Author: Kei

Disclaimers/Warnings: see Part 1

THE WILDING AFFAIR, Part 5
 
 
 

"No. Absolutely not."

The pronouncement was met with a snort of disgust as the head of  UNCLE Toronto turned on her heel, pacing a rut in the deep-pile carpet as she began to curse under her breath in Quebecois French before meeting Alexander Waverly's  unswerving gaze. En route back to her command from a meeting Geneva, she and her second had been detoured to New York -she was far from happy. "I knew -I *knew* it would be a mistake to allow a contingent of your agents to run roughshod over my base -and those two hotshots of yours! Pah! What was it you said, Alexander -a `minor' surveillance mission? `Your'
team could use it as an exercise to teach my juniors a few tricks? Go ahead to Geneva, you said-"

Waverly sighed aloud, seeing the same pattern of argument being woven again -that woman was as stubborn as a mule. "This is a unique situation, Marie, as you yourself know...and until we can be certain of what we are facing -UNCLE Toronto is in complete lockdown mode until further notice." He glanced at the series of buttons on the command panel on his desk. "To be released by remote from here. No- one is to enter and no-one enters and *that* is my final decision as head of UNCLE's North American operations."

The decision had been met with varying degrees of disbelief and  outrage, but there it was -UNCLE Toronto was officially under quarantine...and physically shut off from the outside world. Upon report of the discovery of possible contamination, mechanized doors had slammed shut and locked at a signal from UNCLE's North American headquarters, communications reduced to the direct feed to which the medical department and the remaining bio-sciences staff -namely one Illya Kuryakin- had access.

What they dealing with, they still did not know -but it was there. It was definitely there. Save for Kuryakin, the people that had been examining the evidence gathered from the former THRUSH satrap seemed to have lapsed into varying fugue-like states, some merely sitting and staring at nothing, others in blissful nonawareness -one preferred to roll up in a ball, sucking his thumb and sobbing quietly. Whatever was affecting them, had gotten past the supposed protection of their anti-contamination gear.

Worse. This "phantom virus" -as it was coming to be known- was spreading. Two of the security staff had had to be locked up after being separated from a bloody all-out fight -no particular reason. They had just felt like it. Then the head of the encryption department had gone streaking -not the prettiest of sights- extolling the virtues of self expression at the top of his lungs. UNCLE North America had then ordered that weaponry be confiscated and stored, and the tension became all the greater.

Napoleon Solo kneaded the dull ache at his temples as he walked down through the corridor that led most directly to the commissary -damned tension headache. What he would have given for a dose of codeine right now, but one didn't go to the medical department lately unless one was literally dragged there -even the slightest physical or emotional distress could be looked upon with suspicion -could be a "symptom" of their invisible bug- and he had no desire to be locked away in a padded cell for any reason, but especially not for a stupid headache. He was fine. Just freaking fine. Wouldn't know it by Illya though...the way his slight Russian partner had been looking at him lately as if Solo had grown another arm or something.

A slight smile turned the corners of Solo's lips -ah yes...Illya...hair of bright gold and eyes of crystalline blue. What
*was* behind that porcelain mask of his? What- "Huh?"

"I said -are you all right, mate?" Mark Slate said, apparently repeating the question.

Taking a moment to collect himself -he hadn't even realized that Slate had fallen in step with him- Solo shrugged, the  growing *thump - thump* in his head worsening slightly. "Sorry...I'm bucking a bit of a headache -it's kind of distracting."

Slate nodded sagely. "Maybe you're getting that flu Illya's got." At which, the younger agent produced a tissue and began dabbing his rapidly reddening nose. "Sure as heck gave it to me."

"Ummn...could be," Solo muttered grimly, massaging his thumping temples. Caffeine -a good strong shot of caffeine was what he needed to knock this would-be migraine for a loop. "A better condition than the alternative right now, my friend."

"True -and, uh, speaking of friends," Slate said almost in mid- sentence, "have you seen April about?"

Solo struggled with that question for a moment -damn, his head felt like it was full of cobwebs. *Thump-thump*. "Not for some time. Why?"

"Oh, it's nothing...really..." The young agent said with a nervous laugh. "Just...haven't been able to find her for a while. You
know how it is...with the way things are right now... You never know."

Thump. THUMP. Napoleon winced painfully, gradually aware as they walked that the thumping pulse in his skull was being echoed by a very real pounding from without, a rhythmic noise that grated on his presently too-sensitive nerves. Not noise. Not exactly. Music of a sort. Loud and coming from the commissary that was his and Mark's present destination...and with the raucous pounding music were equally loud words: <<Take it off, give it to me! Take it off, like you'd do me!>>

Mark was off like a shot, a sudden panic etched into his young face. Solo quickly followed, the thunderous row now pressing him towards nausea. <<Take it off, pretty baby! Take it off, drive me crazy!>> Even as Solo caught up with the younger agent, Mark shrieked in horrified dismay. "APRIL!!!"

On a tabletop, surrounded by a leeringly appreciative audience, to the reverberating music exploding from someone's portable stereo, April Dancer was doing a very raunchy striptease -to say that she was only half-dressed would have been an exaggeration. As Solo stabbed the "off" switch, cutting off the row, to a chorus of disappointed boos, Mark pushed his way through the small crowd and hauled his half- naked partner off of her stage, gathering her up in his arms. "Blimey, April, what did you think you were doing!"

April shrugged sheepishly, offering an almost drunken smile. "Seemed like a good idea at the time..."

"Come on, luv -let's get you to the med section," Slate said soothingly. "You can have a nice lie-down..."

"With you?" April asked hopefully, snuggling against her partner's shoulder.

"Oh, crikey...Napoleon?" Slate glanced around almost helplessly, hoping for a little advice from UNCLE's resident lothario.

Solo was nowhere to be seen.

It was as if a light had been switched on -it all made sense now.

A laugh erupted from Napoleon Solo's mouth. He had no real idea how he had gotten to this corridor leading to the labs -didn't really matter- but everything was suddenly so very clear -his head didn't even hurt anymore. All the teasing, the flirting, the mindgames, the little innuendoes he had used in the past on his various female conquests -they were useless here! *That* was why his little campaign with his partner had failed.

Yesyesyes -made perfect sense. Absolutely perfect sense. Illya was too sophisticated, too wordly, too damned smart for such empty romantic prattle. That left only one other course of action.

The direct approach.

"Yes, sir -if your people could get back to me with their  conclusions as soon as possible, I would be most grateful."

Illya Kuryakin stared at the now silent desk communicator, his eyes dulled with tiredness and the pressing ache of irritated sinuses. Damned flu. Damn *them* -sometimes he wondered what Waverly and the upper echlons of UNCLE really expected of him. The medical staff - those that hadn't gone to `la-la' land as he had once heard April put it- had just been summoned to deal with the immediate after-effects of a sudden knock-down dragged-out brawl that had just erupted in the commissary and that pretty much left him -alone- to tackle the task of discovering the nature of whatever was causing the growing madness.

Bozhe moi! He wasn't a physician and he only had a minor in bio- chemistry. What did they expect -miracles!  Ice-blue eyes scanned hastily scribble notes -a clue. He thought that he had found something. Had anyone asked him only minutes before, he would have sworn it. Now, he just wasn't sure. If the science department at UNCLE Colorado concurred, they would be  one tiny step closer to what - a means of detecting Thrush's creation? Curing it? Or was he grasping at straws? So hard to think clearly -and quite frankly, his partner wasn't helping.

Napoleon -what the hell was that scene in the commissary? He and his sometimes arrogant, all to charming partner had played the same game for years -at least, Napoleon had played it. The man was good at guessing what a person's buttons were and just when to press them...and that was the way it had been for as long as he could remember. Napoleon had figured out his preferences within weeks of their first meeting, but the flirting hadn't begun until much later...but even then, it was just a game of the mind, a tease from a man who knew better than anyone how to get a rise out of him. Nothing serious. But...that look ...and the way that Napoleon's hands had felt against his body...

Illya threw his reading glasses to the counter top in frustration and reacted with dull dismay as he realized that one of the lenses had cracked. Damn again. Just then, Illya heard a low, familiar scraping sound as the door to this min-lab inched open. "Oh..." He swallowed the surprise in his voice. "Napoleon."

"Illya..."

A slight frown creased the young Russian's brow as he took in his partner's appearance. Haggard -that was the only word he could think of to describe the usually immaculate Napoleon Solo's appearance right now -hair mussed, the shadow of a beard on his face. He looked...ill? "Napoleon...are you well?"

A vague smile turned Solo's lips. "Perfectly fine. Better than ever, lyubovnik."

What? Lyubovnik? *Lover*!? And that look again, but much more so. Illya felt with his left hand, reaching behind himself for the desk communicator as Napoleon allowed the door to shut behind him -and then, locked it. "Napoleon..." Illya said almost nervously despite himself as he felt himself take a step backwards. "Perhaps you should speak with one of the doctors..."

"Oh, we *will* talk, *Doctor* Kuryakin." They were so close now that they were all but face to face, almost touching, as Napoleon's hand darted out and clasped Illya's wrist, firmly pulling his hand away from the communication device. "And  neither of us is leaving this room *until* we've...*talked*."
 
 

End of Part 5
 
 
 

"Take It Off" by Stanley, Ezrin, & Roberts 1992