Napoleon has been captured and it's up to Illya to rescue him.
An established relationship story.
Written: February 2013. Word count: 2,260.
Napoleon winced but made himself remain silent as the pain from the electrically charged baton that had just been pushed against his ribs raced around his body.
His arms ached as his hands were in straps that were fastened with bolts to the wall some inches higher than his head and they were stretched out.
His legs ached because only his toes touched the floor and his legs were braced apart by a steel rod.
His head hurt from a cut that bled every time his body shook from the shock of the baton.
His entire body ached from the electric shock that had been pushed through it.
Again he forced himself not to make a noise as he bit the inside of his mouth, making it bleed and making himself concentrate on that small pain than the insidious pain that coursed around his body.
Zap! Zap! Zap!
As the baton was pushed against him for the third time in succession, he was unable to keep himself from gasping aloud as a level of pain he had never known before made his entire body quiver. He blinked hard trying and failing to prevent a tear from escaping from each eye; blood seeped from the cut on his head, travelling down his left cheek to mingle with the tear.
"That is better, Mr. Solo," the man who was giving the orders said and he even smiled at Napoleon. At least his lips turned upwards, but his eyes remained cold and full of hate. "You may now rest for a minute or two." He nodded to the man who had been in charge of hitting Napoleon with the electrically changed baton.
Instantly the man put down the baton and loosened the straps that held Napoleon's arms and he felt his feet rather than just his toes touch the ground. He slumped forward, unable to stay upright without the straps to support him and tried to breathe shallowly as anything else hurt him too much.
"Release the bar between his legs," the man giving orders said. "You see, Mr. Solo, we are not monsters."
Once the bar was released Napoleon shifted his legs slightly moving them closer together as he struggled to contain the pain that still reverberated around his body.
"That is better, is it not, Mr. Solo?"
Napoleon remained silent, his head still bent forward, still trying to contain his breathing. He'd closed his eyes for a moment and a second later wished he hadn't as a hand made contact with his cheek. The slap in itself was little more than a surprise, but the extra small amount of pain it added to the agony Napoleon's body was experiencing made him cry aloud.
"Look at me." Slowly Napoleon raised his head and looked at the man who had slapped him. He was standing a foot or so away from Napoleon and was rubbing the palm of his hand with his other hand. "I said that is better, is it not, Mr. Solo? You will answer me."
"Yes," Napoleon managed through lips that were swollen.
Napoleon told himself that the important thing, the thing that mattered, the only thing in fact that mattered, was that he remain alive until Illya could find him and rescue him. If that meant he had to endure humiliation in one way or other, be it his body betraying him or him being forced to say things he didn't wish to say, then so be it. Keeping silent and being killed was foolish.
"Yes, thank you," he managed.
Once more the man smiled. Napoleon swallowed hard and didn't bother to fight a shiver that passed through his body at the look on the man's face. "Good," the man said. "And now to show you again that we are not monsters, you may have a drink of water. Would you like a drink of water, Mr. Solo?"
Napoleon swallowed hard; he'd like nothing more, well apart from Illya and the cavalry to arrive; his throat was dry and he realized he'd ceased to sweat. "Yes. Please," he added quickly as the man took a step towards him.
Once more a smile appeared on his captor's face. "You see, Damien," he said, turning to the man who had picked the baton back up, "There is more than one way to get co-operation. Be so good as to fetch Mr. Solo a cup of water."
Damien turned an impassive face to look at Napoleon before he looked back at his boss. "Yes, Mr. Martin," he said.
"Do you have any idea where Mr. Solo is, Mr. Kuryakin?"
"No, sir. But I know someone who will almost certainly know." Mr. Kuryakin's voice was cold, his tone clipped, his accent heavy. His eyes as he stared at Mr. Waverly were as cold as his voice and it was at times like this when Mr. Waverly found himself thinking of him as 'the Russian', rather than 'Mr. Kuryakin'.
Not for the first time he found himself wishing that had one of his top team had to be captured that it had been, as it so often was, Mr. Kuryakin rather than Mr. Solo. Because while Mr. Solo would do anything to rescue his partner; Mr. Kuryakin would do anything to rescue his partner. When it came to Mr. Solo's safety, Mr. Kuryakin did not have a line over which he would not step. That is what made the Russian such an asset to U.N.C.L.E. as well as, on occasions, such a liability.
It was at times like this that he wondered if allowing the partners to become more than just working partners while remaining working partners had been the right thing to do. But even as he thought that, he knew the truth: it made no difference. Whether Napoleon Solo was merely Illya Kuryakin's working partner or his working partner and his lover made no difference to the Russian. He would still do anything to save his partner.
"Mr. Kuryakin. You will -" To his annoyance Alexander Waverly found himself coming to an abrupt halt as he stared into eyes that he swore had changed from blue to grey.
"Yes, sir." And with that the Russian turned on his heel and moving more like a panther than a man exited the office.
Mr. Waverly waited for a moment or two, before he pressed a button on his desk. "Send Mr. Slate in, please."
Less than ten seconds went by before the door opened again. "Come in, Mr. Slate," he said. "I have a task for you. You are to tail Mr. Kuryakin and ensure he does not," he paused, "go too far," he finally said.
"Yes, sir." Once more the door opened and closed.
Mark found Illya leaning against the wall outside U.N.C.L.E.'s headquarters.
Illya glanced at him. "You are meant to tail me?"
Mark gave a half smile and nodded. "Yes."
"And prevent me from 'going too far'."
Mark's smile increased. "Yes."
Illya nodded. "Very well." He turned to go.
Mark touched his arm. "Illya?"
"Where exactly are you going?"
"To see the lovely Angelique."
Mark's eyes widened. "You're going to walk into the spider's lair?"
Illya shrugged. "What makes you think it is she who is the spider?"
"Because she's the female."
Illya just gave him a withering look and stalked off.
Mark gave him a head start and then his hands in his pockets, a grin on his face, he followed.
His hands once more secured somewhat above his head, his toes once more the only part of his feet that touched the ground. Napoleon cried aloud at the increased force of the electrical charge that sent wave after wave after wave of pain through his body.
Martin, now sitting on the edge of a table looking almost bored, stared at him and sighed. "You only need to answer one simple question, Mr. Solo, and all this," he waved his hand, "will cease." He paused and waited; Napoleon said nothing. Martin sighed again. "Maybe you have forgotten the question. So I shall ask you again: Where is Mr. Kuryakin?"
All I have to do is to stay alive, Napoleon told himself. Illya will find me; Illya will rescue me. He told himself he could endure more; he had to endure more; the last thing he intended to do was to tell them where Illya was - not that he actually knew. When he'd been shot at with a semi-paralyzing dart and captured, just as he'd been about to enter the apartment he shared with Illya, Illya had not yet got home; the security locks had made that quite clear.
As he stared into Martin's emotionless eyes he vowed to keep silent; he had to give Illya time; Illya would find him. Illya always found him. Of course that was assuming he had managed as he was being dragged away to leave behind a coat button. He thought he'd pulled it off, but his head had been like cotton-wool from the drug surging around his body and his fingers hadn't felt like they had belonged to him.
Martin held his gaze for a moment or two before shrugging and nodding at Damien.
Zap! Zap! Zap! Zap! Zap! Zap!
Napoleon began to scream as the fourth shock ricocheted around his body and before the final one had finished doing its damage he was unconscious.
Napoleon groaned softly; he couldn't even find the energy to open his eyes. He could feel the ache in his shoulders that told him he was still hanging with his hands higher than his head and his arms stretched out and the way his legs throbbed and quivered let him know nothing but his toes touched the floor. Every inch of his body ached, trembled, screamed with pain and he wondered if he'd been zapped while he had been unconscious.
He was about to force himself to raise his head when he realized something: his head was actually resting on something soft and as he tried to work out why his head was now on something soft, he realized his wrists weren't tied.
Slowly, he forced open his eyes and found himself staring into a pair of emotionless eyes; emotionless eyes that as he stared into them began to change as emotion poured into them. "Illya?" he whispered around a swollen tongue and a rasping throat. He frowned for a second wondering why Illya wasn't tied up alongside him and then finally he began to realize that he wasn't tied up, that the ache in his shoulders and legs was merely a residual ache from the hours he had spent suspended as he had been.
And as the realization hit him he felt even more pain flow through his body as it finally realized he was free and lying in a bed rather than strung up with only his toes touching the floor. He groaned; he'd thought the constant zapping had hurt but now . . . Just for a fleeting second he almost wished he was back hanging from straps being prodded with an electrically charged baton.
It didn't surprise him that Illya hadn't answered him; whenever Illya's emotions got too intense he tended to retreat into silence - that or speak in Russian. And from the look in Illya's eyes Napoleon could tell quite how intense Illya's emotions were. He could have sworn that in all the time he'd been looking at Illya, Illya had neither moved nor had he blinked.
He was suddenly aware another person was in the room and he slowly turned his head to see Mark standing with his hands in his pockets, leaning against the wall. "Mark?"
"Hello, Napoleon," Mark said. "Welcome back."
"How did I get here?"
Mark glanced at Illya who still sat seemingly frozen just staring at Napoleon, different emotions quite clearly doing battle inside him.
Mark shrugged. "Illya rescued you."
A hint of a smile twitched Mark's lips as he glanced at the still silent and still Illya. "He walked in and told them to release you."
Napoleon blinked. "And they did?"
Mark nodded; he now looked even more amused. "Of course it might have had something to do with the knife he was holding to Angelique's throat. She was very eager that you were released. I imagine her standing within Thrush may have gone down somewhat by now, but we all have our problems."
Napoleon turned to Illya. "How did you get Angelique to help you?"
Illya finally blinked. "I asked her to," he said, his Russian accent was intense. Mark made a noise that sounded more like a snort than a laugh and Illya turned his head to glare at Mark. "I asked," he said firmly.
Mark nodded. "Yes, Illya," he said, pushing himself away from the wall. "I'll be sure to tell Mr. Waverly you did indeed ask the beautiful Angelique to help you. Right, I'm going to get a cup of tea. I'll be back later," and he sauntered out of Napoleon's hospital room.
Now they were alone Napoleon reached for Illya's hand. "You asked?"
Illya linked his fingers with Napoleon's. "Da," he said his tone flat. Then he looked directly into Napoleon's eyes and said softly, "I even asked nicely."
Napoleon swallowed hard and for a fleeting second of a fleeting second he actually felt a hint of sympathy for the beautiful, deadly, untrustworthy, evil Angelique whom Illya hadn't just ask that she help him; he had asked nicely.
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