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Part 6
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Napoleon awoke abruptly at dawn, chilled, stiff, his arms full of ... his partner. He glanced down at the blond head, dark circles under the closed eyes. Illya had wrapped his own arms around Napoleon sometime in the night and his head rested on Napoleon’s chest.
Napoleon felt his throat tighten at the realization that this man who trusted no one, whose life had beaten the trust out of him at a tender age, could trust him so wholly. He felt suddenly unworthy. Their partnership – Illya – was the most important thing in his life.
But if he was going to admit that to himself, he had to admit it had been the case for a long time – and it hadn’t stopped them being the best damn’ team UNCLE had. Pride aside, the reality shown in their record erased any concern that their caring for one another had harmed their effectiveness as agents. Their shifted priorities had, if anything, enhanced their talents.
In wonder, Napoleon gazed down at his peaceful partner, scowling slightly in his sleep. He loved him – of course. Napoleon wasn’t one to deny his own heart, or to live in fear of his own feelings. He knew Illya loved him. They were too close, too much one creature, for him to not know it, despite that Illya would probably not admit it out loud even under direst tortures.
Sometimes, like now, he felt so full of astonishingly tender emotion that he had to ask himself: Am I in love with him?
At this moment he thought it might be possible. He’d let no one into his heart since the death of his wife, except Illya. The sour antisocial Russian had proven surprisingly loveable – a partner, an equal, a wholly trusted friend who’d seen him at his worst and still had total faith in him – the kind of faith that permitted him to sleep like a child in Napoleon’s arms only a few miles from enemies who would gladly kill them both. That utter faith, from a man this capable, melted any armor Napoleon might have built around his heart.
They had everything. Napoleon smiled, shifting slightly against the hard frosty ground. Everything but sex.
That step had always been a stumbling block in Napoleon’s mind. He’d thought of it, of course. An exuberantly sexual creature, Napoleon didn’t deny his nerve endings any more than his heart; he’d been aware for a long time that he, like many, was not immune to his partner’s physical appeal.
The electricity had been there from the start, probably, although the nature of their business had forced aside consideration of luxuries such as emotion or attraction. They had had to become a team before they could become anything else, or they would not have survived. That bond, however, meant there could be no “just sex” between them if they ever chose to pursue that spark; they had a commitment deeper than most marriages already.
And that, perhaps, was the problem. With his reputation – earned, and few knew that better than Illya – his partner might think he simply sought a novel physical sensation. Napoleon thought Illya must know how immeasurably precious he was to him – would that be damaged if he pressed for something more?
Illya wasn’t naive; he was aware of his own attractiveness to both genders, and of Napoleon’s limitless capacity for sexual adventure. Nor was he a prude, but that didn’t mean he would be comfortable with this idea. They’d never discussed the topic. There were a lot of good reasons not to go there – the blackmail potential, prejudice within the workplace and without – and the best reason of all might be that Illya simply didn’t share those feelings. Napoleon could understand that, live with it. Illya had never suggested any such desire in words, although his body language at certain unguarded moments, like the other night, had led Napoleon to think otherwise. But then again, a man might have such desires without the slightest inclination to act upon them.
Napoleon was left still unsure after his speculation. The idea intrigued him, excited him, worried him a bit ... but his biggest worry was that it might somehow harm or disturb Illya if he were to pursue it. No desire, however strong, was worth that risk.
Illya stirred slightly against him and Napoleon found himself grinning again. Just you give me an opening, though, my friend. I won’t let it pass.
Illya started awake, shoving hard against his partner, hands upraised.
“Hey...” Napoleon dropped his gun and caught Illya’s wrists, an iron grip necessary to save himself from injury until Illya realized who was holding him. “It’s OK. It’s me.”
Illya blinked, staring at Napoleon. Some residual devilry made Napoleon say, “Is this how you usually act after you’ve spent the night in someone’s arms?”
The Russian blushed, relaxed, scowled. “Napoleon.”
“The same.” He retrieved and holstered his gun.
Illya looked around. “I thought...”
“I’m offended you confused my succor with the ministrations of your Soviet friends,” Napoleon said, getting up and pulling his partner to his feet. He had to steady him for a moment. “You’re the least romantic person I’ve ever slept with.”
“Maybe if –” Illya stopped, redder now, and Napoleon, triumphant, suppressed his grin when the Russian shot him a half-suspicious, half-embarrassed look. Having mercy on his battered partner, Napoleon gave up on the innuendo and pushed the joke.
“What, I come all this way to rescue you and you want flowers too?”
Illya looked mortified. “Napoleon, I –”
“Never mind.” Napoleon grasped his partner’s shoulder. “We’re not out of the woods yet, literally or figuratively. Thank me when we’re actually home and dry.”
“I can’t believe Mr. Waverly authorized ...” Illya began; a sidelong look at Napoleon stopped him.
“Well, the old man’s getting pretty soft,” Napoleon said, scanning their surroundings in the misty dawn to orient himself. “This way. We’re close, if I remember correctly. The rendezvous point is just over that rise. “ He indicated the wooded ridge that rose before them. “Can you walk?”
His partner, standing slightly bent to one side, looked up at him, eyes narrow. “The alternative being?”
“Well, I’d hate to have to carry you the whole way,” Napoleon began. Illya snorted and started off out of the copse, heading west.
The paneled truck – Armand Florescu himself at the wheel – was in sight when Illya finally collapsed, midstep, like an unoccupied jumpsuit.
Napoleon caught him, lifting him in his arms.
Armand, watching anxiously, started the truck, then climbed in the back to open the doors. Napoleon lifted Illya into the truck, climbed in himself, and picked up his partner again, setting him down carefully in a seat and unclenching his teeth to shout: “Let’s go.”
The engines immediately revved and the truck’s vibrations increased. Napoleon pulled a blanket over his partner, settling in the adjacent seat.
“How bad is it?” Armand called from the front, over the roar of the poorly tuned engine.
“I don’t know. Drive fast,” Napoleon shouted back, his attention on his partner.
“Damn fool Russian,” he growled, his mind gnawing on every painful step his partner had taken. “Why in hell couldn’t you just say something?” But he knew better. Illya wouldn’t admit to being in anything less than top form if he’d had a limb severed.
The truck rattled down the hard-packed dirt road. Napoleon laid a hand across his partner’s wrist. “I would have carried you, you stupid...” The words died to a frustrated growl.
The blue eyes opened, unfocused. “Napoleon..?”
“I’m here.” Always.
“What happened? Where are we?”
“You passed out. We’re in a WWI-era truck bound for UNCLE Budapesth and the infirmary therein.”
Predictably Illya began to protest. Napoleon laid his hand over his partner’s mouth, no more gently than necessary. Fighting a smile at how large Illya’s eyes got, he said sternly:
“I don’t want to hear it. You’re ice cold and your heartbeat is irregular and you passed out right in front of me. I might’ve tripped over you and skinned my knee. I don’t know what they did to you but I know damn’ well you’re not fine so don’t try to tell me you are.”
Illya said nothing when he let go of his mouth but Napoleon could feel his partner looking at him as he adjusted the blanket, taking his time.
“How much trouble are you going to be in for this?” Illya asked quietly.
Napoleon continued tucking the corners of the blanket around Illya’s body. “Some,” he admitted. “Won’t know how much until I’ve told Mr. Waverly where we’ve been for the past couple of days.”
“Napoleon–”
Napoleon looked at him. “Don’t make me muzzle you again.”
Illya closed his eyes, leaning back. “I rather liked it,” he said, sounding very tired.
Surprised – had the strain of the past week broken down not just his illusions but some of his partner’s reserve? – Napoleon grinned.
“You must be delirious,” he said, laying his palm on Illya’s forehead, which was hot. “Maybe you have some kind of infection.”
“Maybe,” Illya agreed. “I’m very tired, Napoleon. Can we just go home?”
“We’re on our way,” Napoleon said, forebearing to remind Illya whose fault it was that they were here in the first place.
“Not Budapesth. Home.”
“Your wish is my command.”
Illya sighed. Napoleon thought he heard, faintly, the words “Don’t tempt me,” and then his partner was asleep.
Illya slept all the way to the Budapesth office, awoke long enough to thank Armand Florescu and to refuse any medical attention there, then slept all the way to the airport, wearing a hastily borrowed trench coat over his clothes to hide the worst of the damage and divert any possible questions. UNCLE’s clout got them on the quickest flights to
Napoleon, gritty, exhausted and starving, gently helped his partner out of the taxi, paid the driver, and guided Illya into their sanctum, releasing a breath that felt as if he’d been holding it for a year once the door closed behind them.
“Mr. Waverly is expecting you,” the receptionist told them, not batting an eye at the condition of either agent as she pinned on their badges.
“We’ll be in the infirmary,” Napoleon said.
“But–”
He pulled his barely conscious partner through the door, ignoring her protests.
The intercom in Alexander Waverly’s office beeped.
“Waverly here.”
“It’s me, sir.”
“Mr. Solo?”
“I’m in the infirmary, sir, with Illya. I just wanted to get him here first. I’m on my way up to you.”
“I should hope so.” Mr. Waverly took a deep breath, marshalling patience. “How is Mr. Kuryakin?”
“Mr. Waverly’s second question was how much did they find out about Substance XX.” Napoleon grimaced at his partner, a silent acknowledgement of their superior’s quite heartless commitment to duty.
Illya, seated on the examining room table, shook his head. “Nothing.”
“Nothing?” Napoleon echoed gently. “All that abuse for nothing?”
Illya met his eyes. “I thought you were dead.” Napoleon’s heart lurched; his partner lowered his gaze. “There was nothing they could do to me.”
Napoleon reached out. “Illya–”
Doctor Baker bustled into the room, followed by one of the nurses. “You people,” he began in his usual manner. “Always coming in here shot to pieces, tortured, strung up in chains, dropped from helicopters...”
Despite themselves both agents smiled.
“Why don’t you go into a safer line of work? Like human cannonball at the circus?” Dr. Baker moved Napoleon bodily out of the way and leaned over Illya. “What seems to be the trouble? Poison darts? Mysterious gases? Immersion in a mind-altering fluid? Hangnail?” To Napoleon: “You – out. The old man wants a report.”
Napoleon chuckled and backed away. “See you later, tovarish.”
“Don’t leave me!” Illya cried. Napoleon hesitated; belatedly recognizing the amused melodrama in his partner’s voice, he felt safe in waving and making a quick getaway. The last he heard was Dr. Baker saying:
“Lie down. This won’t hurt a bit. It’ll hurt a lot. But you’re used to it.”
“Yes...yes, I see.” Mr. Waverly pondered his CEA’s verbal report, puffing at his pipe, while Napoleon watched, perfectly prepared to accept whatever punishment his boss deemed necessary. He’d stopped by the locker rooms for a quick shower and change of clothes, and felt almost human, almost ready to face his superior. Few people were ever wholly ready to face Alexander Waverly.
“I have to admit, what amazes me most about you and Mr. Kuryakin is that every time you blatantly disobey regulations and go off on some rogue action of your own, you manage to deflect serious repercussions by destroying an enemy stronghold or thwarting some heinous scheme.”
Napoleon, hardly able to believe what he’d just heard, said, “Well, we were kidnapped, sir.”
“This isn’t praise. It’s wonderment. How do you do it?” Mr. Waverly asked, as if he really wanted to know and expected an answer.
Napoleon shrugged. “We’re ... just ... very good, sir.” He grinned.
Mr. Waverly harrumphed. “Unfortunately I have no hard data with which to contradict that outrageously egotistical assertion. Therefore I’m going to let it go. Again.” His glare told Napoleon very clearly that for some time to come, the slightest slip on his or Illya’s part would not be forgiven easily.
“Yes sir. Thank you, sir. Uh, Mr. Waverly ...”
“Yes?”
“I never found out who they threatened,” Napoleon said, trying to sound casual. “To get Illya’s cooperation, I mean.”
Mr. Waverly’s eyes widened. “Mr. Kuryakin didn’t tell you?”
“No sir.”
Mr. Waverly chuckled slightly, opened the file and slid a battered slip of paper across the desk. On it, in letters cut melodramatically from various newspapers, were the words:
Bring XX to the White Dog at 8:30 or Solo dies. Boris.
Napoleon read it over, twice, then looked at Mr. Waverly.
“This is it?”
“Apparently your partner has so far forgotten the priorities of this organization as to feel you are not expendable.” Mr. Waverly took the note back, slid it back into the folder, not looking at his top agent. “Surely you have something useful to do, Mr. Solo.”
Napoleon headed for the infirmary.
“He’s gone,” Dr. Baker told him, not even looking up from his clipboard.
“Gone?”
At his tone the doctor glanced up. “He went home. I didn’t think it wise for him to drive, so he said he’d just crawl.”
“He went home?”
“Is there an echo in here?” Dr. Baker muttered.
Illya had just left? Without speaking to him, without waiting for Napoleon to find out he was OK, knowing Napoleon would have preferred to drive him home rather than make him take a cab...something was wrong.
“Is he okay?” he asked lamely.
“Moderately. Bad bruising, cuts and burns, a slight fever. I prescribed three days’ rest. He had a bad headache, too; I had to amputate. So if he starts behaving oddly...”
“What do you mean, if he starts behaving oddly?”
Dr. Baker sighed. “Oddly in a way different from the odd ways in which he usually behaves.” He cocked an eyebrow at Napoleon.
“Thanks. I’ll keep my eye on him.”
“Good. Now if you don’t mind, I also have a report to make to the man upstairs.” Dr. Baker turned away, still scribbling.
During the short drive to Illya’s place he realized he was angry. And he realized why. That Illya was willing to simply surrender his freedom and his life to defend him made him furious. Because it could easily happen again.
Napoleon tried to shake that off. That was their life, had been for years. No one knew when their time would come. Fear of that would cripple him, cripple them as a team. He never saw Illya paralyzed, knotted up in rage and fear like this over the chance of losing him.
That image flashed in his mind with the thought that perhaps Illya never let him see those moments.
No. He simply sees to it that it doesn’t happen. Like you do.
Napoleon calmed himself, loosening his death grip on the wheel. They did their best. No one could do more. If you can’t stand the heat ... far from hating that heat, they thrived on it. They could no more stop this to do something mundane and safe than they could will themselves to stop breathing.
Now he was face to face with that final issue, which had seemed nothing but titillating when he’d half-jokingly considered it earlier. At least, he knew now he’d been half-joking. He knew it because he realized it was going to be confronted for real tonight, and he wasn’t shaking just from anger.