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section7mfu(Please note that this is an abridged version of the fic, as I'm only posting the part relevant to the image/"Summit Five Affair"; the full version can be found here on fanfiction.net, but the expanded version has brief mentions of torture as it also covers the events of "The Gurnius Affair" in addition to "Summit Five")
“Hit me.”
Illya just barely whispers the words through gritted teeth, pointing to his jaw. He knows that Napoleon, who is still trying to pick the lock on the cell door, does not want to; Illya is certainly not keen on getting a punch in the face, either. Unfortunately, they have no choice; the only way to stop this madness is for Napoleon to escape and find a way to prove that he isn’t a double agent. And Illya is the only one willing or able to help Napoleon here—but they both know that Illya is the only one he’d ever need on his side.
As far as Illya is concerned, in any other situation, the idea of Napoleon Solo being a double agent would have been laughable. But it is no laughing matter now; Napoleon had confessed under extreme duress, and Illya had been powerless to help him, able only to watch his partner’s torment. A punch to the face now would be minor compared to what Napoleon had endured, and Illya would willingly endure far, far more if it meant helping his partner clear his name.
Napoleon turns to him now, finally realizing that he has to make this look authentic—that Illya has to be down for the count, lest the ruse fail to work. But the prospect was quickly proving to be just as painful as the torment Napoleon had undergone. Illya sees the regret in Napoleon’s eyes as he swings a fist at him. Illya sees everything—the reluctant turn, the fist’s blur of motion heading right for his face, the I’m sorry, Tovarisch written in his partner’s eyes. Everything happens within seconds, and before Illya knows it, he’s been hit.
The force of the punch sends Illya reeling, senseless, across the cell and onto the cot. He lies there, stunned, stars swirling before his eyes; Napoleon doesn’t know his own strength sometimes, and now, with adrenaline flowing, it was clear that Napoleon had hit him far harder than intended.
As he struggles to keep from blacking out, Illya wonders what Napoleon will do once he seizes the chance to escape. Regardless, Illya hopes he’ll succeed in proving his innocence—and, of course, he is innocent. Never once did Illya doubt him, as ironic as it sounded for one of U.N.C.L.E.’s most cynical agents. But Napoleon Solo is one of the few people in this world that Illya Kuryakin trusts completely. And, he supposes, Napoleon is one of the few people in the world who trusts him the same way. The fact that he is an admitted socialist tends to put people on guard around him immediately, especially in New York; factoring in his innate aloofness, as well, Illya is not someone who trusts people—or is trusted by them—quickly. He’s worked in New York for years now, and though he’s gotten along well with several members of the U.N.C.L.E. staff there, there are none who know him as well as Napoleon Solo—though Waverly is, admittedly, a close second.
Illya is vaguely aware of the commotion going on around him—the frustrated yell that Napoleon has escaped.
Good luck, Napoleon… Illya silently transmits, feeling his world going dark.
But before he can pass out completely, he feels familiar hands helping him up; Napoleon wasn’t going to leave without him. And so Illya, still a little loopy, forces himself back to the world of waking. Napoleon is still in need of his aid, and Illya will not allow his partner’s trust in him to be lost.
“Hit me.”
Illya just barely whispers the words through gritted teeth, pointing to his jaw. He knows that Napoleon, who is still trying to pick the lock on the cell door, does not want to; Illya is certainly not keen on getting a punch in the face, either. Unfortunately, they have no choice; the only way to stop this madness is for Napoleon to escape and find a way to prove that he isn’t a double agent. And Illya is the only one willing or able to help Napoleon here—but they both know that Illya is the only one he’d ever need on his side.
As far as Illya is concerned, in any other situation, the idea of Napoleon Solo being a double agent would have been laughable. But it is no laughing matter now; Napoleon had confessed under extreme duress, and Illya had been powerless to help him, able only to watch his partner’s torment. A punch to the face now would be minor compared to what Napoleon had endured, and Illya would willingly endure far, far more if it meant helping his partner clear his name.
Napoleon turns to him now, finally realizing that he has to make this look authentic—that Illya has to be down for the count, lest the ruse fail to work. But the prospect was quickly proving to be just as painful as the torment Napoleon had undergone. Illya sees the regret in Napoleon’s eyes as he swings a fist at him. Illya sees everything—the reluctant turn, the fist’s blur of motion heading right for his face, the I’m sorry, Tovarisch written in his partner’s eyes. Everything happens within seconds, and before Illya knows it, he’s been hit.
The force of the punch sends Illya reeling, senseless, across the cell and onto the cot. He lies there, stunned, stars swirling before his eyes; Napoleon doesn’t know his own strength sometimes, and now, with adrenaline flowing, it was clear that Napoleon had hit him far harder than intended.
As he struggles to keep from blacking out, Illya wonders what Napoleon will do once he seizes the chance to escape. Regardless, Illya hopes he’ll succeed in proving his innocence—and, of course, he is innocent. Never once did Illya doubt him, as ironic as it sounded for one of U.N.C.L.E.’s most cynical agents. But Napoleon Solo is one of the few people in this world that Illya Kuryakin trusts completely. And, he supposes, Napoleon is one of the few people in the world who trusts him the same way. The fact that he is an admitted socialist tends to put people on guard around him immediately, especially in New York; factoring in his innate aloofness, as well, Illya is not someone who trusts people—or is trusted by them—quickly. He’s worked in New York for years now, and though he’s gotten along well with several members of the U.N.C.L.E. staff there, there are none who know him as well as Napoleon Solo—though Waverly is, admittedly, a close second.
Illya is vaguely aware of the commotion going on around him—the frustrated yell that Napoleon has escaped.
Good luck, Napoleon… Illya silently transmits, feeling his world going dark.
But before he can pass out completely, he feels familiar hands helping him up; Napoleon wasn’t going to leave without him. And so Illya, still a little loopy, forces himself back to the world of waking. Napoleon is still in need of his aid, and Illya will not allow his partner’s trust in him to be lost.
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