Illya Kuryakin staggered through the snow.  He stopped, lowering his burden against a tree, and pulled a piece of filthy cloth from one sleeve.  Ruthlessly, he bound it against the ugly bullet wound in his left arm.  He had to stop the bleeding.

He was leaving a trail that a child could follow and he was growing too weak to carry Napoleon.

Using his teeth, he yanked a knot in the strip of fabric, ignoring the shooting pains that threatened to drive him to his knees.  The bullet was still in there, lodged against the bone, and his ungentle first aid had forced the jagged projectile into raw nerves and ragged tendons.

He took in great gulps of air, trying to drive away the dizziness that danced like a gnat at the edges of his vision, stooped and picked up his partner.  Napoleon was a dead weight, unconscious since he lost his footing on the icy hillside and tumbled headlong down a steep slope.  It was when Illya stopped for him that the snipers on their trail had gotten their range and put a bullet into the Russian.

Illya had no regrets.

The snow had increased in intensity, tiny stinging flakes that coated his brows and threatened to glue his lashes together.  The night was icy cold and foggy, needles of snow whipped against him by a punishing wind that numbed his face and hands and stole his labored breaths away.  His feet were soaked and burning with cold.  They were miles from civilization and if he did not find shelter soon, he and Napoleon were both going to die on this Spanish hillside.

It was Christmas Eve.

The old barn loomed up out of the snow.  His first instinct was to avoid it.  It was too obvious a hiding place if the Thrush assassins were still on the hunt.  It was also their only hope.

Swallowing his misgivings, Illya angled his faltering steps for the shelter of the old building.  It was a dilapidated affair.  The paint had weathered off years before and the old wood was gray and dark with age and wet.  A thick layer of snow crowned the roof, sliding off here and there in miniature avalanches to reveal the rusted tin below.  Illya shouldered the old door open, wincing at the creak of ancient hinges even as it was lost beneath the wind, and stood for a moment balancing his weight and Napoleon’s on shaking legs and trying to get his eyes to adjust to the gloom.

It was dark in the barn – cold, but a less directed cold, out of the wind and snow.  The white outside, all the ambient light in the world reflected off a billion icy diamond facets, shone in through the cracks in the walls.  After a moment Illya’s pupils dilated enough for him to make out dim shapes in the night.  A broken plow lay on its side in the middle of the room and a moldering pile of straw took up one corner.

Illya made his faltering way over to the straw and gently lowered Napoleon into it.  The American didn’t stir and only his breathing reassured his friend that he was even still alive.  In the dark it was impossible to assess the extent of his injuries.  Illya did the best he could by feel and found only an egg-shaped lump on Napoleon’s forehead.  If he was lucky, he had gotten off with only a moderate concussion where he could have had broken bones or a spinal injury.  If he was unlucky, of course, he could have any amount of damage.

Napoleon Solo was a lucky man.  Grimly his partner clung to that knowledge.

Napoleon’s tumble down the hill had left him as wet and cold as Illya, but there was no heat to be had except for their body heat and neither of them had much of that.  Both men were in serious danger of hypothermia.  The Russian, ignoring the gnawing pain that was eating its way up his left arm and shoulder and threatening to devour him, dug a hollow in the musty straw and carefully rolled his friend into it.  He dug out more straw next to Napoleon and lay down himself, trying to pull the straw over them.  His blood was seeping through the filthy bandage now.

Finally, his strength exhausted, the Russian gave up.  He lay close against his friend, trying to share what little body heat he still had, and closed his eyes.  His communicator, tucked into an inner pocket, was broken.  That was not a problem by itself.  He had the knowledge he needed to fix it and he had the tools.

His hands were numb and completely useless.

He hugged them beneath his chest, wishing for warmth, and leaned his head against Napoleon’s arm.  He could barely feel the rough texture of his partner’s woolen coat beneath his cheek.  It had been a good effort, but it was too little and much too late.  They had evaded Thrush but not the cold and now they were going to freeze to death.

The faintest of sounds fell on his ears.  There was something besides the two UNCLE agents in the old manger.  Illya noted that almost absently.  He was too weak to go investigate.

There was a padding, swishing noise and he felt the faint tap of a paw on his nose.  Forcing his eyes open, he peered blearily into the warm green gaze of a large ginger tabby cat.

“Well,” she said, “you are a sorry looking pair!”

Illya’s eyes widened in disbelief.  “Eh?”

The cat shook her head.  “Wet and muddy and bloody and sick!  You do want looking after, the both of you.  Lift your head a little, yellow kitten!”

Illya lifted his head, more in surprise than obedience, and the cat snuggled under his chin and laid her warm weight on his cold, cold hands.

He tried to hold his head up and could not.  It sank back down against the animal’s side, but she made no objection.  He could smell her soft fur and hear a throaty rumble coming up from her chest.

“You’re singing.”  Did he say the words or only think them?  Either way, the cat answered.

“A tabby cat sang for the baby Jesus, when he was restless and couldn’t sleep.  The Virgin Mother blessed her for it and to this day we carry Mary’s mark on our forehead.  I guess that I can sing for a spy.”

Illya blinked, bringing her into focus briefly and seeing the M that graced her forehead.  His eyes closed against his will and he felt the cat’s rough tongue washing his face, stimulating his circulation.

There was another movement in the straw and a large warm weight draped itself over his legs.

The Russian forced himself up on his elbows.  The cat still lay warm against his hands and needles of pain shot through his fingers, heralding the return of sensation to cold-numbed digits.

He turned his head to look over his shoulder.  A big shaggy dog was draped across his legs and Napoleon’s.  There had been no dog in the barn before, but there it was now and not even wet.  Illya blinked, trying to make sense of what he was seeing, and his head swam.  He closed his eyes and lay down once more.  He was awake, though, and knew when the dog spoke.

“If you are lost, you are mine to find.  I bear the name of a saint and my duty in life is to protect life.  Wanderers rest.  You are safe with me.”

“My ancestor carried the Holy Mother into Bethlehem, when she was heavy with child.”  A new voice came out of the darkness.  A small ass appeared from the shadows.  Reaching around with his teeth, he pulled a blanket from his back and draped it across Napoleon Solo’s still form.  Then he folded his legs under him and settled down close to the wounded agent.  “Her babe gave his life to save mankind from Satan.  How many lives will it take to save mankind from man?”

A clopping of hooves resounded through the old building and a big warhorse plodded tiredly over to them.

“I’ve carried too many good men into battle,” he said, “and carried too many dead bodies back home.”  Carefully he lowered himself to lie beside Illya.  “Will there never be peace on Earth?”

By this time Illya was not even surprised when a small scampering announced the arrival of a tiny furry creature.  He blinked his blue eyes blearily, trying to focus, and the little animal sat up on its hind legs in front of his nose and held out a green sprig in its small paws.

“I’m only a mouse, but I have a sprig of holly.  If you could have any wish, this holy night, what wish would it be, Illya Kuryakin?”

Illya shook his head, telling himself he was hallucinating.  Still, he answered without hesitation.

“Let Napoleon be all right,” he said.

“Napoleon?” the mouse said.  “But what about you?”

“Let Napoleon be all right,” Illya repeated.

The dog chuffed lightly in approval.  The horse whickered gently and edged closer and the cat purred mightily.  Illya Kuryakin closed his eyes and their varied voices blended into heavenly music.  He listened, as consciousness reeled away, and the song sharpened into painful sweetness.  It was an old, old song that hadn’t touched his ears since the Nazis stole his family and his childhood.  The agent smiled gently in his sleep and the cat purred louder and washed away his tears.

* * * * *

Napoleon woke to the sun on his face.  He was nestled snugly into a bed of straw, warm as long as he didn’t move and let the cold in.  A few inches from his nose there was a crack between two old boards and he could see snow-covered slopes glistening in the bright morning.  The smell of the straw filled his nose and made him sneeze.  He glanced around, wondering where he was and how he had gotten here, and remembered the date.

‘Christmas Eve in a manger,’ he thought.  ‘How appropriate.’

Illya was lying beside him, still and silent.  The Russian was much too hot.  His forehead was damp with sweat and when Napoleon nudged him he blinked and peered out from fever-glazed eyes.

“Mamushka?”

“Nyet, tovarisch,” Napoleon said gently.  “Illya, are you with me?”

Illya’s communicator was lying on the straw in front of them, surrounded by a welter of tools.  Napoleon snuck one hand out long enough to close his fingers around the icy metal and pull it over where he could inspect it.  The voice communication was out, he saw, but the emergency beacon was on and transmitting.  Leaving it where it lay, he pulled his hand back into the warmth of the straw.

“Napoleon?”  Illya’s voice was soft and distant, his gaze unfocused.  “Can you hear her singing?  It’s my mother.”

“Hush, then,” Napoleon said, “and listen to her.  Help will be here soon.”  He was hearing sweet music himself; a throbbing roar was slowly approaching, heralding the arrival of a helicopter.  Peering out through his narrow window, he watched it settle on the slope below them.  The UNCLE logo was clear on the side.  Several figures piled out, the one in the lead peering down at a small black box.

Napoleon lay his head back down in the straw, hoarding the warmth and waiting for their people to find them.

* * * * *

Napoleon sat in an easy chair in a hospital room in Barcelona.  He was wearing a warm red gown over his pajamas and a pair of warm slippers.  The agent was bruised, stiff and sore and he suffered from a minor concussion.  He had been assured, though, that he would be fine with rest and care.

He was sharing a room with his partner, of course, but Illya had been to surgery to have the bullet removed from his arm and was still unconscious.  The wound had become infected and the Russian was heavily dosed with painkillers and antibiotics.  Napoleon had been waiting all day for him to wake up.

The utilitarian hospital room had been decorated for the season.  A tiny tree on the nightstand was a concession to Napoleon’s American customs, while the table across the room was covered with an elaborate nativity scene in keeping with the Spanish tradition.  April Dancer and Mark Slate, part of the rescue committee, had gone out to scour the city for Christmas dinner.

Illya awoke, finally, just as they returned laden with food.  Napoleon spoke quietly with him while Mark cranked his bed up and April fussed with his pillows.  When the Russian was comfortable and reasonably alert, Mark pulled over a table for the four of them and April set out the meal.  A bustling market had sprung up in the city streets to mark the first of the twelve days of Christmas and the two junior agents had assembled a feast of roast white sea bass, Christmas turkey with truffles garnished with plums, pineapples and maraschino cherries, Andalusian rice salad, flan, and a fantastic array of candies, cookies, nut cups, and delicate cakes with marzipan frosting.

“D’you realize you blokes spent Christmas Eve in a manger?”  Mark asked.

“And this morning,” April joked, “you were found by three moderately wise men.  And one brilliant woman.”

“And modest,” Illya added with a small smile.

“Of course.”

“It’s too bad you were both unconscious,” the Brit persisted.  “You could have found out if it’s true about the animals.”

“There were no animals,” Napoleon told him.

“Animals?” Illya asked.

“Sure,” his partner replied.  “Haven’t you ever heard that?  At midnight on Christmas Eve, the animals in the manger are supposed to be able to talk.”

“Oh,” Illya’s voice was strange and there was an odd look in his eye.  “I suppose I must have heard that, somewhere.”

“Why?” Napoleon asked, curious.  “Did you hear voices as well as music?”

“No reason,” the Russian hedged.  “It was a long night.  I expect I was delirious for much of it.”

“You probably were,” Napoleon grinned.  “You usually are.  If you remember, though, there’s something I’d like to know.”

Illya nodded slightly.  “If I can tell you.  What?”

“Well, I’m not going to ask how you got me across country to that old barn, through a snowstorm, when you’d been wounded yourself.  But I am wondering when you found time to cut holly.”  He offered his friend a sprig of green from the table with the crèche.  Illya took it, careful to avoid the jagged edges, and looked at it wonderingly.  “Where did you get this?”

“You had it in your hand.”

A strange, bemused look crossed Illya’s pale face.  After a moment he held the holly out to his friend.

“Merry Christmas, Napoleon,” was all he said.

The end.