"Illya!" Napoleon cried, stepping into his partner's falling body and
catching him. He wasn't sure whether he was relieved or worried.

Once he'd dragged Illya in and placed him in a chair, he locked and
bolted the door.

"Napoleon..." Illya rubbed his head, repositioning himself more
comfortably. "I-- I didn't know where else to go..."

Napoleon was at his side in a moment with a glass, which he pressed
into Illya's hands. "Here, drink this... Illya, I-- We thought--"

Illya choked on the gulp of scotch, handing the small tumbler back.
"Thank you, I feel... much more awake."

"I have to call Waverly... he still thinks you're--"

"Of course, of course." He nodded.

Napoleon, however, did not leave his side. "I'll call in a minute,
first-- What happened?"

"Someone took a shot at me." He shrugged, as though it was nothing out
of the ordinary. Then again, for most section two agents, it really
wasn't. "The woman in the car shoved the wheel, we went off... when I
woke up, the engine was on fire. She was dead already."

Napoleon bit his tongue before the 'good riddance' could escape. "Yeah?"

"Two men came after the car... I shot the gas tank, from a ways away,
so that I would be reported dead. It's safer to be dead."

"I-- Yeah. I know. And then?"

"It is like I already told you..." He sighed, leaning back into the
chair. "I did not know where else to go, who else to trust. I came to
you."

Napoleon swallowed, finding the process difficult. "I'm glad you did.
You-- you can always trust me, Illya."

"I know." He answered simply.

His eyes were closed, and he looked-- Napoleon wanted to say
beautiful. Illya *was* beautiful. Napoleon wasn't ready to say it.
Instead, he left, returning with a damp washcloth, a glass of water,
and his communicator. The glass he placed on the end table, the cloth
over Illya's forehead. The communicator he uncapped.

"Open Channel D..."

"Mr. Solo." Waverly's voice, somewhat more tired than Napoleon had
ever heard him, answered.

"Sir, Illya's alive. He's here."

"Here, Mr. Solo?"

"My apartment. He-- he got out alive. The explosion was to make the--
the shooter think he was dead. He came to me, we-- We're not sure who
to trust, Sir. Apparently not all the people we thought we could. I--
I think he should--"

"I think, Mr. Solo, that Mr. Kuryakin would be best off staying with
you for the time being." Waverly interrupted, with the exact sentiment
Napoleon had wished to express. "Is he in good condition?"

"He seemed to be, Sir. I'll check on him in a moment."

"You'd best do it now, man, if he's injured, he'll need attention two
hours ago."

"Yes, Sir. Solo out." He smiled faintly, recapping the 'pen'. He moved
back to sit on the arm of the chair.

"Mm... Napoleon? 's at you?"

"Who else would it be?"

"Hopefully, no one else."

Napoleon wiped the dried blood from a small cut on Illya's brow, and
from another on one cheek. He continued going over the scrapes and
scratches sustained during and after the accident, cleaning away dirt
and blood. He left once to get antiseptic, and Illya very valiantly
tried not to wince at the sting of alcohol on various cuts and bruises.

He protested weakly as Napoleon began undressing him, but it was
really pointless. After all, his upper body had taken some damage, his
shirt was beyond repair... and Napoleon's hands were so warm and
reassuring as he cleaned and bandaged every minor wound.

"Looks like you weren't hurt too bad... I want to get you to medical
in the morning, after you've had some rest. Do you want an aspirin?"

"I don't need one." Illya said flatly.

Napoleon let out a soft laugh. "Only you, Illya. A car wreck, believed
dead... and you won't even take an aspirin? No one else I've worked
with before has refused an aspirin. Heavy drugs, sure, medical
attention in general tends to be avoided, but aspirin. Heck, most
section two agents just down a couple and be done with it."

"I don't see what's so amusing." He groaned, one arm flopping over his
eyes to block the low light. "Rest?"

"Here. Waverly thinks it's for the best. You don't mind, do you?"

"I-- Here? *I* don't mind, Napoleon, of course not, but-- I am not
putting you out?"

"Not at all. There's a spare bed in the gues-- Oh, wait, no... That
went to a friend who needed furniture after his wife kicked him out
last month... Well, you can take the bed, and I'll be fine on the
couch." He decided not to tell Illya that he probably would've slept
there anyway, after one drink too many. Wouldn't do to advertise his
grief, would it?

"I couldn't, I-- If I thought I would be an imposition, I--"

"Illya, it's nothing. Please. If you won't do it for your partner, do
it because Waverly says so." He grinned.

Illya smiled back. "If Waverly thinks it is for the best. But I will
take the couch."

"Illya, not in your condition."

"You're a fine one to talk of condition." He raised an eyebrow.

"We could draw straws." Napoleon offered.

"We could-- I mean-- No, of course, drawing straws. That is fair. The,
ah, American way, yes?" Illya finished quickly. Of course he wouldn't
be opposed to sharing a bed-- if he was in Russia, it would be
perfectly normal, and hadn't he spent his childhood sleeping four to a
bed at least? But in America, they had personal space. Men didn't
touch, didn't embrace, didn't kiss. They certainly didn't sleep
together in one bed.

He sighed inwardly. Up until Napoleon, he'd considered personal space
a blessing, but now he was wishing... But wishing did no good.

"Yes, drawing straws it is." He repeated, trying to stay cool.

"Unless you want to share." Napoleon shrugged, his voice playful.

---

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