handshake that turned into an awkward hug and Illya pulled away and winked. "See you in New York."

"Not if I see you first." It was a stupid thing to say, but it just popped to Napoleon's mind. His partner had laughed softly, then stood and stuck his fingers in his mouth to whistle loudly.

"Have you lost something?" Illya shouted. He'd immediately drawn attention and fire; then he was gone in a flash, his blond hair the last thing to disappear in the night.

Napoleon had hunkered down and held his breath as THRUSH agents pounded past his hiding spot.

That had been an hour ago and he still hadn't moved. He was still hiding, his limbs cramped with the cold and wet. The sentries had glumly returned and went inside. They'd lost their prize, but others had been alerted. THRUSH had no idea half their prize crouched in the bushes just a few feet from their front gate.

Eventually a tension he felt in the air had subsided, the guards, once overly alert and anxious thanks to the adrenaline Illya's escape had provided, grew languid and weary. Adrenaline was great for the short haul, but it took a toll. Napoleon knew this from experience and it was why he waited and watched. Timing was everything.

And he wondered where Illya hid his microdot.

Illya Kuryakin stopped only when breathing became an issue. The THRUSH had been very... determined, but even they had their limits. He dropped to his knees behind several stacked boxes. He'd made it as far as the waterfront. Now he just needed a ship.

Illya pulled the dark knit cap from his head and shook it out before stuffing it into his pocket. His hair was plastered to his head from sweat, darkening it, making it less of a beacon. It had been fine when Illya wanted the THRUSH idiots to see him; his hair was just short of a flare in the night.

When it became necessary to hide, Illya had pulled the cap low and made sure nothing peeked out. Then he seriously started working at losing his tail. He just hoped he'd given Napoleon enough time.

The pain in his chest subsided gradually, the pain in his side not as much. He knew he'd been clipped. He'd stopped just long enough to wrap a scarf around his waist, pulling it tight to keep his blood from leaving a trail. He needed to stop, he needed to regroup and he knew that neither was an option. He'd stop when his foot hit the threshold of Del Floria's and not a moment before.

But he paused, closed his eyes and just let his conscious mind go for a moment, searching for... what? He didn't really know, but he knew Napoleon was still in the game. He couldn't explain it, but he just knew.

A man walked by, a duffle on his shoulder. There was a brief sound of surprise, an even briefer struggle, and a slender blond, with a duffle bag, strode easily towards the docks.

Napoleon sat quietly in the back of the truck, keeping low to avoid detection from the driver. If Illya had been here, he'd be able to catch a quick cat nap. Alone it just wasn't safe, and he was getting that much closer to his destination.

He could hear the vehicle slow, lower gears grinding and Napoleon crept to the tailgate. The minute the truck stopped, he wanted to be ready to jump out and move. Thankfully hitchhiking was a common way to get around here and no one would think twice of seeing a man slip from the back of a truck.

He paused at a small store to buy some food and drink, careful to call no attention to himself by lingering too long or acting furtively. He paid for his purchases and went about his business. Once free of the shop, he headed for a park bench and sat to eat, out in the open, nothing to hide. Except that he was hiding. With his five o'clock shadow, his hair uncombed, and his clothes smeared with mud, he looked an entirely different man than the efficient polished agent who had snatched the world's future out from under THRUSH's nose. Now if he could just keep that way.

He tossed the trash into a can as a strange tickle started at the back of his neck. It was time to start moving again.

Illya leaned on the railing of the ship and stared at the horizon. Beside him, other men smoked and told obscene jokes in a mish mash of French and English. He'd found a spot on a small fishing boat, bartered his passage with the captain in exchange for labor. He would haul nets, he would gut fish, he would cook, clean, do whatever needed to be done.

His back, shoulders, and arms ached from the physical exertion of dragging nets on board. His side throbbed. He'd cleaned and dressed it as best he could with the limited medical supplies on board, letting the captain think he'd blundered against something. The captain showed him little sympathy and Illya asked for none.

Illya stunk of fish and his clothes were covered with fish guts and other stuff he'd rather not think about, but now he fit in with the other men on the boat. They had been distrustful of him at first, as they would any stranger, but when he proved he was willing to work and work hard, they accepted him. They now made jokes at his expense, thinking he didn't understand. That was fine with Illya for he preferred it. It meant they talked freely around him. For the moment he was safe and headed in the right direction. He hoped Napoleon could make the same claim.

Oh Napoleon, my friend, are you safe? Illya thought, looking out over the waves as the sun dropped below the horizon. In a few minutes, he would have to go below and start cooking.

"Ah, Monsieur, you hide, yes?" Louis was the man in charge of the nets. He towered over Illya and yet apologized to the fish as they ripped them from the sea. "Je suis désolé, nous sommes mais nourrir nos familles, oui (I'm sorry, we are but feeding our families, yes)?"

"Hide?" Illya blinked, straightening up stiffly and looking at Louis.

Louis touched his side and Illya shied away. "You did not do this on the boat. I think maybe an 'amant jaloux.'"

"I don't... a what?" Louis made a crude gesture and Illya let himself looked embarrassed. "Don't tell the captain. I don't think he likes me very much as it is."

"Don't worry, petit ami, he doesn't like anyone. Your secret is safe with me."

I wouldn't put money on that, Illya thought. "Um... mercy? Thank you?"

"Merci," Louis corrected his pronunciation with a wave of his hand and the others snickered.

"Merci," Illya repeated, carefully keeping his pronunciation flat.

He closed his ears to their conversation during which his masculinity was called into question more than once. He didn't care what they said or thought. He brought a hand to his shoulder and rubbed it thoughtfully. All he cared about was whether or not Napoleon was still in the game.

Napoleon sat, slumped down in the bus seat, doing his best to hide. It wasn't hard, since he hadn't bathed or shaved in three... no, wait, four days. He'd developed an essence that made most people wince when he approached. He wasn't happy, but he was easily overlooked and that was exactly what he wanted.

The flight had been inconsequential and he was glad of that. He'd nodded off, in spite of his best efforts, waking suddenly as they hit turbulence. His seat mate had stared at him and moved closer to the aisle, his eyes wary.

In Atlanta, he exchanged plane for bus, buying the cheapest ticket he could. The bus had a hundred stops it seemed, but it had gradually crawled its way into New York.

Napoleon's thumb rubbed the ring on his pinkie. It, like him, was dull and dirty, nothing worth looking at twice. Nothing to hide, nothing to see.

He tried not to sigh contentedly at the familiar skyline. It would be so good to get home, to be warmly greeted by a friendly face and soft lips. More than anything, Napoleon missed the contact. People shunned him and this wasn't a feeling he enjoyed. Napoleon wasn't used to women looking away in disgust at his grimy fingernails or his greasy limp hair.

Damn, am I that shallow, that I too can't see past the surface to the person beneath? Napoleon wondered as the back of the bus bounced over a pothole, rattling the windows and his teeth. This had been a learning experience on more than one level...

The bus pulled into the Port Authority Bus Station and parked amid a great squeal of brakes. Surreptitiously, Napoleon scanned the crowd for any of 'those' faces and when he was sure it was safe, he slipped from the bus.

He'd managed to finally grab a taxi and then instructed the driver to let him off two blocks from Del Floria's. If he was dropped in front, someone might still make him and put a bullet through his head. The entrance through the parking garage was much safer.

He stumbled in and the kid in the parking kiosk gave him a firm, no-nonsense look.

"I'm sorry, you're not allowed."

"Oh, Mr. Perkins, I think that I am," Napoleon said quietly and the young man's face immediately changed.

"Mr. Solo? Is that you?"

"Yes, unfortunately, it ..." That's when the bullet nipped past his left ear and spider-webbed the bullet proof glass of the kiosk.

He'd gotten so close...

Illya Kuryakin tossed the port mooring rope to a dockworker and inwardly sighed with relief. While the fishing boat had provided safe travel, he would be happy to be on dry land again. He was tired of fish, he was tired of pretending he didn't have a clue as to what was going on around him, of being seasick, and he was tired of his burden. It was good to sail past the Statue of Liberty. Even if its message wasn't exactly aimed at him, he still felt welcomed and safe.

"What will you do now that you are here?" Devrey was the quiet one. He rarely spoke or joked with the other fishermen. He was the son of the captain and was still proving his worth.

"Disappear for awhile, decide where to go and what to do," Illya said, with a smile.

"Dad wouldn't mind you staying on."

Illya chuckled. "Oh, I think that your father is quite ready to be rid of me."

The young man shook his head. "No, he likes you - you work hard and keep your mouth shut... unlike some of the others on board." He glanced over to where Louis, Reuvel, and Beall talked, each one trying to out-boast the other.

"No, I am just not naturally as loquacious as others."

"Pardon?"

Illya smiled again. "I don't talk much."

"Ah..."

The gangway was lowered and Illya looked over at it longingly. Still there were some last minute chores that needed to be done and he was a man of duty.

He was guiding the last bit of fish from their hold when he felt a slap to his shoulder. His instinct almost got the better of him as he went for his gun... his non-existent gun. He'd stashed that back in Quebec.

"Devrey says you are leaving." The Captain kept his voice low; it made people concentrate upon what he was saying. Illya often used the technique himself.

"Yes, it is time." Illya pulled off his glove and offered his hand to the man. "Thank you for trusting me enough to take me on."

"You proved your worth, Nicholas. You are welcome to sail with me any time."

"I appreciate that, sir, but this is home... at least for now."

He tapped Illya's chest with a stiff finger. "You have a sailor's heart, you will never be happy anywhere for very long."

Illya still sighed happily when his foot hit the dock. Almost home now.

He turned a corner and caught the fist square in the mouth...

"Call for backup!" Napoleon shouted from his crouch behind a car. There was no sign of life in the kiosk. He knew the young man was alive, but that was it. You could train and train, but until you faced this sort of situation, there was no telling how someone would react.

The car Napoleon squatted behind shuddered with the impact of a bullet and he knew it was a matter of time before he'd have to make a break for it. He didn't have a lot of ammo and the door to the kiosk was locked from the inside. The only option he had was to head further into the garage and try to make it to the employees entrance. Chance are, there were more agents covering that from various angles.

The slide locked back on his Special and he swore, reaching into his pocket for the last clip. He sat back against the car and suddenly caught sight of his ring. He twisted it off his finger, wincing as skin came with it. But where to hide... that's when he saw the wad of chewing gum and smiled. They might take him, but they wouldn't get their hands back on the information they so desperately wanted.

"I will ask you again, Mr. Kuryakin. Where is the microdot?" The fingers that held his head up by his hair tightened, then abruptly released him.

Illya let his head sag forward, feigning near unconsciousness in the hopes of buying some time. He didn't know what for. He wasn't able to escape, not now. His body had taken about all the abuse it intended to...

"Strip him. Search him thoroughly."

Just one more indignity to suffer, Illya thought as his clothes were yanked from him and hands began to poke and prod. He gasped as the gauze pad he had on his side was yanked off. Thankfully the wound has been shallow and nearly healed or he had no doubts they would have searched there as well.

Afterwards, they dropped him to the floor, half senseless and moaning in very real pain now.

"And yet again, Mr. Kuryakin, the microdot..."

"I think perhaps mon petite ami has had enough play today, oui?"

At Louis's voice, Illya stirred, trying to cough out a warning, telling them to run and to leave him. Nothing came out except a dribble of red-tinged saliva.

Oh, that can't be good...

Napoleon gasped as concrete spattered against his face, cutting him. He'd managed to get within three cars of the entrance, but his gun was empty and the last bullet had come from a new direction. He was pinned down. A trickle of blood wound its way down his forehead and gathered in an eyebrow. Napoleon tried to wipe it away, but only resulted in smearing it. He was just so, so tired.

There was an explosion of gunfire behind him and he was suddenly grabbed and forced to the floor, his cheek grinding into an oil stain.

Lovely, he thought and began to struggle.

"Napoleon, stay down," the voice ordered. He didn't recognize it, but knew instinctively that it was one of his. The battle blazed and Napoleon watched as a man fell dying to the concrete just to the other side of the car. He reached out a trembling hand to Napoleon as if beseeching his help, then stilled as the area around him began to turn red.

The silence when it came was deafening. Hands helped him sit up and Napoleon blinked the blood out of his eyes.

"Welcome home, Mr. Solo." Hancock, a Section Three agent grinned at him. "Mr. Waverly is expecting you... and I think Medical is as well." He looked around, confused. "Where is Mr. Kuryakin?"

"A question I would like answered as ..."

Then Hancock stiffened and began to convulse. He fell face forward onto Napoleon, pinning him back to the ground.

Napoleon struggled to push the man off him and a stranger approached. Napoleon reached for Hancock's gun but the stranger's foot caught and trapped his fingers.

"Now, Mr. Solo, where is the microdot? If you ever want to use your hand again, I suggest you talk."

Napoleon decided upon screaming instead.

"Illya, you need to wake up. I need you."

"Napoleon?" Illya tried to move, he really did. It wasn't his fault that the floor kept shifting contrary to his moves. He'd have vomited, but he lacked the energy; breathing seemed all that he was up for. "Tired."

"I know. You have one more thing to do before you can sleep. Report, Mr. Kuryakin."

Not Napoleon... Mr. Waverly, okay, that's was too weird for words. At that, Illya struggled to open first one eye and then the other. Wood... a coffin? No... his bunk back on the boat... what? He tried to sit up.

"Rest easy, mon petite ami. You're safe, we're at sea."

No, no, this was the wrong direction.

"Louis, I need to talk to the captain; it's very important."

"It's fine."

"No, the men you saved me from. They are very bad, they'll make you pay. You should have let them kill me. Not gotten involved."

"I don't..."

"The captain... now! Please? Before it's too late for any of us."

"My ring," Napoleon gasped as he was slammed back against the wall. "My ring."

"You're fighting for your life and you are worried about jewelry. Solo, you have balls." His attacker took knife from his pocket and flicked the long slender blade out. "Let's see how fashionable you are with one eye..."

"Boss, I think he's telling you the dot is in his ring."

Napoleon mentally thanked the rare THRUSH agent who had brains enough to think. His hands were grabbed and examined. "He's not wearing a ring."

"Where is it?" Napoleon looked around wildly for it. "It must have fallen off... I'm dead... I'm dead..." He started babbling and sobbing against the hood of a car.

The two THRUSH glanced at each other, momentarily confused.

"Well, go look for it..." His abuser instructed. "Where did you have it last?"

"In the cab..." Napoleon whined. "It must have fallen off my finger..."

"What cab... what was the number?" The man leaned over him. "C'mon, we'll find it. Hell, I'm a dead man if I don't bring it back."

"Okay."

"You'll help."

"No, okay, you're a dead man." The man's face didn't even immediately register as Napoleon slipped the man's own knife between his ribs and into his heart. He went down without a sound and Napoleon went with him.

Now where the hell was the other guy? And where the hell were backups?

Then he felt the cool metal of a gun rest beneath his ear and a soft voice. "Say, goodbye, UNCLE agent." And there was a blast.

"Attention, fishing craft, give us Kuryakin and we will let you go in peace."

Illya could hear the voice over the bullhorn. The ship had approached quickly, as he'd suspected it would. THRUSH wasn't going to let him go when he was so close at hand.

"Surrender the UNCLE agent or we will board and take you by force."

"Yeah, see how that works for you," Illya murmured. Louis and Devrey glanced at him.

"Who are they, Nick?"

"In the big picture, they are the bad guys as opposed to my being a good guy."

"Are they on the up and up?"

"No, they'd take and kill me and you as well. It's how they operate."

The ship pulled alongside and the grappling hooks were tossed onto the fishing craft. In a few seconds, the ships were bound together, bobbing as one.

Illya drew a careful breath and winced. It was nearly over now. Around him, the crew huddled, their faces wan and frightened. Only the captain had the courage to look Illya in the eyes.

"I'm sorry, Captain, for your loss." Beneath them, an explosion rocked the waves and nearly knocked two of their rescuers off their feet. "Apparently, they found the bomb we left them."

The captain rested his head against the side of the helicopter and sighed. "I didn't think it would bother me this much."

"You saved the world."

"Does it ever stop hurting?" Devrey looked out the small window as the UNCLE helicopter sped away from the scene.

Illya rested a hand upon his chest and closed his eyes. He felt nothing. He hadn't since they'd been hauled aboard the craft. Did it mean Napoleon was gone? Did it mean he was simply too tired to feel that connection? In too much pain? "No, it never hurts less."

He lapsed in and out of consciousness until they landed. It jarred him awake enough to wave off the gurney standing by and limp into HQ under his own power. Immediately, his friends were hustled away to be debriefed.

Two Section Threes were immediately there, men he knew by sight, if nothing else. Each of them grabbed an elbow and started towards the elevator.

"Where are we going?"

"We're taking you to Medical. Mr. Waverly is waiting for you there."

"What? Why, I'm fine, I can report..."

"It's not you, Illya... it's Napoleon."

Napoleon hunched over in pain... until he realized he wasn't experiencing any. Well, he wasn't experiencing the sort of pain he'd expect for having his head blasted off. He looked around. The THRUSH was sprawled out on the ground just a few feet from him, obviously dead.

Napoleon looked in the direction of the shot and Perkins looked back at him. The young man was pale and shaken, then he leaned over a car and started to retch.

Obviously his first kill. Napoleon thought as the door from the employees entrance opened and a second wave of agents spilled out. Napoleon straightened and brushed off the soiled shirt he wore.

"You okay?"

"Nothing that a quick trip to Medical won't fix." He tried to flex the fingers of his left hand. Or possibly a bit longer.

Limping, just slightly, almost heroically, he walked over to Perkins and patted him on the shoulder.

"Good man..."

"He's d- dead..." the young man stammered.

"Yes, but the world's alive." Napoleon bent and pried the wad of gum from the concrete pad. He wrapped it in his handkerchief and headed back for the entrance. Thankfully, there were two agents close at hand to catch him as he passed out midstride.

Illya didn't pound the side of the elevator, but it didn't mean he didn't want to. It was so slow, exasperatingly so. He didn't care that he could barely stand or that his head was beating out a lively tune and still not able to keep up with his heart.

The doors to Medical opened and his best laid plans were foiled as he was met by a hypo-wielding doctor. Part of Illya's mind screamed trap and he struggled until he saw Waverly, looking concerned, but obviously fine.

"It's all right, Mr. Kuryakin," Waverly spoke carefully, his voice neutral, as if he was afraid of revealing something.

"Napol..." Illya got out and then his knees went. The rest of him followed.

Napoleon sighed and settled back in the chair, watching his partner's face.

"He's going to be fine, Mr. Solo." Napoleon didn't even know the name of the doctor. UNCLE seemed to chew them up and spit them out faster than it did its agents. "He just got an old fashioned beating. It's nothing."

Napoleon resisted shouting at the man. It was obvious he didn't know just how much an 'old fashioned beating' hurt. Illya wouldn't be up for much of anything for the next few days. Not that Napoleon was. He rubbed the plaster than encased his left hand and forearm.

There had been a few bad minutes when he'd woken up and found himself stripped and dressed in a gown. His clothes had been taken to the incinerator and Napoleon had panicked until his ring was returned to him.

With a sense of tremendous relief, he wiggled free the stone and placed the microdot in Waverly's hand. The man had congratulated him on a job well done and disappeared.

He'd carefully gotten up from the bed and pulled on a robe. He wasn't about to share the view from the rear with anyone just now. Putting on a pair of hospital issued slippers, he walked until he found the room holding his partner.

That's when he drew up a chair and made himself comfortable. Well, at least sitting, comfortable would be out of his grasp for the next few days.

Illya stirred and Napoleon reached out to touch his shoulder.

"Take it easy, partner, you're home." With a grunt, he stood and moved to an intercom. "Mr. Waverly, Illya's waking up."

"Excellent, Mr. Solo, I will be right there."

Napoleon reseated himself and rested a hand on Illya's forearm, squeezing it until bleary blue eyes opened.

"Hey, partner, welcome back."

Illya swallowed and licked his lips. "Bastards slipped me a mickey."

"A hypo, actually, Mr. Kuryakin," Waverly said from the doorway. "I was there, remember."

"I thought you were dead," Illya spoke directly to Napoleon, who carefully shook his head

"Takes more than a concentrated effort to kill me." He smiled. "Of course, the thought crossed my mind as well."

"I hate to interrupt this mutual admiration society, Mr. Kuryakin, but the microdot."

"My friends, the ones who were with me?"

"They are being treated accordingly. As soon as the doctor says you are up for visitors, they would like to see you."

"We owe them a fishing boat."

"Do we now? You're becoming as expensive to maintain as your partner." Mr. Waverly harrumphed at that. "The microdot, Mr. Kuryakin?"

"Undo my gown, Napoleon."

Brown eyebrows arched at the request, but he did as he was bid. One handed, he pulled out the bowknot held the gown in place and pulled it forward.

Like so many of their fellow agents, they carried scars, badges of their work really. Illya certainly wasn't immune. On his left upper chest, there was a mass of scar tissue from an old bullet wound. Napoleon had one that was practically its twin.

Illya took Napoleon's hand and rested it upon the scar.

"Illya... I know." Napoleon's eyes lowered for a moment. "It was a close call, but we're okay."

"Blockhead. " The word was softly, almost lovingly spoken as just the ghost of a smile hinted upon the bruised lips. "Peel it off."

Napoleon frowned and then realized he felt an edge. Carefully, he pulled and a thin film came off to reveal the microdot. "Latex?" He handed the microdot to Waverly.

"Would you believe rubber cement? Waterproof, sweat proof, and nearly undetectable."

"You two gentlemen did well. Report to my office for debriefing in the morning." Waverly vanished.

Illya struggled to sit up and winced at the effort. "Gee, a whole fourteen hours to nurse our wounds. He's being generous."

"We did save the world... again..."

"Again..." Illya looked over at the closet where a replacement suit undoubtedly hung. "Would you mind?"

Napoleon shook his head. "Too much trouble. I mean, we're just going to go home to come right back here. Move over."

Illya did as Napoleon asked and the American climbed into bed with him. "Napoleon..."

"Don't worry, I'll keep my hands to myself." Napoleon settled back on the pillows and sighed. "Come here, bubbala."

"Blockhead." Illya stretched out beside him and shut his eyes wearily.

"Dushinka..."

"Single minded, capitalistic, advantage-seeking industrialist."

"Hmm, I'll bet you say that to all your bed partners." Napoleon slipped his casted arm over Illya's waist and smiled contentedly. They were home - nothing to worry about, nothing to hide. Nothing at all.