"All's Well That Ends Well." ~ for What's my Line?

[mrua7.livejournal.com]

Challenge: What’s My Line?

Prompt: All’s well that ends well

Title: same as the prompt

Author: mrua7

Word count: Approx. 1575

Warnings: Angst

It had gone beyond desperate as Napoleon watched his captors drag Illya out to the courtyard below.

The Russian was dressed in the remnants of his trousers and black tee shirt, but nothing more; his clothes having been torn and tattered during the numerous interrogations he’d been put through. His face was swollen and bruised, as was Solo’s thanks to the same brutal questioning.

The men who held them captive wanted some microdot they assumed the UNCLE agents had in their possession.The trouble was neither agent had it nor did they know anything about it.

Apparently they were the decoys in this affair; Waverly having sent said microdot off with another who was winging his way somewhere over France. Sadly, Solo and Kuryakin weren’t afforded this information.

A dark-haired man wearing a khaki uniform raised his voice, giving away his frustration as he paced back and forth in front of the American.

“Mr. Solo if you do not tell us where the information is located I will have no recourse but to eliminate your friend.”

“How many times do I have to tell you...we-don’t-have-anything! I don’t know what you’re talking about. Would I lie to you and risk you killing my partner?”

“Yes I believe you would Mr. Solo. What is it you agents are taught; the mission must be completed at any cost? Very well then, watch now as your Mr. Kuryakin dies a most painful death. It will be on your head.”

Illya was hoisted and tied to a pole in the middle of a small platform; beneath it was piled wood and kindling.

The Russian was barely coherent when he realized he was being readied to be burned alive at the stake.

He squirmed, trying to loosen the ropes binding his arms behind him.  Someone stepped up, tying a length of rope around his neck, keeping him from moving farther, for all the good it would do.

A robed figure moved forward, holding a flaming torch near the kindling, awaiting the signal from his leader.

“Last chance Solo.”

Napoleon was panicking at this point.

“Please, I’d tell you if I knew but I don’t!” He tried getting up from the chair in which he was seated, but was shoved back in place by one of the nearby guards.

“Let this be on your head then.” The signal was given and the wood was set afire.

Illya could hear the flames crackling beneath his bare feet as the smoke and heat began to rise. His thoughts went to his early days where comrades back home who failed their training were sent to the blast furnaces at Sepakov. He always wondered if it were something new recruits were told to spur them on, but then again those who failed disappeared and were never heard from again.

Yes, burning to death was an image that stayed with Kuryakin all these years.

Now Illya would know what they felt, the searing pain as the flames engulfed them; trapped in a wooden coffin. Though he would be spared that claustrophobic agony, it was agony that still awaited him none the less.

The flames finally reached his feet, and though he fought back the pain, he couldn’t help but scream as he felt his skin begin to burn. The bottom of his trousers caught fire…

“Stop stop! I’ll tell you! Please stop it!” Napoleon begged.

Another signal was given and buckets of water quickly doused the flames.  The men cut loose the unconscious Russian, carrying him off.

“Well Solo? Talk or the next time I will throw Kuryakin head first into the flames.”

“It’s, ummm...not on me or my partner. I hid it in our hotel room.”

“Your room was searched. You’re lying!”

“You just didn’t find it. I can’t explain where it is, but I can show you.”

“Very well, you will do so.”

“First I want to see Illya.”

“Mr. Solo I am growing wearisome of your stalling.”

“I just want to make sure he’s all right before we go. That’s not such a difficult request is it?”

“Very well. Take him to see the Russian and be quick about it.

Two guards grabbed Napoleon by the arms, lifting him to his feet.

Solo limped as he walked between them, heading out the door; his mind racing as he tried to formulate a plan.

They led him to a room off not far off the courtyard, and he was shoved through the door.

There Illya was lying in a heap on the floor, barely conscious. His feet and lower legs had been burned, thankfully not as badly as Solo had feared, but they were bad enough.

“Illya?” Napoleon whispered, not hesitating grabbing the man by the shoulder.

Kuryakin moaned as right eye opened slowly, the other was swollen shut.

“Napoleon are we dead?” He whispered.

“Almost chum, I’m trying to stall for time. Close your eyes and act like you really are dead.”

“Whatever you say, but please do not put me in position where it just might come true?”

Illya closed his eye, letting his body go completely limp in spite of the pain he was in.

“Guards guards!” Napoleon shouted. “My friend is … he’s not breathing. You’ve gotta help him!”

They charged into the room, seeing Solo hovering over the blond.

“Quick, you have to try to help me resuscitate him.”

“Why should we? You’re both dead men anyway.”

“Do you want your boss to know I changed my mind all because you wouldn’t help?” Solo challenged them.

The two men looked at each other. As they knelt beside the Russian, Napoleon sprang into action, grabbing a rifle. He slammed one man with the butt of the gun, the other he managed to karate chop into unconsciousness.

Napoleon hiked Illya up and over his shoulder in a fireman’s hold. It wasn’t easy carrying the rifle as well, but he managed it.

Once outside the poorly guarded compound, he gently lowered Kuryakin into the front seat of an awaiting sedan.  Slipping into the driver’s seat; Solo started the car, shifting it into gear and speeding off to freedom.

Hours later Illya awoke, nestled safely in a hospital bed.

His feet and legs were bandaged and elevated. A gauze patch was covering his injured eye, and his hands and wrists were wrapped in ace bandages; he’d strained them struggling to free himself. His other numerous superficial wounds had been tenderly cleaned and bandaged.

Kuryakin looked for his partner, but there was no sign of him. Was he even alive? Illya had no recollection except his being burned, after that there was nothing. He was in a tremendous amount of pain, and glancing to his right hand he saw a call button. He managed to press it with his thumb...the only finger he could really move.

A nurse appeared, carrying a tray with a syringe and a bottle of clear liquid; behind her; following her into the room, limped a battered and bruised Napoleon Solo.

“Are you in pain Mr. Kuryakin?” The nurse spoke in hushed tones.

Though he usually tolerated such discomfort and refused medications for it, this time the burns were too excruciating.

“Do not be bolvan,” Illya thought to himself, “take something just this once.”

Nodding his head, he managed to croak a single word.

“Please?”

Solo knew it had to be bad for his partner to ask for pain meds, and watched as the nurse gave Illya a morphine injection.

“I’ll be back later to give you another dose Mr. Kuryakin,” the nurse said.

“This will suffice,” he cleared his throat, answering her, though his voice was barely audible.

“No it will not suffice,” she countered.”I’ve been dealing with burn patients for a long time and I know what’s what.”

“Hey tovarisch, be a good boy and don’t give the nice nurse a hard time for once?” Napoleon pulled up a chair beside the bed. He wasn't as bad off as Illya but was a member of the walking wounded none the less, with his forehead bandaged and several of his fingers in splints.

What could he say to Illya? None of the usual quips and smart remarks seemed right at the moment given how much pain the man was in.

As the morphine did its thing, Napoleon could see Illya slipping into that euphoric drowsy state.

“You’re going to be all right chum.”

The blond head slowly nodded.

“Illya I’m sorry.”

“For wha'?”

“I let it go too far. I should've done what I did sooner. I didn’t believe they’d go through with it.”

Illya shrugged but said nothing in reply.

“That microdot our friends were looking for was apparently being carried by Mark Slate and we unfortunately were the decoys. Mr. Waverly sends his apologies for this happening to you...us. He sent in a team to the compound, and let’s say they won’t be hurting anyone ever again.”

“Good.”

“Can you forgive me?”

“Nothing to forgive. S’okay Nap...Napoleon. We live to...kak vy govorite, how you say? Live to fight ‘nother day. So all is well tha’ ends well...da?”

“That’s right chum, all’s well that ends well,” Napoleon tried to smile.  He was masking his own pain, not physical but emotional. He couldn't help but feel guilty about not stopping Illya from being hurt in time.

He could have bought the farm on this one. Illya came too close for comfort and for what... nothing? That too didn’t sit quite right with the American.

“Napoleon...not worry my tovarisch. S’all right.” Illya’s eye grew heavy. He closed it as he at last dozed off.

“I know chum.” Solo tucked the blanket around his friend as he settled back in his chair. Even though it was uncomfortable, Napoleon would sit his vigil over his partner. It was the least he could do.

Comments

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[pactnmmt.livejournal.com]

Ouch! I'm a wimp with a sunburn. Actually being burned to death is one of my fears. Poor Illya for having to endure the torture and poor Napoleon for the guilt he felt!

[mrua7.livejournal.com]

I'm not a fan about being burned either. This story was more about forgiveness, Illya not feeling the need to forgive his friend, but more so Napoleon being able to forgive himself.

Thanks so much for reading and commenting.

[jantojones.livejournal.com]

Oh, that was a heart-wrenching tale. The pain the both suffered, physically and emotionally. I suspect a couple of sessions with the shrink will be needed for them both. I can understand Napoleon's feelings of guilt, but Illya knows the score, and he'd never hold it against his tovarisch.

[mrua7.livejournal.com]

Trouble is they both hate the shrinks and avoid them at all costs, both have different reasons. Thanks so much for reading and glad you liked the story.

Failure and guilt go hand in hand with their success, and if they didn't have these set backs then I think they'd become to cocky. Gotta take the bad with the good.

[glennagirl.livejournal.com]

A sobering tale, both for the grim realities of their profession and the emotional toll of friendship.

[mrua7.livejournal.com]

Thank you. Good to see you catching up!