Walking in Death's Footsteps Part 1 - Picfic 11th August

[otherhawk.livejournal.com]

This is going to be a two part story and it also deals a lot with suicide, so if that's not something you want to read about, please give this one a miss.

Alvin Whittaker rose early after a long and sleepless night. His wife, Rosemary, sleepily asked him if everything was alright, but he gave no answer. His footsteps were slow and heavy as he walked downstairs, as though each step was an effort, and he stood in the kitchen for a long moment, just staring at the coffee pot, the cheerful sound of birdsong from outside passing unnoticed.

Coffee made, he carried it through to his study. In a move that seemed to surprise him, he locked the door behind him and dropped the key into his pocket. There was a large box on his desk marked 'Preliminary Case against THRUSH', and he pulled it towards himself, half-heartedly, but he didn't even start to read. Instead he stared at the silver-framed photo on his desk for a while, Rosemary and their two children smiling out at him. His coffee grew cold at his elbow.

Then he gently placed the photo face down on his desk, opened the top drawer, pulled out his revolver and shot himself in the head.

*

The NYPD had already removed Alvin Whittaker's body by the time Napoleon and Illya arrived. There were still a few officers present though, mostly to keep away the press. The sudden death of a prominent district attorney was apparently newsworthy.

Their identification got them waved through with hardly more than a curious look though, and they were taken directly round to the study. From somewhere above they could hear the new widow crying inconsolably.

He hoped they wouldn't have to disturb her any more than necessary. He didn't want to add to her suffering, though all too probably nothing could make it worse. Some things were simply unbearable.

“The door was forced open when the police arrived,” Illya remarked, examining it closely.

“And the only key was in Whittaker's pocket,” Napoleon agreed. “The windows are too small for anyone to get through as well.”

“A classic locked room mystery,” Illya agreed. “However, whatever the detective stories would have us believe, that usually points to suicide.”

True. The gun had been found in Whittaker's hand and there was absolutely no indication that anyone else had been in the room. And still. “The timing is more than a little suspicious, don't you think?”

“To say the least,” Illya agreed, moving on to examine the files on the desk. “These appear undisturbed. I would assume any THRUSH assassin would have chosen to remove them.”

Probably. For the last two months Whittaker had been working closely with UNCLE to find new legal avenues for going after elected and public officials with ties to THRUSH. Apparently he'd been going to hold meetings this week to start looking at prosecutions. The fact that now that was unlikely to happen was undoubtedly excellent news for THRUSH.

Illya picked up the picture lying flat on the desk. “He was a man at the height of his career. On the face of it, suicide seems unlikely. Especially since he had a wife and children depending on him.”

“That's not always enough,” Napoleon said, a little too quickly.

Illya stilled for a split second. “No,” he agreed. “But perhaps this suicide had some encouragement.”

Napoleon nodded – he had been wondering the same thing after all. “Blackmail, perhaps?” he suggested. “Some secret in his past that he'd rather die than have revealed?”

“I was thinking maybe a threat to his family,” Illya said. “Given a choice between his principles and risking hurting them, perhaps he chose a third option.”

“I can't imagine his family would agree this wasn't hurting them,” Napoleon said wryly.

“Napoleon....” Illya looked at him.

He shook his head minutely. “It's fine. Either option sounds plausible, but there could be something else going on here altogether. Perhaps THRUSH has developed some new mind control process that can cause the victim to kill themselves?” He spoke doubtfully.

Illya shrugged. “Possible, I suppose. There is a particular fungus, Ophiocordyceps unilateralis, that when it infects ants, causes them to climb higher than they ever would normally, grip onto a leaf, and simply wait for death, allowing the fungus to grow out of their deceased forms and release new spores.”

Napoleon stared. “And is that likely to be at all relevant here, tovarisch?”

“Probably not,” Illya conceded. “My point was simply that we cannot rule anything out. The self preservation instinct can be overridden.”

“Right.” He shook his head. “Or, I suppose, this could all be a coincidence and THRUSH had nothing to do with it.” He exchanged a look with Illya; neither of them believed that for a second. “At any rate, I'm afraid we're going to need to disturb Mrs Whittaker.”

*

Mrs Whittaker received them in her upstairs sitting room with a sombre-faced priest. The children were apparently being looked after by her sister in the room next door. This all felt too familiar.

“Mrs Whittaker,” he said, shaking her hand gently. “I'm very sorry that we need to disturb you at this time.”

“No, no, that's fine,” she said, twisting her fingers together in her lap. “Alvin always speaks very highly of UNCLE. He says the work you do can change the world.”

“That was very kind of him,” Illya said carefully.

She looked at them with an intent sort of desperation. “If you're here...if you're looking into his death...does that mean....he didn't really kill himself, did he? They killed him, didn't they? Didn't they?”

“Rosemary...” The priest caught hold of her hand. “Calm yourself.”

“No, I need to know. Because My Alvin would never kill himself. Never.”

Napoleon leaned across the table and looked at her sincerely. “Mrs Whittaker, all the signs currently point to your husband's death being a suicide. However, we are concerned that there may have been some undue influence in his death. That maybe he was driven to it in some way. Now, has anything unusual happened recently?”

“No,” she said slowly. “Up until two days ago everything seemed....everything was perfect. Alvin was so proud of the work he was doing. So happy. And then...and then...” She broke off into choked sobbing, and the priest patted her arm gently and passed her a handkerchief.

“Are all these questions really necessary, gentlemen?” he asked, glaring at them.

He wished they weren't. Right now he felt like the worst kind of jerk.

But it was Mrs Whittaker who answered for them. “Yes,” she said, fierce beneath her tears. “Yes, I need to know what happened, Father. And surely if Alvin...if what he did wasn't his fault, then God will understand. Won't he?”

“God always forgives,” Napoleon said immediately, glaring at the priest and just daring him to say anything else.

But the priest sighed and took her hand between his. “The young man is right, my dear. God already knows what was in Alvin's heart.”

“What happened two days ago?” Illya asked, after a little time had passed.

“That's the thing,” she said. “Nothing happened. Alvin was so happy that day, so...so alive. And then we went out to a fundraising dinner at his old alma mater and when he came back he was...I don't know. Quiet. Closed off. And it just got worse from there. He seemed to be completely withdrawn and he just...he didn't smile or laugh or even really talk anymore. I tried asking what was wrong, but he just said it was nothing. And then this morning...I should have known something was really wrong.”

“It wasn't your fault,” Napoleon said firmly.

“And no one said anything or did anything unusual at this fundraiser?” Illya asked.

“No.” She shook her head. “I was with him the whole time. It was funny though. I remember someone saying that there had been a string of shock suicides on campus.”

Hmmm. He noticed Illya picking up on that as well. That could be something significant.

They didn't hear anything else significant and they made their excuses and their apologies as gently as possible.

Somehow, walking into the bright sunshine of the crisp fall morning was a surprise. He took a deep breath, enjoying the fresh air.

Illya was watching him intently.

He smiled in careless reassurance. “The college sounds like a good next step,” he said. “A spate of suicides. It could be related.”

“It could be,” Illya agreed. “Although sadly suicides amongst students are not uncommon. I will check that out though, while you go and check with his office. It may well be that if there was something disturbing in his past he will be more inclined to confide in a friend or a colleague than his wife.”

Really. He looked at Illya fixedly. “And since when do you decide how we split up?”

“I am trying to keep the coeds safe from your charms,” Illya said dryly.

“I'm not the one the teenagers tend to throw themselves at,” Napoleon pointed out. He suspected that perhaps Illya's ulterior motives were more about keeping him from having to talk to any more grieving family and friends of suicide victims. But if Illya was okay not admitting that, then so was he. “Alright. Let me know if you find anything.”

“Likewise,” Illya said, lips crooked in a half smile.

*

It had been a long and fruitless day so far. Mrs Whittaker had been correct; there had been six suicides on the campus within the last four months and that was anomalous, however he had spoken to the faculty and students who had known the victims while posing as a health educator, and it didn't look as though there was any obvious connection. None of the students had any classes in common, none of them lived in the same dorms and only one of the deaths had involved a firearm. However, significantly, none of the victims' friends thought that they had been particularly depressed or stressed. In fact, prior to their deaths, two of them had been described as happy, one having just started a new relationship, another having won a prestigious scholarship. Like Whittaker; these deaths simply didn't make sense.

He was glad Napoleon was not here. Every single person he spoke to who had known one of the victims had that same numb, lost, look in their eyes. He had rarely seen so many tears in one day – he hated that he was here, raking all of this up again. This was the sort of pain that never truly went away. But at the same time, it was beginning to look like this investigation was even more important than they had originally thought.

He could believe that Whittaker had committed suicide as a result of blackmail or coercion or some kind of pressure, but six entirely unrelated college students? No, that spoke to him of some process that THRUSH had developed, something that drove people to suicide. An unpleasant thought...and surely an almost perfect assassination method. And the students were the guinea pigs, so to speak, so they must interact somewhere. If only he could determine exactly where, he should be able to find who was doing this.

Determined, he got copies of all their schedules and likely hang-out places. Three of them regularly used the gym, but another two had never set foot in there. Two of them frequented a particular bar off campus, but another was known to be absolutely teetotal. The best link he had was a small coffee shop where four of them apparently regularly went between classes, and no one could say for certain that the other two hadn't been known to drop in.

A possibility; that was all. He ordered a cup of coffee and showed the photos of the victims around, trying to see if anyone might recognise them.

“Sorry, buddy,” the barista said regretfully. “There are a lot of customers, y'know?”

Yes. It was a long shot. He sat by the window to ponder his next move when his communicator sounded. With a sigh, he leaned behind the drapes to try and avoid attention. “Kuryakin here.”

“Have you found anything?” Napoleon asked.

“Possibly,” he said slowly. “I think the deaths here must be connected to Whittaker, but I'm not sure what the mechanism is yet. How about you?”

“Zilch,” Napoleon said unhappily. “I'm meeting a couple of his hunting buddies for a drink in an hour or so though. You really think THRUSH have developed a way to make people kill themselves? I always thought you couldn't be hypnotised to commit suicide.”

He sounded incredulous. And despite his earlier words, Illya honestly wasn't so certain himself. “We have seen stranger things,” he said. “Perhaps it is not hypnosis or mind control, perhaps it is something else.”

“Perhaps.” Napoleon paused a moment. “Just be careful, alright?”

“You as well,” Illya said sincerely.

“Me?” Napoleon laughed. “My natural sunny disposition protects me. It's your sour chops that need to worry, partner mine.”

“Chops?” he repeated, baffled, but Napoleon was already gone .Sometimes American slang left him cold.

“Excuse me.”

Illya just managed not to jump at the sudden voice. He honestly hadn't heard the small, nondescript man approach, but there he was, standing right over him, cleaning his glasses nervously.

“Yes?” he asked, neutrally.

“I, um, heard that you're investigating the suicides?” the man asked.

“Investigating is too strong a word,” he said. “I am gathering information for a study on suicides among young people, with a view to finding new methods of prevention. Did you know any of the victims, Mr....?”

“Dr,” he said. “Dr Philip Boothby. I'm a lecturer here.” He started to hold out his hand but realised he was holding some files, and, flustered, he dropped them to the ground.

Illya obligingly bent to pick them up, reading the headings. Hmmm. “You work in the pharmacology department?”

“Oh, yes, that's right,” Boothby said, putting his hands in his pocket awkwardly. “Um, sorry, I didn't catch your name?”

“Nicholas Kilby,” Illya said. “You must have known one of the victims then, a Sarah Dearing? She was a senior studying pharmacology.”

“Oh, no,” Boothby said quickly. “Well, she was in one of my classes, but I never actually talked to her in particular, you know? But her death certainly shook me up. I wanted to get your opinion on another couple of students in my class I've been worried about....?”

“That's not really my area,” Illya said hastily. “Perhaps you should talk to the school counsellor?”

“Maybe you're right,” Boothby said with a sigh. “Still, it's difficult not to worry about the children, isn't it? Oh, well, I should leave you in peace. It was nice meeting you though.”

“Likewise,” Illya agreed politely. He drank his coffee as Dr Boothby left. There was no sign of anything in the coffee shop. He really needed to go on to check out the details of the fundraiser. After all, whatever had happened to Whittaker had happened there.

Still he found himself lingering in the coffee shop a few minutes longer. It had been a very long day and he was feeling tired and drained. Any assignment with this many emotions running through it was always exhausting. And he was worried about Napoleon as well; this wasn't an easy case for him. He'd seen his partner's face when they'd been confronted with the grieving widow, there had been too much familiar there.

Why, no matter what they did, did bad things always continue to happen to innocent people?

The day seemed colder when he stepped outside. It was going to be a long, hard winter, he thought. Already, summer seemed barely more than a memory.

He walked through the campus, absently watching the students who walked past. They all seemed so young, and so bright and cheerful. He didn't know that he'd ever been that young – he knew he had never been that cheerful. Life had left its grimy mark on him long before he was grown. He had been born in the dead of winter, in the middle of the night, and sometimes he thought that darkness had crept its way inside his soul and made itself at home.

And someone was using these young people to test their weapon on. He pressed his lips together in disgust; it wasn't right. But even if they found out who and put a stop to this scheme, there would be another one, and another and another.

They were Sisyphus, condemned to endlessly push a boulder up a mountain, always able to see the way to the top, but never quite succeeding. THRUSH had more people than they did, more resources....they were everywhere and they would do the things that UNCLE would never dare, and it was all UNCLE could do to keep level with them, never mind defeating them in any lasting, meaningful way.

And suppose they did win? Suppose they did push that heavy boulder to the top of this unclimbable mountain; what then? Something or someone else would no doubt arise out of the ashes. There would always be someone who wanted to bring his fellow man down so he could rise to the top, that was simply human nature and that did not change. And that wasn't even taking into consideration the insane folly of world leaders, desperate to submerge the world in unwinnable war. Men like him would be in this hopeless, fruitless struggle against human nature, bruised and bleeding, until the day they died.

Indescribably weary, he took a seat on a stone bench and looked out over the street beyond. He couldn't help but wonder why he bothered. He had been hurt oh, so many times. He'd long lost count of the number of times he had been injured and near death. He'd long lost count of the number of people whose deaths he was responsible for. Not all of them had deserved what they had received. For the state he had been one more weapon they wielded; could he honestly say that he was really any more than that for UNCLE?

What did he have to show for all the death and pain he had brought to the world, after all? A one bedroom apartment, a collection of mismatched furniture and few friends. No family. No one waiting for him at home. If he died today, there truly would be nothing to say that he had mattered.

He shook his head, trying to clear it. No. No, he didn't have the time to sit and indulge in self-pity. What was wrong with him today? He needed to go and check out the people who had organised the fundraiser.

A couple of teenagers walked past, and he turned to watch them. That girl there, with the honey-blonde hair. She looked like Tania, his sister. She must be around fifteen – the age Tania was when she died. Tania would have been in her late thirties now, old enough to have a teenager of her own.

He tried to imagine what she would look like grown, but when he closed his eyes, all he could see was the way she looked the last time he had seen her, face bruised and bloated, throat slit, her dress torn almost in two.

He remembered, and he remembered the face of the man who had killed her, and he pressed the heels of his hands against his forehead, trying to drive the thoughts away.

She had died, as everyone had died. And he had stood and watched, and he hadn't been able to save her. If she had lived and he had died, wouldn't that have been better? Truly? She had always said she wanted to be a musician and he remembered her dancing around their little apartment before the war, playing on Papa's battered old violin. The music had sounded like birdsong and her laughter had been sunshine. The neighbours would come by, sometimes, just to hear her play.

Perhaps she could have found her way out of the life they were born into, just like he had, only instead of walking through his darkness, she could have brought birdsong and sunshine into the world.

Or perhaps, if she had lived, she would be working in some factory now as the state demanded, a mother five, six times over and aged before her time. He remembered what Stalin demanded. Russian women were called to be mothers and nothing else.

But Mama and Papa would still have wanted her to live. They would be ashamed, if they saw him here, ashamed of what he had become. They would call him traitor, he knew, for living outside the USSR, for working with Americans, for calling them friends. They had lived through famine and war and oppression, and they still believed that the glorious Socialist Revolution held all the answers, and that everything Comrade Stalin did was correct. And his gentle Mama, if she saw him with his gun in his hand, she would probably wish that he had died along with her at Babi Yar.

Perhaps he wished he had as well. He was so tired. And there was no escape from his life; if he tried to leave UNCLE he would be back with the KGB or he would be dead.

Imagine death. Just darkness and peace. Forever. No more fight, no more pain.....no more living.

The gun was a gentle pressure against his body, just reminding him of its presence.

Suddenly he was frightened. No. No, this wasn't right. This wasn't him. His mind was fogged with guilt and misery and bleak despair, and it was his, but it wasn't him.

He stumbled to his feet and headed out into the street, not absolutely sure where he was going, just certain he had to move or he would die.

A garbage truck was stopped at the kerb. He fumbled with his gun, pulling it from its holster and tossing it away into the back of the truck like it was burning him. He had to...he wasn't going to die. Not now. Not like this.

His hands were shaking as he reached for his communicator. “Open Channel D,” he managed, and it was an age before he heard Napoleon answer. “Napoleon?” he said, his voice sounding strange and far away. “I am in trouble.”

“What's wrong?” Napoleon asked sharply, and that was concern in his voice, worry, and Illya was responsible for that, he was making Napoleon miserable and that was one more thing to add to the darkness.

“I...” He didn't know how to explain. “You were right. I was the one who should worry. I have thrown my gun away but I can't....everything is wrong. Please.”

“Are you still on campus?” Napoleon asked. “Stay where you are. I'll be there soon.”

There was traffic on the street. Moving fast. How easy would it be to just fall beneath a car. That wouldn't even really be his fault, would it? Accidents happen all the time. “Nyet,” he said hoarsely. If he stayed still he would have nothing to do but think, and left alone with his thoughts, he would die. “Я должен продолжать двигаться.”

He heard Napoleon say something else, the alarm in his voice coming across loud and clear, but he wasn't listening anymore.

He had to keep moving. He had to stay alive.

*

Napoleon cursed to himself as he ran, paying no attention to the people he was barging past, intent on one thing and one thing only; finding Illya. If only they hadn't decided to split up. If they'd been certain that this was a weapon and not simply blackmail, he would have insisted they take more precautions. He should have known better.

Illya wasn't at the campus. He activated the direction finder on his communicator, homing in on the signal, and his heart sank as he realised it led in the direction of the river. Oh, God no.

He didn't slow down. The desperation and despair he'd heard in Illya's voice had frightened him – he'd never heard his partner sound like that before. And when he reached the river and the bridge and finally spotted Illya, walking slowly from a small patch of woodland directly onto the bridge, he was at once both relieved and terrified.

“Illya!” he shouted.

Illya didn't look round, but he sped up, jogging down the bridge.

Napoleon ran, shoving his communicator into his pants pocket, but he was still far back and he'd been running for a while – if it came to a flat sprint, he couldn't hope to catch his faster partner. “Illya, wait!”

Reaching the middle of the bridge, Illya at once vaulted the railings and stood balanced on the edge and Napoleon was almost there, almost.

“Wait!” he called out again, his voice thick with the urgency. “Listen to me Illya, you know you don't want to do this. This isn't you, it's THRUSH, remember? You called me, you threw away your gun because you didn't want to die. You're not thinking clearly.”

Illya turned round slowly and looked at him and Napoleon had to bite back the exclamation at the expression on his face. Exhausted. Empty. “I am,” he said flatly. “Whatever that drug was, it has let me see things clearly for the first time. Calling you was a mistake, Napoleon, I'm sorry.”

“You don't want to die,” he insisted frantically. He could hear people stopping behind him, the worried murmurs a needless distraction.

“I do not wish to live,” Illya told him. “Goodbye, Napoleon.”

“No!” Napoleon took a step forward.

Illya took a step back and quietly disappeared from sight.

Napoleon sprinted towards the edge of the bridge, tearing off his jacket as he ran, and he didn't hesitate for a second before vaulting the railing and diving headfirst into the swirling river below.

Hitting the water was a shock of pain and cold, but he didn't let it slow him down for a second as he kicked off his shoes and started swimming to find Illya. His eyes stung as he peered through the murky water, searching, searching until his lungs were burning and he had to kick up to the surface for a mouthful of precious air before he dived straight down again.

He had to find Illya. He had to. Illya had called him for help. He wasn't going to let his friend down.

Finally, he spotted a dark shape in the water below him and he swam with desperate hope, and the relief when he realised that it was Illya was overwhelming. He ripped away Illya's jacket, the pockets filled with stones, and kicked out for the surface, his arm wrapped securely around Illya's chest.

When they broke into fresh air he heard Illya coughing and spluttering and he breathed a sigh of relief. Not dead. Right now, that was all he asked for, but Illya's face was still too pale, his lips colourless. “You know,” he said conversationally, just because he really had to say something. “I've got a good mind to make you pay for this suit.”

Illya said nothing, his eyes closed.

He struck out for shore, towing Illya behind him. His arms and legs were already aching and it felt like hours before he managed to pull them both up onto the muddy shore, making Illya as comfortable as he could.

Miracle of miracles, his communicator was still in his pocket and despite being waterlogged, still worked. He called Mr Waverly at once.

“Ah, Mr Solo, I've been waiting for one of you to report in. What have you found out?”

His hands were shaking, he realised absently. Must be the cold. “It appears that THRUSH have developed a drug that can compel a man to commit suicide,” he said, his voice blank and steady. “Mr Kuryakin just threw himself off a bridge.”

There was a long pause. “And Mr Kuryakin...?” Mr Waverly asked at last with a sort of leaden delicacy.

“Alive but unconscious, sir,” Napoleon said. “I'd appreciate a medical team be dispatched immediately.”

“At once, Mr Solo,” Mr Waverly agreed. “Get back here and I'll wait for your report.”

“Guess all we have to do now is wait,” he told Illya lightly, sitting down beside his unconscious friend. “You know, back when I was in grade school, I had this teacher – Miss Arnold – who used to say 'If your friend jumped off a bridge, would you jump in too?' The answer was supposed to be no. I guess I can finally tell her it's supposed to be yes.” He laughed, far harder than the joke required.

Illya had jumped in the river, weighed down with stones. If Napoleon hadn't got there in time, Illya would be dead by his own hand. The thought was a nightmare.

“Napoleon?” Illya's voice was hoarse and uncertain. “Where are we?”

Napoleon jumped slightly. “By the river,” he said, watching Illya carefully. “What do you remember?”

“I was on the college campus,” Illya said. “Then nothing.” He sat up slowly, looking round at Napoleon and Napoleon didn't trust the light in his eyes. It wasn't natural.

“Well, you just took a dive into the river, partner mine,” he said.

Illya's face registered surprise, but it was a token effort. “Oh. Well, the shock of the cold water must have been enough to snap me out of it.”

“Must have been,” Napoleon agreed, still not convinced. “UNCLE are sending a medical team. Don't try to stand up, you were underwater for a while before I reached you.”

“I'm fine,” Illya said predictably and that at least sounded familiar. He stretched slightly. “You know - “ Without warning, he lunged towards Napoleon, punching him squarely in the face.

Whatever Napoleon had been expecting it wasn't that, and he lost precious moments before he could react, and Illya was scrambling over him, reaching for his shoulder holster. “No!” he said, shoving Illya back, and Illya hit him again and grabbed the gun and for a moment they were wrestling for it in the mud, but he slipped and Illya bit his arm, and suddenly Illya was standing, the gun in his hand.

“Put it down,” Napoleon ordered, scrambling to his feet, his eyes locked on Illya's.

“You should have left me in the river,” Illya said, regret showing on his face. “That would have been kinder. For both of us.”

“Why are you doing this?” Napoleon tried desperately. “Illya, listen to me. I know this isn't you.”

“It is me,” Illya said, that light in his eyes burning far too bright. “Napoleon, you do not know all the things that I have done. You do not know all the things that I have seen. This is the only way out.” He brought Napoleon's gun up towards his head, and that was a sight Napoleon had never thought to see.

“I loaded it with darts today,” he said desperately.

Illya gave a dark, crooked smile. “Do you really want your last words to me to be a lie, my friend?” His finger tightened infinitesimally on the trigger.

Friendship. That was what he had to fight with. “Wait!” he said, holding his hands up, and thankfully Illya paused, looking at him. He took a deep breath. “You know my father put a gun in his mouth when I was sixteen,” he said. “That's in my file, as is the fact that I was the one who found him. What isn't in my file – what I've never told anyone before – is that I saw it happen. I saw him die. “ He had Illya's full attention now, but the gun was still held against Illya's temple. If he made a move, Illya would have pulled the trigger before he could reach him. “I never told anyone back then because I was afraid they'd blame me for not stopping him. I begged him not to....but he didn't listen. I still have nightmares about it sometimes.” He bit his lip. “Are you really going to make me watch my best friend die in the same way?”

There was hesitation in Illya's eyes now. “Turn around then,” he ordered ridiculously.

Napoleon gave a terse smile. “No.”

“Very well.” Illya nodded and took a step backwards. “Stay right there.”

“No,” he said again simply, taking a couple of steps forward. “If you're going to do this, you're going to need to do it with me watching, and you're going to need to know that it will destroy me.”

“Napoleon...” Illya screwed his eyes shut for a second, and then sighed. “If you try to follow me, I will shoot you.”

“No you won't,” he said with perfect confidence, taking another half step forwards.

“I do not want to, but I will,” Illya promised, pointing the gun vaguely at Napoleon.

That was what he'd been waiting for. What he'd been hoping for. He threw himself forwards, grabbing for the gun, and like he'd thought, Illya didn't even try to shoot him, instead trying to quickly bring the gun back towards himself, and when that didn't work, trying to overpower Napoleon. But he was trying not to hurt his friend, and right now Napoleon had no such qualms. Brutally, he dislocated Illya's wrist, bringing his arm behind his back and snatching the gun from fingers that could no longer retain their grip. He forced Illya to the ground and tore his own tie off, using it to quickly tie Illya's hands behind his back.

Illya was breathing hard and looking up at him with an expression of betrayal.

Napoleon sank to the ground beside him. “I'm going to fix this,” he promised. “I'm going to make this right.”


Onto part 2

Comments

[jantojones.livejournal.com]

Wow, this is powerful. Illya's downward slide is heartbreaking, as is Napoleon's reaction to it. Excellent stuff.

[otherhawk.livejournal.com]

Thank you - this isn't going to be easy for either of them.