Out of Control
by Charlie Kirby

He was out of control. He knew it, could feel the world spinning away but there was nothing to do but go with it. Outside, he could see Napoleon, hurt, frantic to get to him, to rescue him before the cyanide pellet fell.

He could feel Napoleon's hands fumbling with the restraints just as he was arguing that there was no time, to get out. Then he was free and being pushed through the door, but instead of falling free, Napoleon was trapped, pounding on the glass as he attempted to escape the gas until he crumbled to the floor.

Illya sat upright in bed a split second before the pounding in his head threatened to cleave it in two. He pressed his hand to it, hissing in pain as the action pulled at the stitches in his palm. Taking a deep breath, he eased himself back down to the sweat-drenched pillows and listened, letting the sound of traffic, the song of the city calm his heart.

It had been nearly a week since he'd survived the last second rescue from that gas chamber, had watched the man responsible for his abduction fall, trapped by his own hand, his own anger. Napoleon was safe, he was safe, so what was fueling these nightmares?

It was hardly the first time he'd been kidnapped, nor was it first time he'd been used as bait for Napoleon, but he was getting damned sick of it. He felt like he was some much favored toy being used to lure his partner into bad situations. Perhaps, as much as the thought hurt, it was time to switch partners. Give Napoleon a chance to not have to worry about keeping him safe all the time.

He yawned widely enough to make his jaw crack, but knew sleep was going to elude him now. One more day of sick leave and then he'd at least be able to return to desk duty. Wearily, he swung his legs over the edge of the bed, intent upon the shower. His hand went automatically to his neck and he winced. As much as he hated to, he needed to go back to the crime scene and see if he could find his medallion. His grandmother would be heartbroken if he lost it.

He was out of control. He knew it, could feel the world spinning away but there was nothing to do but go with it. Napoleon struggled through the rubble blocking his way to the gas chamber. Inside, Illya was yelling, struggling against the straps that held him to the chair.

Then Napoleon tripped, his wounded arm slowing him down, and suddenly it was too late. The clock clicked out and the door locked shut. All he could do was watch Illya slowly succumb to the gas and feel his heart die with his partner. He shut his eyes, blocking out the sight of Illya slumped, gone, lost to him forever.

With an effort, Napoleon got his eyes open, so as not to see his partner's slack face and unseeing gaze. Not to see his enemy's gloating face or the gas chamber, a horror in the middle of a House of Horrors, but the cool white walls of Medical.

He reached up and caught a tear as it escaped down his cheek. The nurse poked her head in and frowned.

"Are you in tremendous pain, Mr. Solo?" She regarded his bandaged forearm, apparently checking to see if it had started to bleed again.

"What? Oh, just allergies." Napoleon sniffed defiantly and knuckled the remaining tears away.

"Would you like me to get you something?"

"No, I'll be fine."

She wavered for a moment before nodding curtly and disappearing. Napoleon stayed quiet, purposefully slowing his breathing until his heart had returned to its normal rhythm. Once he was certain she wasn't going to make a return visit, he slipped his hand beneath the pillow and pulled out the fine chain, a small medallion hanging from the end of it.

In his haste to pull Illya free, he'd yanked the piece of jewelry from his partner's neck. Now he let it dangle from his finger, visible proof that Illya was alive and well. That bastard, Karmak, had taken his place, and died with a glare on his ugly face.

Napoleon turned the small medallion over in his fingers and then squinted. There was something written on the back in tiny Cyrillic letters. He turned on the small reading light and held the piece closer.

>3 E@0=8B 20A >B 154- -" May God shield you from harm," Napoleon translated mentally. He didn't know about God, but he for one was tired of people using his partner for target practice, bait or as a guinea pig. Napoleon tightened his hand around the medallion until the edges dug into his skin; that was stopping here and now. From now on, Napoleon wasn't leaving Illya alone for a minute, not until he made THRUSH very aware that to mess with Illya was to bring all of UNCLE's might down upon them.

He'd never felt the way he did about another human, not the way he felt towards Illya. Friendship, a deep sense of connection, even a degree of love, all these traits were true of his relationship with Illya. Some people searched their whole life for this and never found it, never even got close. Napoleon was not about to let go now.