Author: Kei

Warnings / Disclaimers: See Part 1

Pairing: Napoleon Solo / Illya Kuryakin

There *was* a solution to deal with this runaway madness-spawning  brainchild of misused science. Now that UNCLE knew the contagion for  what it was, the serum could be used -but was the solution a cure or  a killer? That was the question. There was no real way of knowing how  it would react on humans save to actually test it on humans...and no  way of getting test subjects except through the touch of a button  which would by remote activate a security device hooked up to the  ventilation system at UNCLE Toronto which would release a narcotic  gas throughout the base, leaving it relatively safe for a team of
volunteers to enter the structure and begin the series of  experimental inoculations.

Relatively safe -who knew how a body stricken with the virus would  react to yet another attack?

Volunteers -because those who would enter the base did not know if  they would ever be able to leave it. Alive.

It was the last chance for the personnel and agents at UNCLE Toronto - failure guaranteed an order to "cleanse" the base with great  alacrity...by whatever means necessary. This, Illya Kuryakin knew and  accepted as he and Mark Slate watched the countdown from one to zero,  waiting -dreading in some ways- the first familiar whiff of the  sickly sweet odor of knock-out vapor, not really knowing what the end  result would ultimately be. 4...3...2...1...

........

Nothing.

Kuryakin checked his watch. Nothing. No malodorous vapor. No  cessation of the caterwauling row of human voices that had begun to  permeate the walls of UNCLE Toronto. No change. Nothing. Just then,  the keening wail that signaled an incoming transmission broke through  the Russian's reverie. "Kuryakin here."

"Mr. Kuryakin,"  came the phlegmatic voice of Alexander Waverly. "We  are experiencing a...slight technical difficulty."

The Russian UNCLE agent swallowed the almost hysterical giggle  struggling to inch its way up his already irritated throat before  answering. "Yes, sir -and that would be?"

"The remote unit that would release the narcotic vapor is not  receiving the activation signal from our end-" Waverly paused,  listening to the hurriedly whispered words of one of a dozen or more  technicians that seemed to be on stand-by. "-most likely due to a  design flaw or..."

*Or.*  Or sabotage. The Russian agent did not need to hear the word  to know that that was what his superior meant. Madness did not  preclude intellect and paranoia could give birth to brilliant  insight -the noxious security device was a logical, eventual, step in  regaining control of UNCLE Toronto. Dementia did not necessarily make  one forget that...and insanity generally resisted  control. "Sir...what did you wish to be done?"

Why had he even bothered asking?

Illya Kuryakin shook his head slightly as he made his way through the  ventilation duct that led most directly to his destination -to the  remote unit that would activate the release of the crowd controlling  gas. He was to repair the unit or operate it manually. Indeed -why  *had* he bothered asking what Alexander Waverly wanted to be done or,  for that matter, *who* was to do it? It seemed like this Russian was  constantly crawling, slinking, climbing, or sneaking somewhere, often
through nameless gunk, usually during some equally hellish  situation  -though the fact that he was trying to avoid the notice  of  fellow UNCLE agents was something new. Didn't know if anyone would  try to stop him. Didn't dare take the chance of finding out.

It was getting ugly out there. Maybe the THRUSH base's people had  gone from blissful apathy to violence so quickly because the innately  paranoid attitude THRUSH had towards the world in general, but though  at a slower rate it may have been, the people at this UNCLE base were  gradually succumbing too. It was just a matter of time.

Something else that was new and curiously strange was a semi-  coherent Napoleon Solo's reaction to this assignment. "Oh no, he's  not!" he'd bellowed drunkenly. "Not MY Illya -TOO dangerous! Not  without me, he's not!" Mark had had to literally sit on the confused  elder agent to make him stay put while Illya had made his "escape".

Despite the situation, the usually stoic young agent felt a corner of  his mouth twitch upwards at the memory. Napoleon's suddenly intensely  proprietary attitude was oddly comforting. If only...

Ah there!

A slight smile brightened Kuryakin's expression as he came within  sight of his goal -a small cube-like unit, looking for all the world  like a common fuse box...except...the tentative smile faded into a  frown as he cast a studious glare over the box's contents. *Not* a  design flaw. "Kuryakin to Waverly..."

"Waverly here," came the also whispered voice of his superior. "Have  you located the trouble?"

"Yes, sir," the Russian agent said through clenched teeth, struggling  not to give into the need to cough up the liquid heaviness in his  chest. "Your suspicions have proven correct -there *has* been some  tampering with the remote unit-" A curse escaped his lips as the  sweat on his fingers caused him to struggle to maintain his grip on a  micro -welding torch. "Clumsy. Not a professional job."

"Can you repair it, Mr. Kuryakin?"

"Yes, sir," came the ragged reply. "In fact..." Another  curse. "There. Got it. You should be able to-"

The sentence was never completed. The reply -if there was one- was  not heard as a dark figure barreled through the dark passageway with  an inarticulated roar, piling into the slight Russian -and the thin  sheath of metal and insulation opened up beneath them. Contact with  the floor below came in an explosion of pain.

Illya recognized his assailant, the face twisted by mindless rage  though it was, as one of the forensic technicians with which he had  worked not so long ago -how he had escaped from confinement, he did  not know. Didn't really have time to care either. "You!" his attacker  grated. "You started all this! You're THRUSH -admit it!" Ordinarily,  the slight Russian would have been more than a match for the larger  man  -he had high level black belts in several of the martial arts and had  earned them all- but the adrenaline that had helped to press his  weakened body beyond his normal limits was now in scarce  upply.
Several of the powerful blows had made their mark -one had made him  see stars.

It was then, through the metallic stench of the blood spilling from  his nose, that Illya smelled a familiar sickly sweet odor.

He'd done it.

The gas.

An undulating ethereal white carpet, the noxious vapor began to  filter into the room from hidden vents -he was already  eginning to  feel blissfully light-headed. He no longer felt any intention of  trying to avoid the next angry blow heading his way...didn't even  question when through blurred eyes, he saw another vague figure rush  into the room, pull his attacker off him and throw the man against a  wall where he landed with a sickening thud, knocking him out cold.

Through the increasing haze in his mind and body, Illya felt his  rescuer come towards him, kneeling, and then cradling him in strong,  capable arms, his words fuzzy... "Easy, lyubov. It's all right now,"  he heard from a distance. "We'll both just sleep a while."

Yes...

Sleep...

...

"Illya..?"

..?

"Come on, Tovarisch -open those baby blues for me."

..!

Illya Kuryakin groaned softly, half-tempted to ignore the familiar,  insistent voice. He had never known opening his eyes to be such hard  work and his head hurt, but... "Napoleon..." His voice came out as a  rough squeak. "Could you not do me the mercy of letting me die in  peace.?" Just then, a thought -Napoleon..!? Illya blinked rapidly,  struggling to exorcise the remaining oppressive lethargy. Blurred  images struggled into focus. Where was..? He was in a bed...in the  infirmary and his partner-  "How are you- What are you-"  The English  which usually came to him so easily seemed to elude him for the
moment. "Are you...are you..?"

"Take it easy, my friend. We -I-  almost lost you -the flu, the  gas...you stopped breathing for a time." Napoleon brushed aside a  limp strand of golden hair. "I...was worried there for a moment."

Illya found himself studying the face of his partner, looking for any  sign of the former madness. "But you-"

A more familiar smile animated the darkly handsome visage "Ah, that.  I'm better than ever -in body *and* mind. The, ah, serum apparently  works rather well after all...though regulations state that we all  have to remain under observation for another three weeks  unfortunately."

"The serum. What did they-"

"A  derivative of the influenza virus."

"Flu!? Was that why I-"

"Never caught the virus? Almost certainly yes."

"And everyone else-"

"Sniffling, but coming to their senses."

"Have I ever told you how much I hate it when you-"

"Finish your sentences? Yes. I'm sorry." For once, perhaps, Napoleon  Solo *did* seem sorry as he looked away for a long moment, suddenly  seeming to struggle with himself before he returned his partner's  still bleary gaze. "Illya...I need to apologize. There were some  things... While I was under the influence of the virus, I remember  saying and doing some things-"

"Napoleon, it was not your fault," the younger agent said softly,  understanding immediately. "It wasn't you. The virus -you did not  mean any of it, I know."

"No!" The sudden out burst shocked both agents into momentary  silence.  "No," Napoleon said again, a little more softly.
"Damn...  How am I going to..." he muttered, and then brightening and suddenly  resolute. "It *was* and it wasn't me. I was out of control then, but  some of what I said still stands." A warm red flush darkened the  olive skin. "No more stupid innuendoes, no more headgames. All  right."  Solo took a deep, steeling breath. "I'm...in love with you - and I have been for some time." There. It had been said.  Silence. "Illya..?"

"It's about bloody time."

Huh? Of all the possible responses, this one the elder agent had not  expected. "I don't-"

"It was about time you said it."

Solo's eyes narrowed with vague suspicion. "Then...you knew-"

"I *suspected*."

"They why have you never-"

A devilish smile animated the Russian's lips. "*I* do not respond  well to `headgames'."

Tentative hope. "Then, do you-"

"Of course I do...lyubov."

"So..." Solo said, an unashamedly triumphant smile brightening his  face as he leaned forward. "Where do we go from here?"

Kuryakin leaned into the kiss, allowing it...welcoming it. "We have  about three weeks to ourselves to begin to find out."
 

EPILOGUE:
 

"So..."

"So?"

"The tests went well."

"I don't agree. The results were far too inconclusive."

"But it's a start."

"True."

...

"Something bothering you?"

"I'm not questioning -I'm just puzzled. How could our own leaders at  Central have ordered the release of the contagion on our own base?"

"Interesting question, but better you should ask how UNCLE could do  that to theirs."

"True."
 
 
 
 

*The End?*