Nightmare images swirled in the temporal void, dark gothic and wraithlike they coiled sinuously around the young Russian’s body as he fought them off. For a moment, no more, he caught a glimpse of himself in the pale ethereal light. His golden hair impossibly long, his body tiny and unformed with large luminous eyes that stared into the soul of the adult he had become.

Never before had he acknowledged the silent pleas to end the horror that had been his childhood, nor had he seen the pain that existed in the tiny heart as it beat with the fear. Illya moved over to his child self and felt the shock of denial as the child pulled away to stand far away from the pain and the comfort that he had thought to offer. Realization fell in a swift moment as he knew this was why he held all others at bay, understood perfectly abandonment, the fear of a commitment that was impossible to keep, the anger of denial of what and who he was and in the endless dark he fell. Heedless and headlong through the chasms of eternity as the images floated away from his broken and battered body, away from the angry words and the humiliation.

Another voice joined the chorus, softly soothing the chaos around him. Bringing him back with warmth and humor, love and honor and all the impossible dreams he had lacked as a child surfaced again. But they were far away and long ago and Illya felt the chains of his past finally slipping free from him. His heart lurched in rapturous joy as he flung himself towards the anchor of light at the end of the corridor. This time he was greeted with warm hands stroking his face with such tenderness he felt sure he would cry.

Enfolded in strong arms and against the steady cadence of the heart beating so close to his own he slipped away again, this time to a place of peace.

“Illya.” The name sounded like a prayer said in reverie as Napoleon repeated it over and over.

Soft brown eyes, greeted him, tiny lines at the corners showed the face was smiling and Illya crawled into the embrace, heedless of his location, aware only of his need.

“Mmmm, Pasha,” Illya slurred at he nestled into the broad shoulder for a moment longer.

Napoleon’s laugh was rich and full as it rumbled between them. “Illuysha, what am I to do with you?” Solo teased as he propped the somnambulant Russian up against the back of the couch.

“Have some ideas,” Illya offered and rubbed his hand across his eyes.

“Yes, well, not in the middle of CI5 headquarters,” Solo said gently as he stood up.

Illya blushed; a charming stain of embarrassment marred his pale skin as he looked around the room. Doyle still sat by his side, pressed against him from hip to knee. Bodie laughed as he poured a cup of tea at the briefing table and Solo pulled on his overcoat.

“So what happened?” Illya asked trying for a normal tone as he shook the last of the sleep from him.

“You fell asleep,” Bodie said around a broad smile and a mouthful of hot tea.

“Apart from the obvious,” Illya retorted coolly.

“Mr. Cowley has orchestrated some low level surveillance of the address Igor supplied. We are mounting a strike force to break into the place in sixteen hours. Mr. Waverly has given us a team of our own.”

Illya stood and picked up the sheet of paper on the table. “Mark and April have just come off assignment.”

“Yes, I know,” Solo answered without looking up from his folders. “But Uncle Alex wants this one badly.”

“Aye, as do I,” Cowley answered as he closed the door behind him. “What do you make of this?” Cowley tabled some documents and Bodie and Doyle crowded round to see them.

“Lab reports?” Doyle asked.

“Aye, Doyle, forensic reports from the detonations of the last four explosions associated with this case, courtesy of UNCLE London.”

“That’s a C4 signature,” Illya said as he looked over the documentation. “KGB has always favored a simple detonation with maximum destruction.”

“Aye, the KGB is not known for their finesse.” Cowley’s voice dipped dangerously into sarcasm.

“Which,” Napoleon broke in, “tallies with the reports of purchases from the local KGB officer here in London less than a week ago.”

“Ah, just how do you know what the KGB are buying?” Doyle asked suspiciously.

“We have an agent in the supply stores,” Napoleon answered without batting an eye.

“Your strike force is ready?” Cowley asked.

“Yes sir, they will be briefed again two hours prior to the mission depending on what the surveillance team comes up with.”

“But they are on standby?” Cowley took off his glasses again and stared at the dapper young American.

“Of course,” Solo answered in something akin to impertinence.

Cowley smiled. “Aye, well then, best be on your way.” Cowley dismissed them as he pulled his jacket on and put the glasses away in his pocket.

“Oh, sir?” Doyle asked just as the old man’s hand fell on the doorknob.

“Aye?”

“Helena and Amy?” Doyle asked.

“Mr. Solo?” Cowley raised his brow.

“April picked them up from Murphy’s house this afternoon, they are in a special unit within UNCLE HQ and have full security.”

“And?” Bodie asked.

“And they are both fine. Helena was very helpful regarding her ex-boyfriend and confirms she saw him in the park not long after we arrived in London. She said he was hostile and agitated but that she walked away.”

“So you believe she is innocent?” Doyle pushed.

“I always did,” Solo answered as he put the paperwork into the briefcase. “Now if you will excuse us, Illya and I will be staying in town again this evening.” With a brief tip of the head, Illya followed his partner to the car park.

~~~oooOOOooo~~~

Murphy vowed to find whichever God had answered his prayer and personally offer homage. Set deeply within the recess of the walls was a door, camouflaged to look like part of the rock and yet still Murphy managed to pry it open. Cursing slightly as pain stung at his fingertips, he looked down, fascinated at the steady drip of dark blood that seeped from the new cuts on his hands.

Light flooded the tiny room, at once blinding him as he staggered back. White-hot pain lanced into his body as he lurched away from the blinding light and the hideous smell.

Regaining his senses he blinked furiously, knowing that this one chance of freedom would not present itself again. Through the door was a long table, similar to the ones used by the doctors in the morgue, with holes cut into the metal to allow the flow of blood and waste to be drained away. Yet this one was crafted for a more sinister purpose. The table included six leather straps, two to bind the head, one on either side to immobilize the arms and legs, and Murphy retched when he saw the bucket of blood and excrement still sitting below the table. He had no doubt that this was the fate inflicted upon the boy who died in the makeshift cell.

Gasping in great lungful of fetid air Murphy reeled drunkenly towards the light. Across the tiny charnel room he saw a door, opening by scant inches as he looked around for something to arm himself with. He found a baton on one of the stainless steel bench tops, his fingers curled around the handle as he pressed himself flat against the wall on the side of the door. Wiping a bloody hand across his forehead he stood shaking, pushing back the fringes of darkness that threatened to engulf him whole, leaving him vulnerable to the horrible aspect of his captor.

The door slid open a few more inches and with a sickening certainty Murphy knew that what had gone before was without doubt nothing to what confronted him now.

Vision blurred and he swooned, unable to keep down the bile that rose in his throat. Somewhere in the dim recess of what part of his mind still functioned he heard the baton fall to the floor and clatter across the tiny space. Only then did Michael Murphy fall headlong into unconscious terror.

~~~oooOOOooo~~~

“Oi! Where are you going in such a hurry, Sunshine?” Bodie called at the retreating back of his partner.

“Out,” was the sarky response as Doyle headed for the car.

Bodie trotted to keep up with him and then turned a baleful glare on the curly-headed man. “Are we having an argument?”

Doyle stopped and shoved his hands deeper into his pockets. “Not that I am aware of.”

“Well then, Sunshine, just where are we going?” Bodie smiled and Doyle realized he too was smiling.

“To make sure Helena and Amy are alright.”

Bodie opened the door of the silver Capri and got in, pulling the seat belt into place as Doyle walked to the passenger side. “All you had to do was say so. The old man has kept them too far away from us.”

“Us?” Doyle raised an eyebrow.

“Yeah. It’s Murphy’s family. That makes them ours to look after.”

“Bit jumpy that UNCLE may not be so responsible?” Doyle frowned as he watched the handsome features.

“Not in the least, old son. But they are our responsibility.”

“Not according to the old man.”

“Yes, I know. And I think that Helena should have been told that Murph was on assignment and that there may be trouble.”

Doyle nodded, “Yeah. Said it before and I’ll say it again, Bodie - couldn’t stand the wait.”

Bodie reached a hand across to his partner and patted his arm before shifting the car into second gear. “Me either.”

~~~oooOOOooo~~~

Wearily Illya followed Napoleon to the door of the apartment they had used the night before. It took every ounce of strength to wait whilst the senior agent checked the codes and locks. Time passed slowly as they made their rounds of the apartment, checking for bugs and listening devices. Less than five minutes later Napoleon poured an absurdly large vodka and handed it to the Russian.

Without tasting it Illya swallowed the fiery liquid in two long drafts before dropping down onto the couch. No words had been spoken since they had left CI5 HQ and it was doubtful that any would pass between them now. Illya closed his eyes and listened to the sounds that washed over him.

Napoleon poured another drink over ice, which meant scotch for himself. A second drink being poured almost silently, no doubt a vodka. He felt the air stir near him as Napoleon put the glass down on the coffee table to the left of where he sat and then heard the soft thud of shoes being removed.

Footsteps echoed along the deeply carpeted hallway and then came the sound of water filling a large bathtub, the clink of bottles and the slight fragrance of spice and sandalwood drifting. The steps stopped, Illya deduced, at the end of the hallway and he could imagine the look on the American’s face. All kind of soft and gooey, with that small frown that said he was worried but would give his partner a chance to work things out on his own.

Movement in the kitchen as the freezer door opened with a soft whoosh and the door to the oven opened to the sound of glass on metal. Illya felt safe and it was a feeling that, oddly, sat rather uncomfortably.

“Bath is ready,” Napoleon said softly from somewhere behind the chair. “And dinner will be about thirty minutes.”

Blue eyes opened to regard the warmth he found in his partner’s gaze. “Thank you.” Illya’s voice was soft as he reached a hand back to touch the American.

“No need, Tovarisch.”

“How is it you know me so well, Napoleon?”

“Years of practice in my favorite pastime.”

Illya shook his head, slightly bemused.

“Illya watching,” Napoleon answered as he dropped a gentle kiss to the thick blond hair. “Bath.”

Illya nodded slowly and got up. “Oh, that’s all right then, I thought maybe I was becoming too predictable.”

“The only thing predictable about you, tovarisch, is the way you drink your vodka.”