“Take him back to the house,” he snarled to the men with him, “and put him in his room.  I’ll be along
              shortly.”  He pushed Napoleon in their direction, and they grabbed his arms and obeyed.

              After they were well out of earshot, one of his “escorts” asked, “What did you do?  I’ve never seen him so
              angry!”

              “I think when you get back to your room, you should pack your bags,” the other advised.  Napoleon silently
              agreed.

              John softly called Ilya’s name before touching him, not wanting to provoke another bad reaction.  He offered
              the canteen without a word, and the younger man rinsed out his mouth  before taking a few small sips to
              quiet his stomach.  Only after they’d started back to the house did John ask what had happened.

              “He was curious,” Ilya explained.  “He wanted to kiss me.  I knew he wouldn’ t stop pestering me until I
              gave in, so I let him.”  He stopped for a moment.  “I didn’t mind too much at first, but it just felt more and
              more like – HIM.”  They both knew he didn’t mean Napoleon.  Tears started to pour from his eyes, and he
              cursed them in several languages.  “Why am I weeping like a woman?” he raged.

              “Because you’re in pain,” John replied.  He opened his arms.  “May I comfort you?”

              He gave him a stricken look.  “I don’t know,” he whispered.  “I don’t know anything, anymore.”

              His eyes unfocused, and John saw he was going into shock.  He put an arm around him and tried to get him
              moving toward the house.  He took a few steps and his knees buckled.  John swept him up and carried
              him.  He neither objected to being carried nor did he say a word the whole way.

              The doctor was just arriving when John staggered up with his burden. “Blankets!” he snapped at her as he
              carried his burden into his room.  “God, he’s so cold,” he told her as she brought the requested linen.  His
              mind was whirling as he attempted to catalog symptoms; had Ilya been poisoned, either by Petrov or his
              own hand?  He updated the doctor as he wrapped the shivering body, and told her of his fears.

              “I’ll pull a blood sample, but if it’s what you suspect, it’s probably too late already.” she told him.  “All we
              can really do right now is wait and hope you’re wrong.”

              “Not necessarily,” came Waverly’s voice from the door.  “There’s a helicopter on its way right now to
              airlift him to Colombo’s best hospital, and a medical team standing by there.”

              “No need,” croaked the blanket-wrapped form.  “I am all right.”

              ”You can’t be certain of that,” John said, barely biting back a “my snowflake”.  “He could have used a
              slow-acting contact poison.  Please, go to the hospital and let them check.”

              “I hate hospitals.”  He flinched as the doctor inserted a needle and started drawing blood samples.  “All the
              poking and prodding.”

              “We’ll get the first part of the poking done here,” she said as the noise of the helicopter got louder.  She and
              Waverly went with him when it lifted off.

              John saw them off and ordered up the car.  Then he went after Napoleon.

              “How is he?” the UNCLE agent asked.

              “On his way to the hospital,” the older man told him.  “Didn’t you hear the helicopter just now?”

              “On – “ Napoleon began, then sat down heavily on the bed.

              Fearing the worst, John charged across the room, checking the other man for symptoms similar to
              Ilya’s.  “Do you feel nauseous?  Any vomiting?”

              “No, I’m just worried about Ilya,” Napoleon replied.  “What did you mean about him being on the way to
              the hospital?”

              “He collapsed on the way back to the house,” John said.  “It may be simply shock, or . . . “

              The younger man finished the sentence.  “You suspect poison.  That’s why you were checking me earlier;
              when I sat down, you thought I’d been poisoned as well.”

              “I needn’t tell you about slow-acting contact poisons; Petrov may have dosed him before he left.”

              “And you thought I may have been contaminated by contact?”

              “Ilya told me what you did before he collapsed,” John said.  “If I were a more vindictive person I’d break
              your jaw; that way, you’d be unable to kiss anyone for at least six weeks.  If your curiosity gets the better of
              you again, “ this time it was he who caught the younger man’s eye, “I will, without a qualm and without a
              second thought.”

              John’s driver interrupted them, saying the car was ready.

              “You’re certain you’re all right?” John asked.  To the other man’s confused look, he added, “If you’re ill as
              well, it almost guarantees Ilya was poisoned.  We need to know that as soon as possible.”

              The trip to the hospital was uneventful, and they spent the day pacing about and waiting for word.  John
              insisted on Napoleon being checked by the doctor, who gave him a clean bill of health.  It was early evening
              before the last of the test results came back; the diagnosis was shock and exhaustion, and the only
              recommendation was several days bed rest.  They wanted to keep him overnight as well, but Ilya threatened
              to make such a scene they decided letting him go would be better for him.  He didn’t have everything his
              own way, however.

              “Why must I be taken to the car in a wheelchair?” he protested.

              “Because the alternative is to be carried by me,” John told him.  “You are NOT walking.  You’re ill; quite
              literally sick and tired.  Relax and let us take care of you.”  He leaned down and whispered, “Let me take
              care of you.”

              They bundled him into the car and took him back to the plantation, where he insisted on getting to his room
              on his own two feet.  Which he did, with the two feet of John and Napoleon on either side.  They got him
              safely tucked into bed and left him alone to rest.

              Later that night John heard his door open quietly.  He opened his eyes to see Ilya gliding across the floor
              without a sound.  Knowing what he wanted, he threw back the sheet and held out his arms.  The younger man
              wasted no time getting into bed.

              “Not that I’m complaining,” John murmured as they fit themselves together, “but why?”

              “I couldn’t sleep,” he replied.  “The last time I had a good night’s sleep was in this bed with you.  You
              wanted me to rest; ergo, here I am.”

              “A perfectly reasonable explanation,” said the older man.  “I love the way you think, my little
              snowflake.  You’ll tell me if you’re having any problems?”

              “Da,” came the murmured, mostly-asleep reply.  His snowflake was asleep seconds later; his even
              breathing lulling his lover after him.