Bolero of Fire (QuoteMe #3, 2016)
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section7mfuThe Quote: "Loneliness expresses the pain of being alone and solitude expresses the glory of being alone." -- Paul Tillich
Title: Bolero of Fire
Rating: PG13
Word count: ~3300
Author: Rose of Pollux
(Cross-posted to fanfiction.net and AO3, if you prefer reading there. This is an "early days" fic, the sequel to the "Minuet of Forest I posted some months ago--and a continuation of the "Baron of THRUSH" storyline.
A month of research, intelligence work, interrogating prisoners, and some amount of what fellow agents referred to as “Solo’s luck” got the information that Moran was heading for Monte Carlo. And Napoleon was very eager to apprehend him in this time.
“Between the audio evidence we have of him being the Baron of THRUSH, as well as his failed plot to use that paralytic gas, we have enough to bring him in and put him away,” Napoleon declared quietly as they traveled on the flight to Monte Carlo.
“But there is also a chance he might be planning something at one of the casinos there at Monte Carlo,” Illya said. “It’s been a month since Rio; that is more than enough time for them to have replenished the paralytic or come up with an alternate plan.”
“And so we’ll stop him,” Napoleon agreed. He frowned in discomfort and attempted to adjust his seat. “Sometimes, I wish Mr. Waverly and the other heads would consider allowing U.N.C.L.E. to use private transport rather than commercial airlines.”
“It is more economical,” Illya pointed out.
“…He could’ve at least sprung for first class.”
The Russian smirked at his travel-weary partner.
“Always wanting only the finest things in life…” he teased. “You Americans are all the same…”
“Don’t knock it ‘til you’ve tried it,” Napoleon countered.
“I did not see you volunteering your personal funds to upgrade our seats so that I could try it.”
Napoleon gave him a look, and Illya hid a mischievous smile behind his hand.
They bantered and teased for the duration of the flight, and once they had landed and stopped off at the hotel to change into tuxedos, they were soon en route to the casino where Moran was.
“I have to say, we’re a sharp-dressed pair, aren’t we?” Napoleon mused, adjusting his bow tie.
“If you say so,” Illya replied, with a dismissive shrug. He peered around the casino. “I see the Baron over there, by the roulette wheel…” He trailed off, freezing as he noticed something—or, rather, someone—behind Moran and the roulette wheel.
“Illya?” Napoleon asked. “Illya, what is it?” Illya didn’t answer, and so Napoleon followed the Russian’s gaze past Moran and at a well-dressed man with dark hair over by the slot machines on the opposite wall.
Napoleon glanced back at his partner, who had paled slightly now—and prompted concern from the American.
“Illya, are you alright? Illya, talk to me.”
“I… I think the two of us should split up,” Illya stammered. “We can cover more ground that way.”
“Cover more ground? Illya, we know where Moran is!” Napoleon looked to his partner and paused as he saw the look in the Russian’s eyes. Illya clearly wanted to disappear for some reason—and this mysterious stranger was probably that reason. Napoleon sighed; if there was some history between Illya and that stranger, it could be something that would ruin their cover, which was not what they wanted with Moran in reach at long last. “Alright. I’ll catch up with you later.”
“Da,” Illya said, gratefully, and he disappeared into the crowd.
Napoleon headed towards the slot machines, still keeping an eye on Moran, but intending to find out just who this person was who could send his normally stalwart partner fleeing for cover. He took the machine next to the stranger, fed it a coin, and pulled the handle—only to line up three cherries in a row, resulting in a spillage of coins.
The man gave him a sidelong glance of disbelief as Napoleon shrugged innocently and picked up the coins he had won.
“Beginner’s luck,” Napoleon chuckled.
The man let out a grunt.
“Just be careful if you win any bills if you cash in any chips you win at the tables,” he said. “Or else you’ll find your luck running out. There’ve been reports of counterfeit money coming from this casino.”
“…You don’t say,” Napoleon said, arching an eyebrow.
“Yeah,” the man said. “I’m here to find out more about it—but keep it between ourselves, huh?” He frowned at Napoleon’s puzzled look. “Look, I don’t want this to get spread around; that’d ruin what I’m trying to do about it. I probably shouldn’t be showing you this, but you know the half of it, so you may as well know the rest…” He showed an identity card to Napoleon. “Neil Broker—FBI.”
“Ah,” Napoleon said, nodding as he debated whether or not to share his own credentials. In the end, he opted not to; something about this didn’t seem right—an undercover FBI shouldn’t have been that quick to reveal their identity, even to another American. And there was still the matter of why the very sight of this man was enough to send Illya Kuryakin running to hide in the crowd. Napoleon sighed inwardly, but gave a friendly smile. “Well, if there’s anything I can do, please let me know.”
Broker nodded, and Napoleon took his winnings and headed back into the crowd to observe the Baron. He paused as he felt a hand on his shoulder, and he turned to see his partner staring up at him.
“What did you tell him?” Illya asked. “What did he tell you?”
“Illya?”
“What. Did he. Tell you?”
“He said his name was Neil Broker, he’s an FBI agent, and he’s here looking for counterfeiters,” Napoleon said. “Something about it didn’t add up, so I didn’t tell him who I was or that I’m with U.N.C.L.E.; I can’t quite put my finger on it, though.”
The Russian breathed out a quiet sigh of relief.
“It is good that you did not.”
“Care to tell me why?”
“Broker is an opportunist and a liar; he would have likely gone after Moran himself and stolen all the glory that is rightfully yours.”
“Ours,” Napoleon corrected him instinctively. He paused, his expression softening slightly. “He did something like that to you?”
“Partly,” Illya said, quietly. “I was a young fool. I was only 18, and had just joined the Soviet Navy; I was on a mission to get some important information. I met Broker along the way, and he revealed to me that the US was seeking that same information—and that we would succeed and please both of our home nations if we worked together. I wanted to look good in front of my superiors, of course, and I thought that quickly succeeding on a mission, even with a bit of help, would impress them.”
“…Broker took the information and ran?” Napoleon finished.
“And my mission was a colossal failure,” Illya agreed, the bitterness evident in his otherwise neutral voice. “There is more to this story that I do not wish to recall—things that occurred when I confronted Broker afterwards. It served as a valuable lesson and a harsh reminder as to why I should trust no one but myself.”
The silence that followed was a long an awkward one; Napoleon decided to break it.
“Illya,” he said. “I want you to know--”
“We should just get the Baron and get out of here,” Illya said, cutting him off. “He will remember me from Rio; I can start a conversation with him and lead him to the exit. You wait there and make the arrest.”
Without waiting for a response, Illya disappeared into the crowd. And Napoleon watched him leave, unable to help but think that once they made the arrest and Moran was put away, Illya would pack up and return to Europe and his solitary existence. And for some reason he couldn’t put his finger on, that didn’t sit well with him at all; he made a mental note to try to talk Illya out of it later, and began to head for the exit while keeping an eye on Illya and Moran.
Illya had approached Moran, keeping the fake received pronunciation accent from the last time. It took a moment, but Moran recalled him, commenting on how much more sober he seemed this time. They continued to chat for a while; Illya was waiting for Moran to lower his guard enough. At last, Illya indicated the nearby exit. Moran, on the other hand, was indicating a nearby chef who was demonstrating for some observers how to make a flaming cherries jubilee; clearly, he wanted to partake in it before leaving, much to Illya’s frustration.
Napoleon quickly realized that he would have to make the arrest right here and now. Moran’s attention was shifting to the chef, and while he was occupied, Napoleon slipped through the crowd, towards them, ready to claim his prize…
Our prize, he mentally corrected himself. He knew he wouldn’t have gotten this far without Illya; the Russian had, after all, pulled a bullet from his leg. This will be his victory, too… I just hope he sticks around here to celebrate it…
His train of thought froze as he saw Broker heading for Illya and Moran with a determined look in his eyes.
No! Napoleon silently thought.
He tried to cut Broker off, but Broker reached them first.
“What are you doing here!?” Broker hissed at Illya.
Moran merely looked confused, but Illya paled.
“Don’t let this scum fool you, Moran,” Broker said, turning to him now. “This man is no Englishman; his name is Kuryakin—of the Soviet Navy! He is here to stop you from trying to question the Soviets to get their launch codes! He probably knows something about them, the menace!”
Moran cursed, and Illya, realizing that he had to act, tried to make a grab for him, but Broker got in the way, planting a right cross on the Russian’s face. The blow sent Illya flying backwards—into the cart with the flaming cherries jubilee, which tipped and set the floor and nearby tablecloths alight.
Panic broke out as the fire began to spread; alarms blared and sprinklers switched on. As Napoleon tried to get to his partner’s side, patrons fled in the opposite direction, screaming, and Napoleon found himself fighting the crowd. To his surprise, he could hear Broker yelling at Moran to flee.
Moran ran right past Napoleon; the American briefly turned around now, altering course. Their prize was close—so close! And Moran wasn’t even looking back…
A sharp cry from Illya caused Napoleon to turn back around; Broker was still punching him—picking Illya up and hitting him again, sending him further into the ignited parts of the casino.
Napoleon looked from the retreating Moran to his partner, who was trying to fight back but kept taking more hits than he was able to counter. Broker knocked him down once more, and then lifted his head by grabbing the back of the blond’s hair, holding him in front of some nearby flames.
“Just like old times, eh, Kuryakin?” Broker sneered. “Me setting the Soviets behind at your expense? Oh, this does bring back memories… Well, except for one thing…”
Illya hissed a defiant curse and tried to struggle, but instead found a knee planted in his back.
“There’s no need to get unpleasant,” Broker said. “I was about to offer you a chance to do something with that otherwise useless life of yours--”
There was the sound of a gunshot and Broker slumped over on his side, a tranquilizer dart stuck in his shoulder. Illya gasped for breath as he got to his knees, pulling away from the flames. He stared at the tranquilized Broker as if in a trance until a hand gently touched the side of his face where he had been hit; the trance broke somewhat, and Illya glanced up at the face of his concerned partner.
“Illya? Illya, are you alright?”
The Russian looked from Napoleon, to the Special in his hand, and to the unconscious Broker.
“Oh, Napoleon…” he moaned. “Do you realize what you’ve done!? You just tranquilized your own government’s man!”
“I just tranquilized a THRUSH turncoat that was within the agency,” Napoleon stated, lowering his hand now for Illya to take.
“…What…?” the Russian asked, accepting the hand as Napoleon helped him up.
“Broker knew that Moran was the Baron,” Napoleon said. “The Baron is the one trying to threaten the Soviets to get the launch codes for THRUSH—and Broker warned Moran that you were trying to upset that. And the only ones who know all this are you, me, Mr. Waverly, and THRUSH.”
The realization dawned in Illya’s eyes.
“And Moran?” he asked, eagerly. “You did get him?”
Napoleon’s face fell.
“No, I… I let him go.”
And now Illya looked mortified.
“…Because of me.”
“No. Illya, no--”
“You let him go to help me.”
“I was backing you up like I was supposed to do,” Napoleon said. “Personnel safety is the top priority in any mission. And speaking of safety, can we get out of this casino before the flames bring it down on top of us?”
He pulled Broker up and dragged him out of the casino; Illya helped him, but his expression did not change.
“I cost us the mission,” he said, quietly.
“Broker cost us the mission,” Napoleon insisted. “And I’m going to enjoy interrogating him to make up for it. Luckily for us, he seems close enough to Moran to let us know where he’d be headed next.”
But Illya didn’t seem to be consoled by this at all; his expression didn’t change even after they left Monte Carlo for New York, with their prisoner in tow. Napoleon was determined to ensure that he and Illya gave their mission report together; he wasn’t about to let Illya blame himself again as he had tried to do in Rio.
Eventually, they both appeared in front of Waverly. Illya was still nursing bruises on his face, including a black eye.
“Gentlemen,” Waverly said. “You’ll be pleased to know that Mr. Neil Broker—one of many aliases—is indeed a THRUSH agent. He is also an FBI agent—albeit a rogue one; the agency deeply regrets the trouble he has caused. They’d been looking for him for a long time, and are eager to take him into custody.”
“Just how long has he been rogue for?” Napoleon asked.
“Far longer than they care to admit; his affiliation with THRUSH goes back years and years, and the agency is quite embarrassed by it—so much so that I have convinced them to keep their hands off of Mr. Kuryakin.”
“They wanted to question Illya?” Napoleon asked, as the Russian lowered his gaze.
“Merely to find out what his past history is with him—see if he can give them testimony. So they claim, of course. Since we were cleaning their mess, so to speak, it gives us a bit of leverage, and I absolutely refused to allow them to have Mr. Kuryakin in their custody. If they wish to speak with him, they shall have to come here, and you, Mr. Solo, shall be present for the entire time.”
“I would have insisted on it,” Napoleon agreed.
“I appreciate that,” Illya said, quietly.
“I will need a mission report—and Mr. Solo has requested that you both compile the mission report together again,” Waverly added.
Illya gave Napoleon an unreadable glance.
“Very well, Sir,” he said. “If you’ll excuse me, I will see if there is something Medical can do for my eye…”
Now it was Napoleon’s turn to give him a look. Illya never willingly went to Medical (no more than Napoleon did); in fact, the last time Illya had been in there, he’d attempted to leave while sedated by painkillers.
Waverly knew this, but let him go anyway, and then nodded as Napoleon silently queried whether he could go, as well.
After heading into the corridor, he could see Illya heading in the direction opposite from Medical. Napoleon exhaled, but followed him. Illya paused in the break room, absently looking at the vending machine.
“Don’t you have anything better to do, Napoleon?” he asked, not even turning around.
“Not really, no. Not until Broker is ready for interrogation.”
“Would you mind doing me a favor?”
“Anything,” Napoleon said, immediately.
“Question him without me. I do not want to be there.”
Napoleon blinked. He tried to push away the idea that Illya was returning to his former ways of working alone after Broker returned as his reminder of how he shouldn’t trust anyone.
“Illya…” Napoleon began, but then he trailed off, recalling Illya’s words back in Monte Carlo.
“There is more to this story that I do not wish to recall—things that occurred when I confronted Broker afterwards. It served as a valuable lesson and a harsh reminder as to why I should trust no one but myself.”
Napoleon looked away now; the way Illya was glaring at his bruises and black eye in the reflection of the vending machine made it clear that this was not the first time he’d received those at Broker’s hands.
“Alright,” Napoleon said. “I’ll handle the interrogation myself.”
“Spacibo.”
There was a long silence.
“So, ah…” Napoleon said. “You want to go grab dinner somewhere?”
Illya looked back at him, his face expressionless.
“If you’d rather not, I’ll understand,” Napoleon added, hastily. “I just thought you’d want something more substantial than chips or cookies.” He silently indicated the vending machine.
Illya responded with a slightly bemused “Hmm!”
“What was that for?”
“I am just appreciating the irony,” the Russian said. “Solo. Your very surname means ‘alone.’ From what I understand, you lived by that as much as I did. You know my reason for it. What was yours?”
“After all those previous partners failed in working out, I’d just gotten so used to it. Sometimes, it’s easier managing everything on your own; you don’t have to worry about whether or not anyone else is on the same page as you. It becomes a habit. I had been doing fine on my own…” Napoleon trailed off, the bullet in his leg from Rio fresh in his mind.
“And yet you are worried that I do not trust you,” Illya said.
“W-What?” Napoleon stammered, a little too quickly. “That’s not it at all!”
“Napoleon, it is written all over your face—and I do not blame you; after what I said in Monte Carlo, you have good reason to think that,” Illya said. He paused to let out a quiet sigh. “Tell me, Napoleon, when you worked alone, did you enjoy it?”
“I didn’t really think about it one way or the other. Like I said, it sort of becomes a habit,” the American said, with a shrug.
“I know you didn’t want a partner when Mr. Waverly brought my name up. What made you say yes?”
“…Well for one thing, I’d given all my potential partners a trial run… Ah, why are we bringing this up now?”
“It is pertinent to what we are discussing,” Illya assured him. “My question is, would you have been content remaining without a partner, or would you have felt something missing?”
Napoleon thought for a moment and shrugged.
“I don’t really know,” he admitted.
“And my being here… Has it helped?”
“You were the one who pulled the bullet out of my leg last month. You tell me.”
Illya managed a wan smile.
“Very well, Napoleon. I know I have earned your trust. And you have the right to know that I do trust you, too. After all, I agreed to come here.”
“And what made you break your own rule?” Napoleon asked, feeling a weight lift off of his shoulders.
“…You know, I am not quite sure myself,” Illya admitted. “Now, I think I shall take you up on that offer of dinner—preferably a takeaway; I have no desire to be out in public with my face as it is.”
“Fine by me. And when we get back to the apartment, I’ll see if I can find something for your eye.”
And they headed off together--the mission less than successful, but their partnership still intact. And at the moment, that was all that mattered.
Title: Bolero of Fire
Rating: PG13
Word count: ~3300
Author: Rose of Pollux
(Cross-posted to fanfiction.net and AO3, if you prefer reading there. This is an "early days" fic, the sequel to the "Minuet of Forest I posted some months ago--and a continuation of the "Baron of THRUSH" storyline.
A month of research, intelligence work, interrogating prisoners, and some amount of what fellow agents referred to as “Solo’s luck” got the information that Moran was heading for Monte Carlo. And Napoleon was very eager to apprehend him in this time.
“Between the audio evidence we have of him being the Baron of THRUSH, as well as his failed plot to use that paralytic gas, we have enough to bring him in and put him away,” Napoleon declared quietly as they traveled on the flight to Monte Carlo.
“But there is also a chance he might be planning something at one of the casinos there at Monte Carlo,” Illya said. “It’s been a month since Rio; that is more than enough time for them to have replenished the paralytic or come up with an alternate plan.”
“And so we’ll stop him,” Napoleon agreed. He frowned in discomfort and attempted to adjust his seat. “Sometimes, I wish Mr. Waverly and the other heads would consider allowing U.N.C.L.E. to use private transport rather than commercial airlines.”
“It is more economical,” Illya pointed out.
“…He could’ve at least sprung for first class.”
The Russian smirked at his travel-weary partner.
“Always wanting only the finest things in life…” he teased. “You Americans are all the same…”
“Don’t knock it ‘til you’ve tried it,” Napoleon countered.
“I did not see you volunteering your personal funds to upgrade our seats so that I could try it.”
Napoleon gave him a look, and Illya hid a mischievous smile behind his hand.
They bantered and teased for the duration of the flight, and once they had landed and stopped off at the hotel to change into tuxedos, they were soon en route to the casino where Moran was.
“I have to say, we’re a sharp-dressed pair, aren’t we?” Napoleon mused, adjusting his bow tie.
“If you say so,” Illya replied, with a dismissive shrug. He peered around the casino. “I see the Baron over there, by the roulette wheel…” He trailed off, freezing as he noticed something—or, rather, someone—behind Moran and the roulette wheel.
“Illya?” Napoleon asked. “Illya, what is it?” Illya didn’t answer, and so Napoleon followed the Russian’s gaze past Moran and at a well-dressed man with dark hair over by the slot machines on the opposite wall.
Napoleon glanced back at his partner, who had paled slightly now—and prompted concern from the American.
“Illya, are you alright? Illya, talk to me.”
“I… I think the two of us should split up,” Illya stammered. “We can cover more ground that way.”
“Cover more ground? Illya, we know where Moran is!” Napoleon looked to his partner and paused as he saw the look in the Russian’s eyes. Illya clearly wanted to disappear for some reason—and this mysterious stranger was probably that reason. Napoleon sighed; if there was some history between Illya and that stranger, it could be something that would ruin their cover, which was not what they wanted with Moran in reach at long last. “Alright. I’ll catch up with you later.”
“Da,” Illya said, gratefully, and he disappeared into the crowd.
Napoleon headed towards the slot machines, still keeping an eye on Moran, but intending to find out just who this person was who could send his normally stalwart partner fleeing for cover. He took the machine next to the stranger, fed it a coin, and pulled the handle—only to line up three cherries in a row, resulting in a spillage of coins.
The man gave him a sidelong glance of disbelief as Napoleon shrugged innocently and picked up the coins he had won.
“Beginner’s luck,” Napoleon chuckled.
The man let out a grunt.
“Just be careful if you win any bills if you cash in any chips you win at the tables,” he said. “Or else you’ll find your luck running out. There’ve been reports of counterfeit money coming from this casino.”
“…You don’t say,” Napoleon said, arching an eyebrow.
“Yeah,” the man said. “I’m here to find out more about it—but keep it between ourselves, huh?” He frowned at Napoleon’s puzzled look. “Look, I don’t want this to get spread around; that’d ruin what I’m trying to do about it. I probably shouldn’t be showing you this, but you know the half of it, so you may as well know the rest…” He showed an identity card to Napoleon. “Neil Broker—FBI.”
“Ah,” Napoleon said, nodding as he debated whether or not to share his own credentials. In the end, he opted not to; something about this didn’t seem right—an undercover FBI shouldn’t have been that quick to reveal their identity, even to another American. And there was still the matter of why the very sight of this man was enough to send Illya Kuryakin running to hide in the crowd. Napoleon sighed inwardly, but gave a friendly smile. “Well, if there’s anything I can do, please let me know.”
Broker nodded, and Napoleon took his winnings and headed back into the crowd to observe the Baron. He paused as he felt a hand on his shoulder, and he turned to see his partner staring up at him.
“What did you tell him?” Illya asked. “What did he tell you?”
“Illya?”
“What. Did he. Tell you?”
“He said his name was Neil Broker, he’s an FBI agent, and he’s here looking for counterfeiters,” Napoleon said. “Something about it didn’t add up, so I didn’t tell him who I was or that I’m with U.N.C.L.E.; I can’t quite put my finger on it, though.”
The Russian breathed out a quiet sigh of relief.
“It is good that you did not.”
“Care to tell me why?”
“Broker is an opportunist and a liar; he would have likely gone after Moran himself and stolen all the glory that is rightfully yours.”
“Ours,” Napoleon corrected him instinctively. He paused, his expression softening slightly. “He did something like that to you?”
“Partly,” Illya said, quietly. “I was a young fool. I was only 18, and had just joined the Soviet Navy; I was on a mission to get some important information. I met Broker along the way, and he revealed to me that the US was seeking that same information—and that we would succeed and please both of our home nations if we worked together. I wanted to look good in front of my superiors, of course, and I thought that quickly succeeding on a mission, even with a bit of help, would impress them.”
“…Broker took the information and ran?” Napoleon finished.
“And my mission was a colossal failure,” Illya agreed, the bitterness evident in his otherwise neutral voice. “There is more to this story that I do not wish to recall—things that occurred when I confronted Broker afterwards. It served as a valuable lesson and a harsh reminder as to why I should trust no one but myself.”
The silence that followed was a long an awkward one; Napoleon decided to break it.
“Illya,” he said. “I want you to know--”
“We should just get the Baron and get out of here,” Illya said, cutting him off. “He will remember me from Rio; I can start a conversation with him and lead him to the exit. You wait there and make the arrest.”
Without waiting for a response, Illya disappeared into the crowd. And Napoleon watched him leave, unable to help but think that once they made the arrest and Moran was put away, Illya would pack up and return to Europe and his solitary existence. And for some reason he couldn’t put his finger on, that didn’t sit well with him at all; he made a mental note to try to talk Illya out of it later, and began to head for the exit while keeping an eye on Illya and Moran.
Illya had approached Moran, keeping the fake received pronunciation accent from the last time. It took a moment, but Moran recalled him, commenting on how much more sober he seemed this time. They continued to chat for a while; Illya was waiting for Moran to lower his guard enough. At last, Illya indicated the nearby exit. Moran, on the other hand, was indicating a nearby chef who was demonstrating for some observers how to make a flaming cherries jubilee; clearly, he wanted to partake in it before leaving, much to Illya’s frustration.
Napoleon quickly realized that he would have to make the arrest right here and now. Moran’s attention was shifting to the chef, and while he was occupied, Napoleon slipped through the crowd, towards them, ready to claim his prize…
Our prize, he mentally corrected himself. He knew he wouldn’t have gotten this far without Illya; the Russian had, after all, pulled a bullet from his leg. This will be his victory, too… I just hope he sticks around here to celebrate it…
His train of thought froze as he saw Broker heading for Illya and Moran with a determined look in his eyes.
No! Napoleon silently thought.
He tried to cut Broker off, but Broker reached them first.
“What are you doing here!?” Broker hissed at Illya.
Moran merely looked confused, but Illya paled.
“Don’t let this scum fool you, Moran,” Broker said, turning to him now. “This man is no Englishman; his name is Kuryakin—of the Soviet Navy! He is here to stop you from trying to question the Soviets to get their launch codes! He probably knows something about them, the menace!”
Moran cursed, and Illya, realizing that he had to act, tried to make a grab for him, but Broker got in the way, planting a right cross on the Russian’s face. The blow sent Illya flying backwards—into the cart with the flaming cherries jubilee, which tipped and set the floor and nearby tablecloths alight.
Panic broke out as the fire began to spread; alarms blared and sprinklers switched on. As Napoleon tried to get to his partner’s side, patrons fled in the opposite direction, screaming, and Napoleon found himself fighting the crowd. To his surprise, he could hear Broker yelling at Moran to flee.
Moran ran right past Napoleon; the American briefly turned around now, altering course. Their prize was close—so close! And Moran wasn’t even looking back…
A sharp cry from Illya caused Napoleon to turn back around; Broker was still punching him—picking Illya up and hitting him again, sending him further into the ignited parts of the casino.
Napoleon looked from the retreating Moran to his partner, who was trying to fight back but kept taking more hits than he was able to counter. Broker knocked him down once more, and then lifted his head by grabbing the back of the blond’s hair, holding him in front of some nearby flames.
“Just like old times, eh, Kuryakin?” Broker sneered. “Me setting the Soviets behind at your expense? Oh, this does bring back memories… Well, except for one thing…”
Illya hissed a defiant curse and tried to struggle, but instead found a knee planted in his back.
“There’s no need to get unpleasant,” Broker said. “I was about to offer you a chance to do something with that otherwise useless life of yours--”
There was the sound of a gunshot and Broker slumped over on his side, a tranquilizer dart stuck in his shoulder. Illya gasped for breath as he got to his knees, pulling away from the flames. He stared at the tranquilized Broker as if in a trance until a hand gently touched the side of his face where he had been hit; the trance broke somewhat, and Illya glanced up at the face of his concerned partner.
“Illya? Illya, are you alright?”
The Russian looked from Napoleon, to the Special in his hand, and to the unconscious Broker.
“Oh, Napoleon…” he moaned. “Do you realize what you’ve done!? You just tranquilized your own government’s man!”
“I just tranquilized a THRUSH turncoat that was within the agency,” Napoleon stated, lowering his hand now for Illya to take.
“…What…?” the Russian asked, accepting the hand as Napoleon helped him up.
“Broker knew that Moran was the Baron,” Napoleon said. “The Baron is the one trying to threaten the Soviets to get the launch codes for THRUSH—and Broker warned Moran that you were trying to upset that. And the only ones who know all this are you, me, Mr. Waverly, and THRUSH.”
The realization dawned in Illya’s eyes.
“And Moran?” he asked, eagerly. “You did get him?”
Napoleon’s face fell.
“No, I… I let him go.”
And now Illya looked mortified.
“…Because of me.”
“No. Illya, no--”
“You let him go to help me.”
“I was backing you up like I was supposed to do,” Napoleon said. “Personnel safety is the top priority in any mission. And speaking of safety, can we get out of this casino before the flames bring it down on top of us?”
He pulled Broker up and dragged him out of the casino; Illya helped him, but his expression did not change.
“I cost us the mission,” he said, quietly.
“Broker cost us the mission,” Napoleon insisted. “And I’m going to enjoy interrogating him to make up for it. Luckily for us, he seems close enough to Moran to let us know where he’d be headed next.”
But Illya didn’t seem to be consoled by this at all; his expression didn’t change even after they left Monte Carlo for New York, with their prisoner in tow. Napoleon was determined to ensure that he and Illya gave their mission report together; he wasn’t about to let Illya blame himself again as he had tried to do in Rio.
Eventually, they both appeared in front of Waverly. Illya was still nursing bruises on his face, including a black eye.
“Gentlemen,” Waverly said. “You’ll be pleased to know that Mr. Neil Broker—one of many aliases—is indeed a THRUSH agent. He is also an FBI agent—albeit a rogue one; the agency deeply regrets the trouble he has caused. They’d been looking for him for a long time, and are eager to take him into custody.”
“Just how long has he been rogue for?” Napoleon asked.
“Far longer than they care to admit; his affiliation with THRUSH goes back years and years, and the agency is quite embarrassed by it—so much so that I have convinced them to keep their hands off of Mr. Kuryakin.”
“They wanted to question Illya?” Napoleon asked, as the Russian lowered his gaze.
“Merely to find out what his past history is with him—see if he can give them testimony. So they claim, of course. Since we were cleaning their mess, so to speak, it gives us a bit of leverage, and I absolutely refused to allow them to have Mr. Kuryakin in their custody. If they wish to speak with him, they shall have to come here, and you, Mr. Solo, shall be present for the entire time.”
“I would have insisted on it,” Napoleon agreed.
“I appreciate that,” Illya said, quietly.
“I will need a mission report—and Mr. Solo has requested that you both compile the mission report together again,” Waverly added.
Illya gave Napoleon an unreadable glance.
“Very well, Sir,” he said. “If you’ll excuse me, I will see if there is something Medical can do for my eye…”
Now it was Napoleon’s turn to give him a look. Illya never willingly went to Medical (no more than Napoleon did); in fact, the last time Illya had been in there, he’d attempted to leave while sedated by painkillers.
Waverly knew this, but let him go anyway, and then nodded as Napoleon silently queried whether he could go, as well.
After heading into the corridor, he could see Illya heading in the direction opposite from Medical. Napoleon exhaled, but followed him. Illya paused in the break room, absently looking at the vending machine.
“Don’t you have anything better to do, Napoleon?” he asked, not even turning around.
“Not really, no. Not until Broker is ready for interrogation.”
“Would you mind doing me a favor?”
“Anything,” Napoleon said, immediately.
“Question him without me. I do not want to be there.”
Napoleon blinked. He tried to push away the idea that Illya was returning to his former ways of working alone after Broker returned as his reminder of how he shouldn’t trust anyone.
“Illya…” Napoleon began, but then he trailed off, recalling Illya’s words back in Monte Carlo.
“There is more to this story that I do not wish to recall—things that occurred when I confronted Broker afterwards. It served as a valuable lesson and a harsh reminder as to why I should trust no one but myself.”
Napoleon looked away now; the way Illya was glaring at his bruises and black eye in the reflection of the vending machine made it clear that this was not the first time he’d received those at Broker’s hands.
“Alright,” Napoleon said. “I’ll handle the interrogation myself.”
“Spacibo.”
There was a long silence.
“So, ah…” Napoleon said. “You want to go grab dinner somewhere?”
Illya looked back at him, his face expressionless.
“If you’d rather not, I’ll understand,” Napoleon added, hastily. “I just thought you’d want something more substantial than chips or cookies.” He silently indicated the vending machine.
Illya responded with a slightly bemused “Hmm!”
“What was that for?”
“I am just appreciating the irony,” the Russian said. “Solo. Your very surname means ‘alone.’ From what I understand, you lived by that as much as I did. You know my reason for it. What was yours?”
“After all those previous partners failed in working out, I’d just gotten so used to it. Sometimes, it’s easier managing everything on your own; you don’t have to worry about whether or not anyone else is on the same page as you. It becomes a habit. I had been doing fine on my own…” Napoleon trailed off, the bullet in his leg from Rio fresh in his mind.
“And yet you are worried that I do not trust you,” Illya said.
“W-What?” Napoleon stammered, a little too quickly. “That’s not it at all!”
“Napoleon, it is written all over your face—and I do not blame you; after what I said in Monte Carlo, you have good reason to think that,” Illya said. He paused to let out a quiet sigh. “Tell me, Napoleon, when you worked alone, did you enjoy it?”
“I didn’t really think about it one way or the other. Like I said, it sort of becomes a habit,” the American said, with a shrug.
“I know you didn’t want a partner when Mr. Waverly brought my name up. What made you say yes?”
“…Well for one thing, I’d given all my potential partners a trial run… Ah, why are we bringing this up now?”
“It is pertinent to what we are discussing,” Illya assured him. “My question is, would you have been content remaining without a partner, or would you have felt something missing?”
Napoleon thought for a moment and shrugged.
“I don’t really know,” he admitted.
“And my being here… Has it helped?”
“You were the one who pulled the bullet out of my leg last month. You tell me.”
Illya managed a wan smile.
“Very well, Napoleon. I know I have earned your trust. And you have the right to know that I do trust you, too. After all, I agreed to come here.”
“And what made you break your own rule?” Napoleon asked, feeling a weight lift off of his shoulders.
“…You know, I am not quite sure myself,” Illya admitted. “Now, I think I shall take you up on that offer of dinner—preferably a takeaway; I have no desire to be out in public with my face as it is.”
“Fine by me. And when we get back to the apartment, I’ll see if I can find something for your eye.”
And they headed off together--the mission less than successful, but their partnership still intact. And at the moment, that was all that mattered.
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