Drops.

Pattering against rocks and soil.

Warm...

...red...

...not rain.

A low, muffled moan escaped his lips, past the ball of stained cloth wedged in his mouth, past the knotted rag that held it in place. A slight movement reminded his pain-drugged brain that his wrists and ankles were in a similar state; expertly knotted cord instead of cloth. Limbs growing cold and numb. He would not be going anywhere for awhile.

If ever.

Illya Kuryakin feebly tried to push the obstruction from between his lips with his tongue, hoping not so much to cry out for help - because he hadn't the strength for more than a whisper - but to catch one or two of the chilled drops of moisture that had started to fall from the dark sky to moisten his dry tongue. His body seized with a sudden, wracking cough and warm liquid red bubbled up at a corner of his mouth, saturating the cloth which he had been able to move ever so slightly.

Had he the strength, he would have laughed.

Such a ridiculous situation…especially for an experienced secret agent like himself. Never let your guard down. Not ever.

But he had.

He should have seen it coming.

But he hadn't.

Rare was the time that he dropped his guard, but he had been doing that more often lately - Napoleon's fault, he wanted to say. Yes. It was Napoleon's fault that he had been distracted - it would have been so easy to say that. But he couldn't. Wouldn't. The senior agent could not take all the blame.

If any.

No...in spite of himself, a childhood of want and loneliness had left an aching hole within him, a secret need that his usual veneer of ice and steel could not entirely hide - a need to be comforted and loved. Somehow, one Napoleon Solo had pierced his defensive shield with x-ray eyes, seeing the longing he hid from the world, and had filled the emptiness with his love. The experience was at once wonderful and frightening - a yearning fulfilled and yet, the fear of truly giving himself heart and soul to anyone remained.

But the relationship had been going well, developing and growing as relationships do. If only Napoleon hadn't said those 'three little words.' If only the senior U.N.C.L.E. agent hadn't said them before he left their apartment to catch a flight to attend an important meeting with other U.N.C.L.E. department heads. Very secret...very hush-hush.

If only he hadn't rushed without thinking to answer the familiar knock at the door, suspecting that his lover and partner had forgotten something, himself suddenly ready and willing to say those 'three little words' right back...only to come face to face with a stranger - and a Thrush semi-automatic rigged with a silencer.

The moment had ended with an explosion of pain, the stench of cordite, burned cloth, and blood filling his nose and then nothing. He had awoken here, bound, hidden among the rain-wet bushes in a ditch along some nondescript road. It was dark, but he could now see the twinkling of stars past the gnarled branches of a dead tree that all but covered him, the clouds having parted just a little bit.

Illya Kuryakin blinked heavily, unconsciousness reaching for him again as he realized that what should have been said long ago, would now never be said.

He had so wanted to say those 'three little words'...

Three in the morning - the witching hour. The time of night when the body was at its most vulnerable...when the desperately ill were likely to die and the healthy were enshrouded in sleep.

But not him.

No sleep for him just yet.

Napoleon Solo, looking very much the slightly ruffled late-night traveler, glanced at a wall-mounted digital clock, eyes reddened with weariness.

The agent brushed a stray lick of hair from his brow. God, three in the morning - what a time to be in an airport, pondering the unlikelihood of easily finding a taxi at this ungodly hour, but it was well worth it. More to the point, Illya was worth it. The meeting hadn't taken as long as anyone had thought it might and though he could have taken the morning flight home, the knowledge that he had someone waiting for him - at home - made taking the 'red-eye' well worth the effort.

Assuming that there was someone waiting for him. What he had demanded of Illya was far from fair. Somewhere along the line, the devotion of comrades-in-arms had become the caring of friends and then, one memorable night only months ago, the intimate devotion of lovers.

And yet, because he knew that his Russian partner was skittish about matters of the heart, he had refrained from saying those special words 'I love you'...until just before he had left to catch his flight only a seemingly short while ago.

Napoleon sighed as he hefted his carry-on bag, remembering the blank, open-mouthed look of utter astonishment on Illya's fair countenance. But he didn't want to take back the words - he couldn't. All he could do was hope that he hadn't frightened the reticent Russian away before he could make things right.

Now to find a taxi.

Napoleon scanned the pick-up/drop-off area. His dark eyes widened as it became his turn be astonished, for not two meters away was a very familiar vehicle...with an equally familiar individual stepping out from the driver's side.

"Illya! What the- How did you know I was coming in early?"

"Inspiration," the smaller blond man murmured as he allowed himself to be drawn into an all-encompassing embrace.

Napoleon shivered at his partner's chilled touch. Cold - it was like sinking into a snowdrift - and his skin was so white as to appear bloodless. How long had the Russian been waiting out here?

"C'mon, partner," the senior agent said anxiously, "we'd better get you back home before you develop pneumonia."

Illya laughed out loud, something he did all too rarely. "You should not concern yourself, 'Polya," he said, smiling still as he maneuvered the car past other waiting vehicles and headed out towards the open road. "I don't."

"Maybe you should." Napoleon traced the smooth pale jaw with a finger - so very cold. Perhaps the Russian was ill. "I worry about you."

"Why?"

"Maybe because I love you." Napoleon drew in a sharp breath - he'd done it again: unwittingly, unthinkingly. Those words. He held the next breath, half-expecting - dreading really - Illya's response. The one that said: "Things were going so well - why did you have to ruin it?"

But the explosion didn't come. Instead, Illya's eyes remained trained on the dimly-lit road ahead, a slight smile forming on the pouty lips.

"Illya? Didn't you hear what I said?"

The smile widened. "Of course I did."

Napoleon's puzzlement grew - this was getting strange. "It...doesn't bother you?"

"No," Illya replied quietly, uttering a small chuckle, his breath coming out in a small cloud of condensation that curled up against the windshield, leaving a spidery weaving of frost on the glass.

Napoleon frowned - it was frigid  in here - and reached over to adjust the heat. Maybe it was broken. It was then that Solo noticed that the road on which they were traveling was not the one they usually used and Illya was slowing the car down, bringing it to a careful stop. "Illya, what-"

"Shhh. Please." A single icy finger was pressed against Napoleon's lips. "'Polya, while we are here, while we are alone, while I have the chance - let me speak. I am not upset. Before, I was surprised, a little frightened. I thought that I...that if you ever said those words that I would not handle it, that I would be forced to flee, but I have not. It is...wonderful...and it makes it so much easier to say what I feared to say."

Napoleon stared at his blond lover with growing wonder, eyes taking in how the muted car light made his hair appear like softly glowing golden gossamer against the too-white skin. When Napoleon could speak, his voice was a whisper. "What?"

Frozen hands drew the senior agent's face closer. The words were said in Illya's native tongue: "I love you." Their lips met, eyes closing as the kiss deepened, heat meeting ice.

So cold.

Napoleon's eyes flew open - he was alone, the car parked beside a ditch that ran parallel to the dark stretch of highway.

"Illya..? Illya!" What the hell was this!

Just then, something caught the agent's attention - there, maybe a meter ahead of the car, was a hand outstretched and beckoning from the darkness. How did he...?

"Illya!"

Napoleon threw the car door open, not questioning - not daring to question - and followed as the shadowy figure of the Russian descended the rough incline and disappeared amongst the gnarled, damp brush.

"Illya, wait!" Napoleon grabbed his pocket flashlight and shone it along the snarled darkness. "Illya! Ill-" His voice caught in his throat.

There, half-hidden, was a reflection of gold.

Napoleon half-ran, half-fell down the incline, heart thundering. As impossible as it was, he knew what he would find.

"Holy Mother of God..." The U.N.C.L.E. agent's hand shook as he felt for his partner's pulse...and found it. Faint. Weak. But there. Oh God, it was there!

Napoleon whipped out his communicator. "Open Channel D! Emergency! This is Solo. We have an Enforcement agent down-"

"Umm." Napoleon woke and blinked, momentarily disoriented by strange smells and the feeling of cool, crisp linen sheets against the side of his face, before he remembered where he was: U.N.C.L.E. Medical. He had waited, holding his partner's bleeding form seemingly forever before the ambulance had arrived. He had waited several hours as Illya underwent surgery to repair the damage caused by six bullets. It was only after Illya had been transferred from the I.C.U. that he had been able to relax enough for sleep to claim him.

April, who had been at U.N.C.L.E. HQ at the time, had waited with him...and so full of confusion and questions had he been that he had told her everything about his bizarre evening. Amazingly, all she had said in response was that when there was enough love, love like she knew he and Illya had for each other, miracles could happen.

Love. Napoleon reached up and brushed a few stray strands of gold from a sleeping Illya's pale brow - warm. Warm and alive. That was the miracle. He didn't have all the answers as to the why of everything that had happened, but for now, it was enough that Illya was alive and would recover. Whoever Illya's attacker was, and whatever the reasons for the attempted murder, he would pay.

In blood.

At his hands.

But later.

For now, this moment was enough.

Napoleon placed a gentle kiss on the pale, high forehead. "I love you, my Illyusha...and I don't mind you knowing it."

Though asleep, a slight smile turned the Russian's lips, a soft whisper parting them. "...love you too."

Hands clutched the steering wheel, knuckles whitening as the driver's eyes strained against the darkness. He was in trouble. U.N.C.L.E. was after him and Thrush was turning a blind eye - that was their punishment.

They had not ordered the hit on Kuryakin.

They had no use for an operative that had gone on a rogue mission of personal vengeance.

He had to get away, out of town - out of this country - and he had to do it now, quietly and unnoticed. He knew a contact that would help if only he-

Staring eyes blinked in disbelief - he wiped them with the back of a shaking hand and blinked again. But what he saw remained: a figure in the middle of the road, clearly visible despite the darkness - one Napoleon Solo, partner to Illya Kuryakin...

...and he was aiming a gun.

Jaw clenched, the former Thrush pressed down on the gas pedal, propelling the car forward. He had come too far now. Too far to let Napoleon Solo take him down.

The vehicle barreled forward, but the figure did not move - as the car passed through it and the fleeing agent lost control of the vehicle, sending it smashing through a highway barrier...

...to tumble to a fiery crash far below.

Author's note: I want to thank my mother for inspiring this story when she told me of an incident that occurred when she was a little girl. She encountered an apparition that appeared to be one of her neighborhood friends, only to learn later that at that precise time, the girl was nowhere nearby.