There was too much blood.

It had taken three days of hunting through the darkest, lowest points of the city, speaking with the seediest men and a few well-placed hits, but Illya had finally found Napoleon.

Chains surrounded the wrists and ankles of the man who was huddled in the corner, face turned toward the wall, lying in a large, growing pool of red. Dead was the only word that came to Illya's mind as he stared at the motionless body, feet frozen to the floor, head pounding. There was too much blood.

Slowly, after minutes of tortured breathing, or maybe hours, Illya felt himself move toward his partner, turning him gently for a quick assessment. Four gunshot wounds, whip marks and bruises making Napoleon almost unrecognizable. He felt cold , so Illya gathered him in his arms, wanting to warm the dead man, or share the coldness until it could still his own broken heart. He used a shaking thumb to wipe away the water hitting Napoleon's cheek from the moldy ceiling before he realized the drops were coming from his own eyes.

The sound of a gun cocking made Illya turn quickly.

"Agent Kuryakin, I can't say I'm surprised."

There is something familiar about the pasty man's face, but Illya does not have time to sift through his memories now.

"You killed him," Illya's voice was deep, almost animal.

"A necessary casualty," said the man. "Can't say I regret it although I will miss his pretty face. Now for you…"

The monologue was cut short as Illya softly put down Napoleon, before striding forward and grabbing the gun in one swoop.

"I would stop talking," he said.

The man actually smiled and Illya could see henchmen moving behind him out of the corner of his eye.

"Expect me to scream like your partner did?"

One shot in the centre of the man's eye was all it would take for Illya to put the guy down, Waverly's request to keep him alive for information be damned. His director's earlier instructions made him hesitate a second too long, however, as one of the burlier guys suddenly grabbed him around his neck.

The slimy man stepped forward, unconcerned about the barrel of the gun, perhaps calmed by Illya's choking sounds.

"Your partner is a bit of a coward don't you think?"

Red, lighter than Napoleon's blood, clouded Illya's vision. A bang echoed through the room, making the man crumple before Illya dropped the henchman holding him to the ground with a fatal blow to the head.

His mind continued whirring as he charged at the other men, his knuckles hitting bare skin, a desperate feeling of satisfaction filling him as he imagined every one of them harming his Napoleon.

"Illya," That voice wasn't from one of the guards.

Convinced his mind was playing tricks on him, Illya turned back to the task at hand.

"Illya, please.

The voice sounded so terrified that Illya dropped the man he was holding by the front of a crumpled uniform.

Napoleon was leaning against the wall, periodically wincing as his hands grasped at the wound on his stomach. The crimson colour was now over his hands, but instead of focusing on the slick liquid, Napoleon was staring into Illya's horrified eyes.

"Looks…," a cough led to a small amount of blood seeping out of the corner of his lips. "Looks like I need your help, Peril. Stop killing. Come here."

Another coughing fit left Napoleon spewing blood out of his mouth, causing Illya to finally move to his side.

"So these chains are getting a bit uncomfortable," Napoleon's attempt at humour was undermined by the weakness of his voice.

"How can you joke?" But Illya couldn't be angry as he watched Napoleon's eyes flicker close.

"Got to…got to stay awake somehow," Napoleon answered, but his eyes didn't open.

"Ok, keep telling jokes," Illya said, shrugging off his jacket to use on the stomach wound. "Open eyes too."

"And see your mass murder spree? No thanks." It wasn't lost on Illya that Napoleon's voice was getting fainter.

"Then look at me," Illya said in a demanding tone.

Napoleon eyes cracked open and Illya wasn't surprised to see unshed tears that he was sure mirrored his own.

"I've got no more jokes," said Napoloen.

"What…," Now Illya's voice was the one to take on a pleading tone. "What about that time we argued about your ridiculous fashion choices in Italy."

"That was fun," Napoleon's eyes shut again in the split second Illya took to adjust the cover of his jacket. "We really did have a good time, Peril. The best."

"No!" Illya was almost screaming now, shaking the unresponsive Napoleon. "You don't go!"

There was nothing but stillness. Illya had never felt more helpless, more hopeless and all he could think to do was take a tiny bit of the red away by meeting Napoleon's lips with his own.

"So I think you and I need to have a refresher in first-aid," Gaby said, as she collapsed in the chair next to Illya. The last week had been exhausting; from searching for Napoleon in a restricted area before Waverly informed her Illya had found him first.

Discovering Illya cradling Napoleon's body was a sight she would like to erase from her mind, but at the time she was able to break through the despair she felt upon seeing the intense anguish on Illya's face and the lack of emotion on Napoleon's beaten one. It hadn't taken long to find a pulse, a very faint one, but still enough for her to signal to the other U.N.C.L.E. agent behind her to bring the extraction team. She let them deal with the very unfortunate task of tearing Illya away from Napoleon.

She then was instructed to take a volatile Illya back to the their safe house, where she helped him wash (she pretended not to see the nausea flood his face at the stained clothes on the bathroom floor) and eat a few crackers, before he demanded to be taken to the hospital Waverly had picked because of his contacts.

While Illya was stoic as they waited for Napoleon's surgery to be over, Gaby couldn't stop fidgeting, alternating between pacing, drinking coffee and short naps. She nearly started dancing when the doctor came out to tell them Napoleon had survived the surgery, but settled on hugging Illya instead.

Illya just asked to be led to Napoloen's room. He finally told Gaby what had happened in the cell, leaving out the kiss, on their second day of waiting.

"Why?" Now Illya had taken up near-permanent residence in Napoleon's private room, only leaving to sleep for up to four hours or change his clothes. Each day, the doctor assured them multiple times Napoleon was just resting to heal after his extensive injuries.

"Should probably check for a pulse, even if it's the man you adore," Gaby said, waving away the wide eyes and shocked sound.

"I can't say I'm shocked. I always had my suspicions and it's allowed me to warm to the idea," she continued. She originally was surprised at the lack of disgust she felt toward the knowledge of a future relationship between the two agents. It was illegal, she wasn't stupid, but maybe some things were meant to be.

"Just be careful," Gaby stood to leave. "And Waverly's coming in to speak to you."

Illya had managed to smooth his features before the head of U.N.C.L.E. appeared. The man initially stayed away, allowing the team to process the difficult mission, but checking in almost hourly with the agent he would never admit was one of his favourites.

"Kuryakin," Waverly nodded. "I wanted to talk to you about the man you shot when you rescued Solo."

The pasty man. Illya immediately tensed.

"His name was Ruslan. It turns out he knew your father back during the unfortunate embezzling incidents," Waverly said. There was no way this conversation would go over well, so he sought to finish it quickly. "Although he wasn't exactly innocent himself."

"So, Napoleon paid for my family's errors," Illya did not know how he would be able to look Napoleon in the eye when he woke up.

"No," Waverly said. He still needed an effective team, not an agent crippled by guilt. "Napoleon was the unfortunate victim of a very evil man. This is not the first time he has taken a victim due to his perceived wrongs. Although this is the first one who has made it out alive."

He dropped a thick folder on Illya's lap.

"Perhaps this will give you and Agent Solo some closure."

As soon as Waverly had made his exit, Illya thumbed through the folder, trying to memorize the names of every person Ruslan's circle, making mental X's in his head over all of their faces. A couple had already died in the cell, he knew.

"Illya, what are you doing?"

The voice was stronger than the last time Illya heard it. He also took a moment to drink in the clean face, although noting the darkening bruises.

"Seriously, that's a pretty big folder you have," Napoleon tried to prop himself on his elbows before groaning as he fell back on his pillow.

"These men hurt you," Illya said, handing over the papers to Napoleon, happy for the distraction so he didn't have to express the immense joy welling up inside him. "I will hurt them."

Napoleon rubbed his head with bandaged hands and Illya was alarmed.

"What's wrong Cowboy? Are you in pain?"

"No, well a little, but you're giving me a headache with this plan I'm sure has developed from the guilt you've developed in your own mind," Illya's eyes narrowed at the wide smile. "As much as I appreciate you plotting revenge, I would rather you envelop me in your muscular arms."

With a rapid flick of his wrist, Napoleon tossed the folder to the side and patted his bed.

"Know what I mean?"

Instead of moving, Illya crossed his arms.

"I see jokes are back."

"You like them," Napoleon retorted, but his grin remained.

"How about rest?" Napoleon may have been unconscious for seven days, but Illya could still see dark circles and his repressed yawns.

"How about a kiss?" Napoleon murmured, grasping Illya's hand before closing his eyes.

Illya checked that the door was closed before leaning forward.

"As many as you want."