Passive Aggressive Warfare - Picfic 10th November

[otherhawk.livejournal.com]

If they had achieved nothing else this week, at least they had demonstrably found the most condescending man in the world. Martin Laing of MI6, who had discovered THRUSH had infiltrated the group he was investigating and had agreed to share responsibility 'to show them how it was done'. So far he had spent twenty minutes explaining the history of men's fashion to Napoleon, including a detailed description of the correct way to tie a neck tie, half an hour explaining the difference between Semtex 1a and H and the 'perfect' placement of detonators to Illya, and almost twenty minutes explaining to both of them the differences between KGB and THRUSH tactics.

Their standing orders were to be polite and try to maintain good relations with their allied agencies. Sometimes that was just plain impossible.

“We could kill him,” he suggested contemplatively, as they waited in the lobby for Laing to reappear. “We could even make it look like an accident.”

Illya just looked at him, but then Illya hadn't been trapped in the car with the man, listening to him explain how UNCLE's equipment might be top notch, but it's agents and tactics were shockingly behind the times, particularly their insistence on working in partnerships. One agent, apparently, could achieve more than two.

“Ah, there you are old chaps,” Laing said as he came out the elevator, rubbing his hands together for all the world as though they had been keeping him waiting. “Shall we get on? Those bugs aren't going to plant themselves you know. Oh, I've got a few tips to share with you for that which you probably haven't seen before. It's always good to learn, you know?”

Behind his back they exchanged a long and expressionless look. “We will be passing a river,” Illya said in an undertone as they followed Laing outside. "You could always push him in.”

Tempting. Definitely tempting

*

Matters only grew worse when they made their report to Mr Waverly and he made a point of asking about Laing. Napoleon was seized by the sudden dread that he might be asking with an eye to recruitment. Now there was a terrible thought. Their organisation had enough egos to contend with.

He could see the same thought written across Illya's face. “He is very difficult to work with, sir.”

Mr Waverly snorted. “I've heard the same thing said about you.”

Napoleon started to smirk.

“That's both of you, Mr Solo,” Mr Waverly added firmly.

The smirk vanished abruptly and Napoleon was left wondering just how it was that the old man could seemingly read his facial expressions through the communicator.

“Yes, sir,” he said and continued with the report. Afterwards, though, he had plenty of cause for complaint. “What have I ever done that makes me so difficult to work with?”

Illya glanced at him. “Would you like the list alphabetically or chronologically?”

Really. Napoleon clicked his tongue. “I'm sure there's still time for you to work with Laing instead. If you'd rather.”

“You're not quite that bad,” Illya conceded, stretching out on the sofa with a sigh.

“How is it that Mr Waverly always knows what I'm thinking?” he asked gloomily.

“He has spies everywhere,” Illya said darkly.

Napoleon considered that for a long moment. “Well, yes,” he agreed slowly. “He does. We're two of them.”

Illya shot him a look of profound irritation, and really, Napoleon wasn't sure what he was so irritated about.

*

The final straw with Laing came that night when Napoleon woke to the realisation that someone was walking across the floor towards him, trying not be heard. Illya? No, he would recognise his partner's step. Someone had broken into their hotel room. He lay still a moment longer until the figure drew level with the bed, then he lashed out and grabbed him. At the same moment, the light flashed on, courtesy of Illya, and they both saw Laing standing there frozen, Napoleon's communicator clutched in his hand.

“Put it down,” Napoleon ordered coldly, his words backed up by the fact that Illya had his gun trained on the other agent's head.

“Ah, well,” Laing said ruefully. “You can't blame a fellow for trying. You UNCLE boys really do have all the best toys. What's a little espionage between friends?”

Illya made no move to lower his gun. “Get out. Now.”

“Fine, fine.” He held his hands up and sniffed loudly. “You know, if you worked for a respectable organisation they wouldn't make you share a room like this.”

They said nothing, staring at him in icy silence until he was gone.

“I would hate to see his expense claims,” Napoleon said as he double checked the locks on the door. “It must cost a fortune to wash away that much slime out of a suit.”

“Mmm.” Illya looked thoroughly irritated and Napoleon was glad he wasn't the target. “I will take first watch.”

He sighed. It was ridiculous that they had to take that kind of precaution. Especially against a supposed ally. “Wake me in a couple of hours.”

*

As it turned out, he didn't wake up till the alarm went off at six. He sat up with a frown and looked across to where Illya was sitting on the sofa, looking at something on the coffee table. “Why didn't you wake me?”

“I got to thinking,” Illya explained enigmatically, not looking round.

Napoleon nodded and carefully didn't rise to the bait. “Do you want some coffee?”

“Aren't you going ask what I was thinking about,” Illya asked. Annoyed.

Napoleon smiled. Annoyingly. “I assume if you'd wanted me to know you would have told me,” he murmured.

“Very well,” Illya said with his most put-upon sigh. “What do you think of this?” He plucked the object off the coffee table and held it aloft in triumph. It appeared to be a white cylinder with various flashing lights and buttons across it.

Mmmm. Napoleon raised an eyebrow. “And what am I looking at?”

“This is what will win the war against Laing.”

He nodded philosophically. “And here I didn't even know war had been declared.” Not that he was inclined to object. Sometimes it really was just best to go along with it.

*

There were six guards gathered at the entrance to the mine. Laing drew his gun. “Why don't you take the one on the left with that toy pistol of yours and I'll take the other five?” he offered.

“A better idea,” Napoleon smiled. “Why don't I just use the hypno-grenade?”

“The what?” Laing demanded.

Napoleon carefully drew the cylinder out of his jacket. “Don't look directly at it,” he advised. “As soon as I throw it, turn your head.”

Laing did, and of course when he turned back the cylinder was lying in the centre of a pile of unconscious cards, still flashing merrily away.

“A useful toy,” Napoleon noted as he bent and picked it up, tucking it away in his pocket. “Reusable too.”

“Really?” Laing's eyes glinted greedily.

“And you should see what the scaled up version can do,” he added before immediately looking regretful. “Oops. That's classified. “

“Of course, of course, I understand, old boy,” Laing oozed, and Napoleon could practically see the calculations ticking over. “Well, shall we?”

He let Laing go in first and only then glanced back to the guard tower where Illya was comfortably in position with his night vision goggles and special. Six guards darted in three seconds. He was never going to hear the end of this.

*

The affair ended in spectacular success. Neither of them were exactly surprised when their luggage unaccountably went missing at the airport. They'd already made sure that everything important was already out of it. And they were even less surprised when it reappeared completely intact, except that the 'hypno-grenade' was missing. They exchanged a quick smile. “Drinks?” Napoleon suggested.

“Dinner,” Illya countered.

And that was that, until they were called to Mr Waverly's office the next week. “Ah, Mr Solo, Mr Kuryakin. I don't suppose either of you would be able to shed any light on the fact that I've had M on the phone demanding to know why one of his agents came back insisting that he could hypnotise people with a piece of flashing plastic?”

This time he carefully didn't look at Illya. “Ah, no, sir,” he said. “I really can't imagine.”

“That's what I thought,” Mr Waverly said, all his attention focused on lighting his pipe. “Don't let it happen again.”

They wouldn't. Unless, of course, they had to.

Comments

[otherhawk.livejournal.com]

Thanks! Glad you enjoyed it, and the Waverly stuff especially.