Always Expect A Miracle - Picfic Challenge 28th July

[otherhawk.livejournal.com]

Always Expect A Miracle

Napoleon woke on the morning of his thirty-fourth birthday to the feeling of ice cold water pouring down the back of his neck.

“Urgh!” Shivering violently, he shoved himself as far away from the wall as the chains would allow him, gasping slightly as his ribs protested. He'd hoped yesterday that they were just bruised, but now he was pretty sure they were cracked at the very least. “That was unpleasant,” he said, after a second. “Is it too much to ask that THRUSH builds a dungeon that's waterproof?”

“THRUSH did not build this dungeon,” Claude – his fellow captive and UNCLE agent said tiredly, looking at him from across the room where he was chained to the other wall. “It was an original part of the castle that stood here before THRUSH built that monstrosity of a base upon the ruins.”

Right. No discussing the architecture. He shifted slightly, trying to ease the pressure on his arms. Unsurprisingly, it didn't work. When he finally got out of here, he was going to be sore for days.

“Do you think De Meyer will come for us today?” Claude asked, subdued.

He winced, remembering the pain of yesterday. “Almost certainly,” he said, lightly probing his missing crown with his tongue. Ow. “He seemed quite intent on getting that computer tape.” And once he realised Napoleon had already destroyed it, he was likely to be fairly angry. He sighed. “You know, it's my birthday today.”

“Happy birthday,” Claude said. “I'd wish you many more to come, but I would say that's looking unlikely right now.”

“Why is it my fate to always be locked up in the company of a pessimist?” he asked wryly. “We're getting out of here. My partner will be along soon to find us.”

“No one knows where we are,” Claude pointed out.

He shrugged and used the movement to try and stretch his shoulders some. “That's never stopped him before. You know, I had plans for tonight. There was going to be party in Bellisima in New York, and I was taking the gorgeous Lisanne as my date. I'd already bought a new tuxedo. Being here is really inconvenient.”

Claude stared. “We're likely to be tortured and executed, and you're worried about missing your birthday party?” He shook his head. “Americans.”

“I told you,” he said nonchalantly. “My partner will get us out of here. As a matter of fact, I don't know what's keeping him. And surely your partner must be looking for us too?”

“Probably,” Claude allowed, stiffly. “Jean is a good agent, but I do not expect him to work miracles.”

“Ah, well, that's your mistake,” Napoleon said with a smile. “Always expect miracles.”

Right on cue the door behind him opened, and he craned his neck trying to see, but a second later it was De Meyer who stepped into his line of sight. Too bad – if he had to be rescued, he would prefer to make it look as though it had been under his control all along.

“Mr Solo,” De Meyer said, his smile revealing a mouthful of gold-capped teeth. “I trust you slept well?”

“Oh yes,” he said, returning the smile unconcernedly. “I did, as it happens. Sleeping standing up is supposed to be very good for your back.”

De Meyer's smile didn't even flicker.“I'm glad to hear it. Now, are you willing to tell me what you have done with my computer tape?”

“Tape?” he repeated innocently. “No...no, it doesn't ring a bell. I'm sorry.”

“You will be,” De Meyer said ominously, and Napoleon let the flicker of amusement at the line show on his face. “You know, I was reading the information we have on you, and apparently it's your birthday today, is that right?”

“So they tell me,” he agreed.

“Well, happy birthday.” He walked out of sight for a moment and then reappeared with a collection of sharp, narrow knives. “I thought we might celebrate with some party games. Say a variant on Pin the Tail on the Donkey?”

“Alright,” he said agreeably. “Why don't you be the donkey?”

De Meyer ignored him. “You there,” he said, raising his voice and calling over to one of the guards out of Napoleon's sight. “You can go first.”

“Yes, sir,” a crisp, Russian-accented voice replied.

Napoleon kept his smile entirely to himself.

Illya stepped into view a second later, dressed in what looked like a remarkably fresh and starched THRUSH uniform. Huh. He must have found the supply closet. He took a knife from De Meyer and turned and walked towards Napoleon.

“Just stick that wherever you think best,” De Meyer said eagerly.

Illya's eyes swept over Napoleon, taking careful note of all the damage. “Of course, sir,” he said evenly, and Napoleon could see the danger in his eyes.

De Meyer never had a chance to see it coming; Illya span around in one easy movement and a second later the knife was buried in the THRUSH leader's throat.

Napoleon sighed, even as Illya snatched up his rifle and fired it at the doorway and, presumably, the other guards. “You know, it's a good thing we didn't want to ask him any questions,” he said pointedly.

“He asked,” Illya told him, coming back with the key in hand and getting to work on the chains.”To refuse would have been rude.”

As his arms came free, he bit back the groan of relief. Oh, he'd been right; he was going to be feeling this for days. But he nodded reassuringly at the concerned question in Illya's eyes. He could make it. He'd be fine.

“I take it you are Claude?” Illya asked, going over to help the other agent. “Jean is upstairs, locating the computer.”

“Already taken care of,” Napoleon told him promptly, while he did his best to fix his suit. It was a lost cause. “I destroyed the tape before we were captured.”

“I'm glad to hear something went right,” Illya said snippily.

“Thanks,” Claude said, as he landed on his feet, rubbing his wrists painfully.

“You're welcome,” Illya said.

Napoleon smiled. “I told you to expect miracles,” he murmured.

“I'm glad to hear you think of me so highly,” Illya called, bending over De Meyer's body. He came up with the man's revolver. “Ah!” He threw it over to Napoleon. “Happy birthday, by the way.”

“For me?” He grinned broadly. “You shouldn't have.”

“Now come on. There's been a change of plans, Mr Waverly wants this base destroyed. I left my explosives in a supply closet upstairs.”

*

They met up with Claude's partner upstairs, and he and the French agents held off the THRUSH guards still milling around, apparently somewhat lost without their leader, while Illya set the explosive charges with his usual meticulous focus.

“Why does that matter?” Claude asked impatiently, when Illya planted a charge on the outside wall, then looked at it contemplatively, shook his head, and moved it into the corner.

“It matters,” Napoleon said hastily, before Illya could start the explanation of exactly why it mattered. “Now, let's get out of here.”

They stole a jeep from the garage and made their escape, but about five hundred yards down the road, Illya swerved the car around and pulled on the brake. “That should be far enough,” he said, pulling out a radio detonator. There was a definite gleam in his eyes.

They were facing the base, and a second after Illya pressed the button there was a rumbling sound and a short burst of flames licked the sky.

Napoleon frowned. “That was it?” he asked. “That's not up to your usual standards, tovarisch.”

“Watch,” Illya said, still gazing back towards the base.

Napoleon looked around just in time to see a pillar of flame billow up into the air, and an instant later the sky was alive with fireworks, bright flashes of colour exploding against the dark clouds. It seemed to go on forever.

As he gazed at the unexpected display, Illya passed him a napkin and he carefully unfolded it to reveal a slightly battered cupcake. “From the kitchen,” Illya explained. “I don't have any candles, I'm afraid.”

“And the fireworks?” he asked, wondering.

“I found them on the roof,” Illya said, a serene little smile playing around his mouth. “For Bastille Day, I assume. If I'd had a little more time and a little more material, I could have written your initials in the sky.” He paused. “It's not exactly regulation,” he added, with a slightly wary glance towards the other agents.

Jean grinned. “What isn't regulation?” he asked. “I didn't see a thing.”

“A perfectly unremarkable detonation,” Claude agreed, smiling for the first time since Napoleon had met him.

Illya looked over at him and smiled. “Happy birthday, Napoleon.”

“Thank you,” he said, taking a bite of cake as the last of the fireworks exploded above them. It wasn't Bellissima. But it wasn't such a bad birthday after all.