Reflections
by Charlie Kirby

Napoleon unlocked the door and stepped through it quickly. He shut it behind him and disengaged the alarm system.

Illya's apartment looked very much as they had left it. The evening paper was still where Napoleon had dropped it. Dirty dishes had been washed and rinsed, but now stood, dust covered, in the rack. For a long moment he just stood there, remembering how normal things had seemed that afternoon, that night.

He walked into the room and picked up the paper. Three weeks old, Christ, how did that happen? He thought as he methodically folded up the paper and set it upon the battered coffee table. At one point, it seemed like yesterday that they'd argued good naturedly over the Yankees' quest for the pennant that year, whether or not the heat was finally over for the summer, about who was going to finish the last of the wine.

Napoleon picked up the bottle and stared at the mold floating inside on that last little bit of wine. He walked as if in a daze to the kitchen to pour it out and dump the bottle into the trash. He considered putting the dishes away, but they would be along to pack up Illya's personal effects and get the apartment ready for someone else. These were apartments allocated for Section Two agents, not...

He walked into the bathroom and opened the cabinet. Illya's razor was there and beside it his toothbrush and some weird tooth paste Illya bought in Little Russia. It would be a long time before either of these items would be necessary, but holding them made Napoleon feel normal... a bit more relaxed.

He walked into the bedroom and began to go through the closet. He found an old gym bag and set it on the bed. He put socks, underwear, some shirts, and toiletries in it. There was a suit in Illya's gym locker that they could use.

He sat down on the bed and thought for a moment. It had been such a straight forward mission that it never occurred to either of them that something would go wrong. Napoleon stayed behind in the town to run interference. Illya had headed out to the stronghold. Plant the explosives and bail - neat, clean and straightforward.

Neither of them could have imagined Napoleon being caught and held hostage by an angry father, thus keeping Napoleon's focus away from where it should have been. It had taken all of Napoleon's considerable charm and the introduction of the local law enforcement to disentangle this SNAFU.

Neither of them could have anticipated a faulty detonator on the bomb. Ten years ago, Illya would have been clear, but time and the sheer physicality of his job had taken its toll. He was just outside when the explosives went up, not quite clear enough to escape injury.

When he missed their rendezvous, Napoleon had radioed for help and gone in, shaken by what he found. The doctors said it was only due to the frigid temperatures that Illya hadn't bled to death. Now that cold was working against him.

Napoleon supposed amputation was better than death, maybe... Illya would never go back out into the field though and Napoleon felt it was his fault. If he hadn't flirted with that young lady, he wouldn't have gotten into trouble with her father and would have found Illya sooner, before the frostbite had gotten so wide spread, before the damage had been done.

He wondered if it would be right to pray to God to take his partner now, before he woke up and saw what was left of him. Napoleon had already vowed that he'd take care of Illya, as much as Illya would permit, of course. The man was fiercely proud and independent. He'd not want to be reliant upon anyone. Napoleon would just have to make him see sense.

Napoleon thought back to when they were 'playing house' not too long ago, how comfortable it had felt to be together. Somehow it felt right, more than that, it felt exactly the way he'd dreamt it could be. He'd never felt that way, not even with Clare. He remembered standing there in the morning, drinking coffee, and watching Illya scramble eggs, kibitzing about raisin rye bread and THRUSH's lamebrain schemes. It had felt right and perfect and he had never wanted the assignment to be over with. The house has been turned over to UNCLE and Napoleon was sure some UNCLE employee was now enjoying their kitchen, their future.

Napoleon pushed the thought aside. No, we're agents. This was just one of the prices we are willing to pay . He only wished he truly believed it. He only wished his mind didn't keep traveling back to that moment in time, all the dreams and yearnings he'd experienced.

He stopped then, a piece of paper on Illya's bureau catching his eye.

Last will and testament - that was why Illya had invited him over. They had been asked to update their wills, a routine procedure for agents, and Illya had asked him to be his witness. Come to dinner, witness the document, and maybe play a game or two of chess. Somehow, it hadn't turned out that way.

Napoleon scanned down the sheet.

I leave all my worldly possession to my partner, Napoleon Solo. He'll know what to do with them. He's always watched out for me in life; I have no doubt he will do the same in death.

Napoleon's jaw clamped for a moment and his eyes prickled. Sometimes, it just didn't seem right, this game they played with such disregard for their own safety and future.

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a pen, then quickly scrawled his name on the witness line and back dated it three weeks. At least, things would be done the way Illya wanted, just in case.

There was a soft knock at the door and Napoleon frowned. No one knew he was here.

He drew his UNCLE special and moved towards the door.

"Napoleon, are you in there?" He recognized April's voice and opened the door.

"April, what are you doing here?"

"I could ask you the same."

"Collecting some things for Illya."

"He's out of surgery, Napoleon. I tried to call you, but your communicator didn't respond."

"I left it back at the office. How is he?"

"The usual, pissed at being there, annoyed, demanding they let him go." She smiled gently. "You know Illya."

"How bad is he? Is he handling things okay?"

"I don't understand."

"When I left the doctors were getting ready to amputate one of his legs and most of his right hand."

"That is one reason why you shouldn't leave your communicator behind." She poked him gently in the shoulder. "They decided there wasn't enough damage once they got in there."

"He's okay?"

"Well, I think they said he might lose a couple of his toes and they are still not sure about the leg. His hip is pretty much gone, but he's still intact for the moment and okay. He'd argue the point, Illya being-" She broke off, studying him for a minute. "How about you, Napoleon? Are you okay? You look like you need to sit down."

Napoleon took a deep breath and nodded. "I am... fine, April. Thank you."

"I have a car downstairs if you'd like a ride back to HQ."

"Thank; I'll be along in just a minute."

"I'll be waiting, but don't be long. I'm double parked." She swung out the door with a swish of long dark hair.

It was strange. A minute ago, Illya was facing life as a cripple, now everything was back to normal. Napoleon looked down at the paper he held, then carefully refolded and tucked it into his jacket pocket. Maybe this was a wake-up call, maybe it was just the way it was meant to be, or maybe it was something that he hadn't even considered yet. Napoleon didn't know and he didn't care. They'd been given a second chance at life and he was going to see that they took it, even if he had to ram it down his partner's throat. He picked up the gym bag and smiled. Maybe they'd be all right after all.