Fandom: The Man from U.N.C.L.E.

Pairing: Napoleon Solo/Illya Kuryakin

Category: gen

Rating: PG

Word Count: 3,488

Summary: It was a very difficult mission.

 

 

 

 

He hated this. He hated the personality he was inhabiting, he hated this assignment and he really hated being out of contact with his partner, like working with no net and out of balance. He knew that Napoleon would show up eventually and he dreaded what he was prepared to do when he did see his partner again.

It was his unfortunate turn of genetics that put him in this position, studying the son of a Nazi war criminal in order to become him for a short while. His usual flair for the disguise needed little help as he was a perfect ringer for the bastard, but he hoped that, unlike the mirror image he was trying to portray, he was in his real life the better parts underneath it all.

On one of his few enforced medical leaves he had taken an acting workshop, the skills were useful in his line of work though he didn’t reveal that to his instructors or classmates. One of the guest lecturers had been a proponent of the Method Style and wanted the students to imagine themselves inside the skin of their character, to climb as far into the psyche of that person as they could, in effect becoming the character rather than acting as the character. Illya had found it distasteful. Useful in some ways, as it let him momentarily see things from the perspective of his enemy and thus anticipate and prepare. More than once this had been helpful on a mission. But he was too fond of his own control of a situation to want to live in another’s skin for long.

Here was an affair that was going to put that method to the test, in a huge and, he hoped, successful way.

The first thing he discovered when he started reading the research on this monster was that torture was not just a task Nexor did for his superiors, but was his avocation. He obviously got a pleasure from it that Illya had no desire whatsoever to explore.

The next thing he discovered in his research was that this grinning piece of lowlife was loyal to his late father’s dreams and those of Marshal Gurnius, obviously to the point of destruction, if his actual death was anything to go by. He would, and had, given his life for the cause and though his chain of command might never know that, Illya knew he was going to have to swallow his distaste and act accordingly.

It occurred to him that in that aspect at least, he could find in himself that service. He knew that unswerving loyalty, from a different direction perhaps than this man’s. He had in the past, and knew that in the future would again, be willing to put himself in the path of harm for his partner. And he never regretted the occasions he had defied orders to seek out and rescue his partner, as his partner had done for him as well. Which was why this assignment had him so worried. They hadn’t had time to work out a plan, come up with a signal, they were winging this affair and that particular uncertainty was not one they often had to add in to the mix.

Again he saw the way Nexor had come at him, feral in his determination to destroy any barriers to his successful completion of his mission.  Illya realized that there was another thing within himself he could draw on to pretend his way through this affair.  He hoped that it was enough, for he did not want any more comparisons to draw. 

For a moment the memory of staring up into his own scarred face looking down at him with murderous intent washed over him, and he bit the inside of his cheek to suppress the urge to yell in rage as he had done when he surprised his adversary and fought him to the death.  That memory merged with the one of looking down into the lifeless face, so like his own, of Nexor and the same dizzy misplacement he felt in that moment returned.  He closed his eyes, but could still see the scarred face, the only death that might haunt him the rest 0f his days.  He wished he were a praying man so that he could ask his creator to take this insidious dread from him, that the successful completion of this mission would bring him peace and erase the horror of seeing his own death by violence.  He was certain he was not destined to die of old age, but he was not ready now to see his own death like that again and again in nightmares, his own death by his own hand, over and over.  He suppressed a shudder and resumed studying the file, there was no other way but through.

***
Napoleon had never seen this grinning madman in Illya, in fact had never heard such an awful sound in all the years he had known his partner, as the sound of his glee through the filter of this evil. 

Napoleon’s skin crawled and he did not have to fake the trepidation he needed to let his captors see.  But all he gave to Illya was his usual defiance and slick charm.  For a moment he wondered if there had been a mistake and Illya was truly the one gone and this apparition before him was a dark reflection of all he knew to be good and right in Illya.  Please God, he thought, let that not be true.  He wondered what he could offer in bargain for his partner’s return, for he was certain some deal would need to be struck.  He suddenly knew that he would make that bet in a heartbeat if it brought back his taciturn friend who rarely, and often only in his company, relaxed into grins and laughter.

This brilliant evil was convincing enough to make him ill, make him wish for a code word to make all this stop.  His imagination, where Illya was gone leaving only this horror of a mirror image, was enough torture for Napoleon, he wanted to tell them that he needed no electrodes, he would do all the pain induction himself with no help from their machines.  And then the blond in the Nazi uniform started to apply the electric contacts to his skin.  The shivers of revulsion resumed and it took every ounce of his will power to hide it from his captors, and the piercing blue eyes of his partner working his way over his body with the wires and sticky pads of Nexor’s favorite toy.

***

As Illya took his sweet time placing the electrodes, he went back over in his mind every moment of the exchange when Napoleon was brought in to him, seeking a clue to what strategy his partner had planned, for he always had one.  With a little sleight of hand he cushioned many of the electrodes with non-conductive pads that would prevent the electricity from doing as much harm to Napoleon as they were designed to do.  He replayed the conversation as he slowly attached wires to his partner’s skin. 

“You know each other?” that THRUSH toady had asked, in his snide condescending manner, Illya hoped he was a casualty and quickly.

“Like a hunter knows its prey,” Napoleon had answered.  His voice defiant and his look surly, standard operating procedure for him when confronted by THRUSH or any other adversary, letting bravado cover his watchfulness.  And the looks, he was used to Napoleon’s assessments, but there was something else there this time in the down and back up of Napoleon’s eyes.  What was he missing?

Illya had been at a bit of a loss, if Napoleon was trying to clue him in to a plan, it wasn’t making itself known.  Was Napoleon trying to remind him of something?  Obviously, Nexor would have been known to him since he supposedly escaped an UNCLE net in Europe.  Okay.  But still, no reference to any other affairs were springing to mind.  He would have to tough it out.  How would the real Nexor have reacted?  Cocky.  Smug.  Amused.  That was pretty much the gamut of Nexor’s reactions to everything, as far as Illya could tell from the file.

“At last the roles are reversed, Mr. Solo. I am the hunter and you are the cornered animal.”  Illya heard the words again in his head and wanted to wince.  But it did convey to Napoleon the idea that they were quickly running short on time, or at least he hoped it did.

The guard had reacted to Napoleon’s lunge and Illya wanted to shoot the idiot, but settled for simply slapping the guard back.  If Napoleon was trying to slip something to him, instructions, information, the damn guard had botched it for them, for he could find nothing that may have been slipped to him.  Then again, if there had been something, Napoleon may have already lost it when he was searched upon capture.  He’d let his fury out at the guard, knowing that it would appear as if he was defending the spoils to which he and only he was entitled, and which he, and only he, would enjoy.

On his knees in front of him, Napoleon looked up at Illya when directed, Illya did a fast assessment, playing for time.  “What am I going to do with you, Mr. Solo?”  Hoping for a threat or a reminder of some other affair, some hint at the playbook Napoleon was going to use.  And the damn THRUSH agent put his foot in it again, the impatient jackass.  Illya gave up and decided he would have to do what he could with what he had, which is what led him to this moment, readying to torture his best friend and partner. 

His final words as Napoleon was led away haunted him, “You are going to regret the day you were ever born.”  And once again, the down and back up glance of Napoleon, a look he had seen and received many times, and suddenly it was unfamiliar, unknowable.  Illya’s unease grew.

The Marshal was the one who called for the torture, and seemed to be looking forward to it as another man might look forward to a fine meal or the company of a beautiful woman.  And the sickening realization hit Illya that he had stumbled exactly on the relationship between them that the Marshal expected him to fulfill, the one that Nexor’s father before had likely fulfilled for the Marshal back in the camps. 

Oh dear sweet heaven, he did not want to be here, doing this, not to anyone, let alone his fellow agent, his partner, the man he entrusted his life to, who trusted him with his in return.  Nausea made him lightheaded and he was glad that he was kneeling at Napoleon’s feet attaching padded and inert electrodes there, where no one in the room could see his face before he could hide his revulsion. 

Again, Illya really wished he was a man with faith in some higher power that would be willing to intervene.  Barring that, he wished for a very large bottle of vodka.

In that split second he understood exactly what the Marshal had been so overjoyed to share, he was anticipating this torture like a man about to bed the most beautiful woman he had ever met.  At the same time, he knew that the Marshal had shared this particular joy before and had every expectation that he, Nexor, would enjoy it in just the same manner.  Oh, this was too much.  This was torture of a whole new description, and he would go through with it for the sake of the mission, for UNCLE, for Good and Freedom and Law and all the other things the guys in white hats did and he would have to find a way to live with himself after.  He was overwhelmed in that moment with everything he was about to lose.  If this went wrong and Napoleon died, and perhaps even if it didn’t and Napoleon didn’t die by his hand, no matter how unwilling he was to carry on, he may well lose the best thing in his life, the best friend he had, his trusted partner.  Every meal shared, every bottle drunk late into the night, every conversation, every look, every teasing flick of his fingers in long hair, every badly accented disguise, every successful mission celebrated and unsuccessful affair picked apart, every good moment, every comfort given, flashed into his memory, and he could not, would not, he refused to lose this man, his partner.  He swallowed hard and stood, determined to ride this horror of a mission to completion and kill every one of the sons of bitches he could on his way out, with Napoleon intact and their relationship, salvageable or not, at least followed through, he would keep his friend alive, and deliver him back to UNCLE, whether or not he ever looked him in the eye again.  Nexor was a sadistic, egotistical, self-centered maniac and Illya was ready to turn those traits against the very men who had made Nexor that way.  He let the feral grin come across his face and prepared to put on the best show he had ever performed. 

***

Illya played right to the Marshal, feeding him the appearance of what he wanted, giving him the rope to hang himself with, the bastard.  And he knew that even with the electrode pads disabled or only partially working, Napoleon would hit his limit eventually, but it would take a long time, hopefully delaying enough to give him the opportunity he would need to stop the Marshal’s plan and THRUSH.  He also knew that any THRUSH agents that survived would return to their nests with stories of how much torture the famous UNCLE agent could stand and Napoleon’s legend would grow all the more.  He smiled at the thought, not a little evilly. 

Finally he could stand no more of the horror, and the impatience of the THRUSH overlord was making him contemplate throwing the mission in favor of just taking out a pistol and shooting the son of a bitch.  He climbed over Napoleon and, shielding him from view of the others with his body, leaned in to assess if it was time for the denouement of this private little hell.

***

Napoleon was completely paralyzed, but aware of everything, the screaming girl, the rough and thankfully finally normal Russian burr of his partner’s voice, God, please make the bitch shut up, that scream was piercing and grating on his raw nerves and he would grind his teeth if he could and what was the bitter thing Illya had given him to bite, it was terrible, and please God, for the love all things holy, shut the fuck up, his head was pounding like a whole marching band, and she wouldn’t shut the hell up, she shouldn’t even be here, the meddling idiot, he didn’t want her here, he had tried to keep her out of harm’s way, his job was to get captured, he couldn’t protect her and do the job at the same time, oh God, when was Illya going to come free him from this hell?

***

“It was important that she believe I was as I said, not Nexor but another UNCLE agent like you, so I gave her the hypodermic, the diagram and the gun for you.”

“I understand, Illya, I do.  Go now, wash off the Nazi and come back as yourself, will you?  I’ll order dinner while you’re in the bath.”

When Illya entered the bathroom he saw that there was cold cream and rubbing alcohol, tools he would need to remove the false scar, he only wished he could wash Nexor and his associates away as easily.  He stood for a very long time under the hot shower, willing this affair away, as far away as he could make it go.  When he finally emerged from the shower there was a change of clothes sitting on the sink counter, on inspection they turned out to be his own.  Napoleon had gone to his apartment and packed a set of his own clothing, right down to socks and shoes, knowing that these things would help Illya readjust.  There was also a set of pajamas, Napoleon’s this time.  Obviously, Napoleon hadn’t figured on an extra night in South America, but had planned for the successful end to the affair.  He put on the pajamas and gathered up the clothing, emerging from the bath with a cloud of steam. 

Napoleon was sitting on the side of the bed, head in hands, and looked up when Illya opened the door.

“I left you some hot water,” Illya gestured over his shoulder with a nod.

Napoleon smiled weakly and nodded, slouching up and into the bath himself, picking up his own pajamas and robe on the way in.  The door closed and the sounds of the shower were all that could be heard for a long while.

***

Napoleon’s timing was preternaturally accurate, he emerged from the bath just as the knock came on the door.  He took his gun from his bathrobe pocket and went to answer, checking first that it was the waiter with dinner and then putting the gun back in his pocket to let the man in with trays of food.  After the waiter left with a generous tip to leave the trays until morning, Napoleon sat across from Illya and uncovered the food.  Neither did the dinner much justice, though there was a nice selection and it was surprisingly good.

They were quiet, unusually so.  Not quite uncomfortably so.

Finally Illya could stand the silence no longer.

“Thank you, Napoleon, for bringing me a change of clothes.”

“Sorry about the pajamas.”

Illya held one arm up and the too long sleeve fell back.  Napoleon chuckled at that, sounding closer to normal than he had all evening.

“Thank you, Illya, for not killing me.”

Napoleon watched a mix of emotions swim through the deep blue depths of his partner’s eyes, fear and sorrow and pain.

“It was torture for you too, wasn’t it?”

“I am so sorry Napoleon, I …” Illya was at a loss.

“Sorry for doing your job?  Sorry for succeeding against all odds as usual?  Sorry for proving Waverly right once again?”  Napoleon was unreadable, an unusual state of affairs considering the years they had been partners.

“Sorry for…” Illya started and then stopped, afraid to say what he was really thinking.  “Sorry for being a monster,” he finally said, very quietly.

“You, tovarisch, are no monster.”  And now Illya recognized his friend again.

Napoleon got up and came around to Illya’s side of the table where he had pushed his chair back to stretch his legs.  Illya sat up, hands on the arms of the chair to stand but stopped himself when Napoleon knelt at his feet.  Illya gave him a look of alarm, quickly shuttered.

Napoleon put his hands on the arms of the chair, not quite touching Illya’s, looking up and keeping eye contact while he began to speak.

“Illya Nickovetch Kuryakin, you are no monster.  You are a valued UNCLE agent, a PhD in stuff I will never understand, a skilled musician even if you won’t admit it, a master of disguise and language, you are my partner and my best friend.  The only torture I experienced during this affair was the thought that all the good things you are would be gone, that Nexor had somehow survived and taken your place, that you were no longer here.  The worst torture was my imagination, conjuring a phantom that isn’t real.”  Napoleon moved his hands just the slightest bit, his fingers brushing Illya’s, “That was worse than any electric shock, the utter believability of your performance.  Please, try to never do that to me again.”

Illya moved his own fingers, lacing them through those of his partner, “I would like nothing more than to be rid of the taint of that bastard forever, to never have had heard his name, let alone be made into his image and have thoughts like his in my head.  Napoleon, it was horrific.”

Napoleon stood and drew his partner up out of his chair and then wrapped his arms around him, leaning his forehead against Illya’s, feeling Illya mirror his action, strong arms around him, hands smoothing across his back.

“It will be better in the morning, tovarisch.”

“It’s getting better now, my friend, it’s getting better now.”