![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
rose-of-pollux.livejournal.com posting in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
section7mfuIf you remember, a couple months, back, I posted a preview of this fic as part of a Short Affair; here is the full version--
Title: Serenade of Water
Rating: PG13
Word count: ~4500
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 "Bolero of Fire" I posted last month--and a continuation of the "Baron of THRUSH" arc. Additionally, The Regret Saga takes place a few weeks before this fic, and this fic references it.
The weeks following the events at Monte Carlo proved to be a difficult time for Illya--although Moran never did find out that he was a member of U.N.C.L.E., Moran had sent THRUSH after him in the hopes that he knew something about the Soviet launch codes. What had followed were intense questioning sessions that had ended only when Napoleon had finally found him.
Napoleon had been furious with himself (for not being able to prevent Illya’s capture) and with Broker (who had ruined everything in Monte Carlo in the first place and had sent Moran after Illya for the codes). As Illya recovered from his ordeal, during the rare times Napoleon wasn’t by his side, he was interrogating Broker for what he knew about Moran’s itinerary.
“You’re wasting your time, Solo,” Broker sneered. “I still don’t know how you managed to figure out that Lord Moran is the Baron, but that information will do you no good. And what makes you think I’m going to talk?”
“Because I’m through playing nice,” Napoleon hissed.
“You may have taken down Partridge, but Lord Moran is far craftier,” Broker said. “You’re dreaming of a glory that you’ll never even get close to.”
“This isn’t about glory; it never was,” Napoleon countered. “And it stopped being about anything else after Moran’s flunkies took Illya! Now, it’s personal.”
“Kuryakin?” Broker asked in disbelief. “This is about some scrawny socialist?”
“This is about my partner,” Napoleon corrected him. “Moran’s men tortured him for three weeks, trying to get those launch codes before I got him out of that dungeon!”
“You should’ve left him there,” Broker said. “Solo, for crying out loud, he’s one of them. I was doing you a favor! The entire reason I’m supporting Moran is because he’s intending to have THRUSH disarm the Soviets!”
“Oh, sure--so he can set the world on fire himself!” Napoleon shot back.
“I’m warning you, Solo--you throw in your lot with Kuryakin, and you’ll end up dead for certain!” Broker said. “They’ve been systematically trained to hate us. You can’t trust them—only use them.”
“So that’s why you used a man who thought he was working with you?”
“Oh, so he told you?” Broker asked. “As if Kuryakin hadn’t been planning to do the same to me! I just beat him to it.”
“And then gave him a beating, as well,” Napoleon scowled, leaning into Broker’s personal space. “And then you gave him one again in Monte Carlo. And then he had to put up with three weeks of beatings because you put the idea into Moran’s head that Illya knows something about the launch codes.”
“He does,” Broker countered. “I kept tabs on Kuryakin after our encounter; his naval division was one that was eventually selected for intelligence work. You’ll never know the things in his head.”
“Give me one good reason why I should believe you,” Napoleon said.
“Because I’m one of you, and Kuryrakin is one of them,” Broker said. “You can’t trust him, Solo. You’d have seen his file; he’s still a member of the Soviet Navy--says so right there. They can call him back at any time, and he’ll blast you to kingdom come without blinking if they order him to.”
“He saved my life in Brazil.”
“It’s in their interest to use you to stop Lord Moran; that’s why he did it. Anything Kuryakin does for you is filled with ulterior motives. The moment your mission is done with and you have Lord Moran in custody, Kuryakin will leave you for dead and return to Russia with Lord Moran.”
“I said give me a good reason, not some sick and twisted fairy tale!”
“I’m being serious, Solo!” Broker said, raising his voice now. “People like Kuryakin need to be reminded that it’s us--Americans like you and me--who run this world, and he needs to know his place in it!”
“Don’t put me in the same boat as you,” Napoleon countered. “Illya’s place is by my side.”
“Then you’ll end up with a knife in your back,” Broker warned. “But I see you won’t believe me, so I’ll tell you this--some information on good faith; once it checks out, you’ll know that I’m telling the truth--about this and about Kuryakin.”
“Go on…”
“Lord Moran owns a yacht that he likes to take around the Pacific during the summer,” Broker said. “It’s August now, so you’ll find him just offshore of Oahu, but he’ll be heavily guarded after Monte Carlo, so don’t expect to get near him.”
Napoleon exhaled.
“That checks out with what intelligence we’ve picked up,” he murmured.
“So, you see? It’s true.”
“Maybe that is,” Napoleon admitted. “But as far as everything else is concerned, we’re done here.” He pushed a button to indicate to the person outside--Mark Slate, in this case--that he was done questioning Broker and moved to leave.
“Solo, I’m serious!” Broker yelled after him. “You have to admit that I’ve known him longer than you have! And I’m telling you that you can’t trust him! One of these days, you’re going to have to choose between him or us--and the wrong choice will kill you!”
Napoleon ignored him and nodded a greeting at Mark as he left; his expression was neutral as he returned his badge at the badge desk and headed back to the apartment building.
He glanced at the door of Illya’s apartment, decided that he’d change before dropping in, and instead opened his own apartment door—pausing as he saw Illya looking up at him from the sofa, a bowl of goulash in his hands.
“Oh, hello,” the Russian said. “I got a bit hungry, and I knew there was that leftover goulash you had made yesterday, so I let myself in.”
“When are you not a bit hungry?” Napoleon mused.
Illya shrugged and resumed eating, much to Napoleon’s amusement.
It was amazing, the change in Illya after six months as partners; for the first few months, the Russian had been walking on eggshells, being overly quiet and polite about everything for fear of offending him. Now, he was letting himself in and raiding the refrigerator. It was, in part, due to having spent the last few weeks recovering from his ordeal in Napoleon’s apartment; Napoleon had insisted that Illya stay here where he could look after him, and Napoleon had, apparently, done a good job in making him feel right at home.
Illya’s voice brought him back to the present.
“Anything new on the Baron?” Illya was asking.
“Broker confirmed Moran’s current location,” Napoleon said. “Mr. Waverly said that I could head there as soon as I received confirmation; I’ve booked tickets already.”
Illya’s shoulders went rigid at the mention of Broker, but he relaxed after a moment.
“I hope you have a successful mission,” he said, resuming his snack. “Who are you taking with you?”
“That’s the other news I have for you,” Napoleon said, handing Illya an envelope. “This came from Medical; you’ve sufficiently recovered enough for out-of-state missions. So, I’m taking you.”
Illya looked up at him in surprise, but then smiled.
“Thank you, Napoleon. Hopefully I can be of more use to you now than I have been these past few weeks.”
“You were fine,” Napoleon insisted. “And I’m sure you’ll be even better once we go to Oahu.”
The Russian froze.
“…Oahu…?” he repeated.
“Yeah,” Napoleon grinned. “Moran’s out in the warm tropics. It’s going to be like a working vacation.”
Illya mumbled something unintelligible into the goulash in response, and then finished it up and put his bowl in the sink.
“You alright, Illya?”
“Da. I shall be fine. I should probably start packing.”
“Need any help?”
“I can manage,” Illya said, and he took his leave and returned back to his apartment. He sighed. Just his luck that his first return out-of-state mission would be to a hot and humid climate…
*******************************
The flight had been long but uneventful. After enduring getting garlanded by leis and stepping out into the hot, tropical air, escaping to the air-conditioned comfort of their hotel room was a much-welcomed retreat.
Illya now scowled to himself as he donned a pair of short shorts and threw on a short-sleeved white polo shirt. He opted to leave the shirt unbutton as he glanced in the mirror; his scowl deepened as he looked at his skinny, gangly legs. How he wished that he could dress with a bit more dignity! Alas, the heat and the humidity of Hawaii in summertime made covering up a nightmare.
“And people call this paradise…?” he muttered.
“Don’t knock it ‘til you’ve tried it, Tovarisch,” Napoleon recited once again, from behind him.
“I did try it!” Illya said, turning to face him. “And from the moment I stepped out into this humid, tropical climate, I…” The Russian trailed off, staring at his American partner, who had changed into a pair of cargo shorts and a loud, Hawaiian shirt that was bright crimson, splotched with colorful tropical flowers.
“Do I look that stunning?” Napoleon asked.
“You look like a bird trying to attract a mate with bright colors,” Illya said, flatly, giving him a searching look. “All that is missing is some sort of bizarre courtship dance…”
“Well, since you brought it up, I have been practicing my Hula ever since I first heard that Moran was likely here in Hawaii…”
“Da, Napoleon, but if we are here to trail Moran, you are going to stand out like a sore thumb!”
“On the contrary, I’m actually going to blend right in,” Napoleon said, slipping on a pair of sunglasses. “Take a look out the window, and you’ll see that this is what most of the tourists here are wearing.”
“…Why?” Illya asked, flabbergasted.
“Funnily enough, I never questioned that,” Napoleon said, with a shrug, before heading to the mirror to check that his lotion was properly applied. “Need some suntan lotion for yourself, Illya?”
“I need sunscreen,” the Russian muttered, getting the bottle from his own luggage, which he had packed the moment Napoleon had announced they were to be assigned on a mission in the tropics.
“You don’t tan?” Napoleon asked.
“No, I do not,” he replied, applying it. “I burn. And unless I use this sunscreen, by the end of the day, I shall look like your shirt.”
“Well, for future reference, in case you ever get a sunburn, you’ll find that a few paper towels soaked in vinegar can help you.”
“You would put an acidic substance on a sunburn?” Illya asked. “It sounds like an invitation to further pain.”
“I know it defies all logic, but it works,” Napoleon said.
“Are you speaking from personal experience?”
“No, but I have a cousin who swears by it. I’ve never actually had a sunburn…”
“…You would not,” Illya agreed. “Of course. What was I thinking?”
Illya didn’t question that; it seemed like the natural order of things—Napoleon Solo always looked 100% flawless… even when wearing a Hawaiian shirt so loud that Illya was certain it could be heard from the mainland.
Napoleon just grinned at his partner and checked his watch.
“Okay, after compiling all of the information we received, Moran should be out on his yacht all afternoon starting at 2:30. That gives us a two-hour window for lunch and a short stroll down a nearby beach before we begin our surveillance,” he said.
“A walk in the peak of the sun’s heat, surrounded by tourists on a crowded beach? I can hardly wait,” Illya said, in a flat tone of voice.
“I thought you’d say that,” Napoleon said. “So I bought you this—from the gift shop downstairs.”
Illya was dreading something garish like Napoleon’s shirt, but he was pleasantly surprised when Napoleon tossed him a canvas sunhat instead.
“…Thank you, Napoleon,” he said, humbly. “I feel that this shall be useful, indeed.”
“Glad you like it,” Napoleon grinned. “Now how about we find something to eat before we take that walk?”
“Da,” the Russian replied, finally grinning, as well.
He donned his new hat and followed Napoleon out of the hotel room. Perhaps Hawaii wasn’t going to be that bad after all…
And, indeed, it wasn’t as bad as Illya thought it was going to be initially. The sunhat proved to be an adequate shield. And lunch and a walk with Napoleon proved to be enjoyable, after all. And soon, it was time for surveillance as they searched for Moran’s yacht.
“Illya, I think that must be it!” Napoleon said, looking out onto the water with a pair of binoculars, reading the name on the bow. “The Sharpshooter. Yeah, that’s Moran, alright—the name is another reference to his ancestor Sebastian.”
Illya exhaled.
“So, what are we to do?” he asked. “Storm the yacht and take him prisoner? It shall not be that easy, and with all of his prestige, he can easily turn the crowd of vacationers here against us.”
“I’m aware of that,” Napoleon said. “The most important thing right now is for us to affix a tracking device on that yacht—I have a couple of small, waterproof trackers that can be attached on to the bottom of the yacht and won’t come unstuck. We can wait until he goes somewhere more secluded and then attempt to apprehend him.”
“And how do you propose we bell the cat?”
“Simple--we grab a small boat, get alongside the yacht and attach a tracker—or both for good measure,” Napoleon said. “And then we track him.”
Illya kept his expression neutral, even though his stomach did a somersault at the thought of it. His seasickness was his best-kept secret--and one of the few things that could impede him.
“A boat?” he repeated. “You think we should just head out there in a boat?”
“You have another idea?”
“As a matter of fact, I do,” Illya said, eager for an alternative strategy. “We can rent a couple of wet suits, swim underwater, and attach the trackers that way.”
Now it was Napoleon’s turn to struggle to keep a neutral expression. He forced a smile and a chuckle.
“You know what? Why don’t we both try it our way? There are two transmitters, after all. One of our plans has to work. In fact, that’s a good insurance policy.”
“Da,” Illya said. “We shall meet back here later, then, with all the equipment we shall require.”
“Sounds good to me,” Napoleon said. “How about in twenty minutes?”
“Fine,” Illya said, with a nod.
“Great! Good luck,” the American said.
“You, as well,” the Russian returned.
And the two partners temporarily separated to get what they needed, each hoping that his quiet sigh of relief had gone unheard.
They hadn’t had any difficulty trying to get what they needed; Illya, dressed in a wet suit, had headed over to where Napoleon was getting ready to launch his rented boat.
“…Aren’t you hot in that?” Napoleon asked him.
“Insanely,” Illya replied, through gritted teeth as he bore the weight of the scuba tank on his back. “Give me a tracker so that I may retreat to the water, at least.”
“Here you go,” Napoleon said, handing one over to him. “Good luck—again.”
“And you—again.”
Illya retreated into the water; Napoleon shook his head and launched the boat, heading out to the yacht. He could hear chatter and a radio playing music; this was the opportune moment, he realized.
He activated the other tracking device and used the waterproof adhesive to stick it to the side of the lower bow. It was then that he heard a shout from the deck.
“What do you think you’re doing!?” one of Moran’s cronies fumed.
Napoleon blinked.
“I… I was just admiring the paint job here,” he lied. “I didn’t mean any--”
Moran had appeared at the railing with a gun in his hand, took one look at Napoleon, and opened fire—clearly, word of who he was had somehow gotten to him, or perhaps he just wasn’t taking any chances after Monte Carlo. Regardless, the young U.N.C.L.E. agent had to quickly determine which of the two threats to his life was the most survivable. He chose the ocean.
Bullets sped past him in the water, narrowly missing him; the marksmanship skills that the Moran family had prided themselves on were still affected by the refractive effect of the water. Still, it was only a matter of time until Moran’s aim rang true—and he’d get a clear shot the moment Napoleon tried to surface for air.
His limbs flapped about ungainly as he tried to get away from the yacht, and then his lungs protested, prompting him to try to break the surface; it was difficult for him as it was, and he froze as another bullet narrowly missed him. His mind was still calculating his next move when a pair of hands grabbed him by the arm, dragging him downwards.
Out of reflex, Napoleon struggled; he froze again as he saw that it was a man in a wet suit.
Illya!?
Why… why was Illya dragging him down, away from the air he so desperately needed? Surely he wasn’t trying to…
No! There’s no way Broker was right; there’s gotta be a reason--
Napoleon’s thoughts trailed off as Illya shoved the breathing apparatus of the scuba gear into Napoleon’s mouth. Napoleon breathed in the welcome air, furious with himself for allowing his faith in his partner to waver for that split-second, and furious with Broker for trying to plant that seed of doubt that allowed his faith to momentarily waver.
The breath that Illya had been holding escaped him in a mouthful of bubbles. Napoleon’s eyes widened, and he quickly handed over the breathing apparatus. Illya breathed a few times and handed it back to Napoleon with one hand while indicating that they flee with the other hand.
Napoleon nodded, realizing that they would have to make their getaway underwater, much to his dismay. But Illya still kept a hand on his arm and led the way as they continued to share the breathing apparatus—but they both stopped in their tracks as another bullet narrowly missed them.
Illya’s eyes widened now in sudden realization, and he started pointing frantically at Napoleon’s Hawaiian shirt. And Napoleon understood—the loud, red shirt was a big, bright target for Moran.
Napoleon practically tore the shirt in half trying to remove it and let it float upwards as he and Illya then fled once more. Sure enough, the bullets were now targeting the shirt—at least until it surfaced.
Napoleon and Illya continued to make their escape, still sharing the breathing apparatus. They stayed underwater until their air supply ran out, and then, finally, surfaced. Moran had abandoned the pursuit, obviously assuming that Napoleon had either drowned or been hit when he hadn’t resurfaced. Napoleon took a few minutes to survey around them and catch his breath before he looked to Illya, his expression filled with gratitude.
“I… I owe you one, Illya.” His gut still twisted in guilt, however, for momentarily doubting his partner, who had only been trying to save him.
Illya shook his head.
“You would have done the same,” he insisted. He looked around now; there appeared to be nothing but ocean around them. “We must have gotten caught up in a current—there is no other reason for us suddenly losing sight of Oahu.”
“Yeah, I thought we were moving rather fast…” Napoleon said, biting his lip as he looked around. “The question is, where did we end up?”
“We cannot be that far from Oahu,” Illya said. “Unfortunately, there is every chance that Moran is looking for you.”
Napoleon winced.
“Yeah. And what’s worse, they probably saw me put the tracker; they’ll be sure to have it removed.”
“Then it is fortunate that I stuck the other tracker to the bottom of the boat.”
The American managed a wan smile.
“Looks like you were right about going underwater,” he sighed. “I probably should have stuck with that idea, but…”
“Never mind now,” Illya said. “We cannot stay here in the water; we need to find land and call for an extraction once our communicators dry out.”
“Some seagulls are over that way, and some of them are over that way,” Napoleon said, indicating the birds. “And they’ll always be near land. I’m guessing the larger group is from where we came—where Moran will be.”
“Then we shall go to the smaller group,” Illya said. He still hadn’t let go of Napoleon’s arm; whether or not he had figured out Napoleon’s alarm at the water, Napoleon didn’t know, but he was grateful that his partner wasn’t saying anything about it.
It was a bit longer before they made it to the shore of what appeared to be a small cove. Napoleon took apart his communicator and laid the pieces on a rock, hoping that it wasn’t waterlogged beyond repair.
Illya did the same after removing the wetsuit; he had managed to slip the communicator and the sunhat under the suit, and he had continued to wear the short shorts.
“I think you better go into the shade of that palm tree,” Napoleon said. “That sunscreen you put on won’t last, even if it was waterproof.”
“Da,” Illya murmured, and he retreated to the shade of the tree, looking weary from the heat.
Napoleon looked around, feeling helpless that there was nothing he could do for his partner—the partner who had saved his life only a little while ago.
“I’m going to look around,” he announced. “You keep resting here.”
“I will,” Illya said, closing his eyes.
Napoleon headed inland, hoping that wherever they had ended up was close to people. Unfortunately, the pristine quality of the nature around them and the lack of footprints made it clear that they had made it to some uninhabited cove.
“Well, at least we’re not that far from Oahu…” Napoleon sighed aloud, to no one in particular. Hopefully, the extraction would be quick, once they were able to get a message out.
Napoleon’s walk resulted in him finding some tropical birds relaxing at a freshwater spring; beyond the spring seemed to be a cave. There was nothing in it, but it was much cooler inside than out in the elements. Deciding that would prove to be better shade than the tree that Illya was resting under, Napoleon went back.
“Hey,” he said, gently nudging the Russian’s shoulder.
“Mmh?” Illya replied, after some time.
Napoleon frowned, growing more concerned.
“Illya, I think you’ve got a case of heat exhaustion.”
“Mmh…” the Russian said again, tiredly.
“OK, that’s it,” Napoleon said, picking his partner up and balancing him across his shoulders. “You’re going to the cave, like it or not.”
“Mmh…”
“Are you even listening to me?”
“…Da….”
“OK, that’s an improvement.”
Napoleon took Illya back to the cave, setting him up on a makeshift mattress of palm fronds. Still not satisfied, Napoleon headed back to the spring, soaking a handkerchief he had been carrying in his pocket and made several trips from the spring to the cave to clean the sweat off of his partner by soaking the handkerchief repeatedly and cleaning his partner off with it.
Illya seemed to have fallen asleep, but that didn’t stop Napoleon from talking to him anyway.
“I know you don’t think it was much,” Napoleon said, as he ran the cloth across Illya’s chest. “But I still owe you big time for that underwater rescue.”
Illya didn’t respond, but Napoleon continued anyway.
“You didn’t have to put yourself in harm’s way; you could have gotten out of there and saved yourself,” he said. “…Illya…” He sighed, remembering that moment—that fleeting moment—he had wondered and worried what Illya had been trying to do when he had been pulling him away. Never again, he vowed. Never again will I doubt you, even for a moment. “Illya, I meant what I said in Monte Carlo; I trust you—with my life. Just… know that.”
He looked back at his partner, who was still resting peacefully. His skin didn’t seem to be as hot, which was a good sign, as far as the heat exhaustion was concerned. Illya appeared to be out of danger.
“Okay, you rest up,” Napoleon said, folding up the handkerchief and placing it over Illya’s forehead. “I’m going to try seeing if our communicators have dried off.”
He got up and paused at the opening of the cave, looked back at his partner once more, and then headed back to the beach.
He spent the next several hours alternating between trying the communicators and checking up on Illya, making sure he had fresh fruits to keep hydrated, as Napoleon wasn’t entirely sure of the quality of the spring water. The American was still trying to contact U.N.C.L.E. by the time the sun had gone down and the moon had risen.
“Napoleon?” he heard Illya call.
“Over here!” Napoleon called back.
Illya soon found him, resting on a nearby rock on the beach, the bright moonlight practically illuminating his hair.
“Ah… how are you feeling?” Napoleon asked.
“Much better, thank you,” Illya said, looking at Napoleon with sincere eyes.
“Oh, good.”
“No, Napoleon. I mean… thank you.”
Napoleon smiled.
“Anytime, Tovarisch.”
“I heard you.”
“Hmm?”
“In the cave. What you were saying. I thank you for continuing to trust me even after whatever Broker might have said to you.” Illya gave a wan smile as Napoleon gave a start. “It’s alright, Napoleon; I would have expected Broker to try to turn you against me. What did he say?”
“…You don’t want to know.”
“Da, you are probably right.”
Any further discussion was sidelined by Napoleon’s communicator finally whistling in response to a call. At last, Napoleon got through and requested an extraction, as well as instructing the trackers on Moran’s boat to be monitored.
He sighed as he placed the communicator back down.
“Well, we’ve got another hour to kill before the Honolulu branch extracts us,” he said. “I guess we’ll just pay attention to wherever Moran is headed next after this.”
“I am only sorry that he knows your face now,” Illya said.
“Yeah, but he doesn’t know that I know he’s the Baron; he just thinks I’m after him because of whatever secrets he tried to get from you,” Napoleon said. “We’re so close, Illya. Two and a half years’ worth of work, and we’re so close.”
“Most of that work was yours,” Illya pointed out.
“Yeah, well… now it’s ours. And I’d like it if…” Napoleon trailed off, glancing back at his partner, who was looking back at him intently. “…I’d be honored if…” He trailed off again, searching for words.
“If I were to continue this endeavor with you?”
“…Yeah,” Napoleon said.
“I would consider it an honor to continue working with you, as well,” Illya said, sincerely.
Napoleon grinned, and Illya smiled back, and the two of them continued to chat idly until backup came to get them back to Oahu.
Moran may have eluded them once again, but they would try again—determined to one day stop him, together.
Title: Serenade of Water
Rating: PG13
Word count: ~4500
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 "Bolero of Fire" I posted last month--and a continuation of the "Baron of THRUSH" arc. Additionally, The Regret Saga takes place a few weeks before this fic, and this fic references it.
The weeks following the events at Monte Carlo proved to be a difficult time for Illya--although Moran never did find out that he was a member of U.N.C.L.E., Moran had sent THRUSH after him in the hopes that he knew something about the Soviet launch codes. What had followed were intense questioning sessions that had ended only when Napoleon had finally found him.
Napoleon had been furious with himself (for not being able to prevent Illya’s capture) and with Broker (who had ruined everything in Monte Carlo in the first place and had sent Moran after Illya for the codes). As Illya recovered from his ordeal, during the rare times Napoleon wasn’t by his side, he was interrogating Broker for what he knew about Moran’s itinerary.
“You’re wasting your time, Solo,” Broker sneered. “I still don’t know how you managed to figure out that Lord Moran is the Baron, but that information will do you no good. And what makes you think I’m going to talk?”
“Because I’m through playing nice,” Napoleon hissed.
“You may have taken down Partridge, but Lord Moran is far craftier,” Broker said. “You’re dreaming of a glory that you’ll never even get close to.”
“This isn’t about glory; it never was,” Napoleon countered. “And it stopped being about anything else after Moran’s flunkies took Illya! Now, it’s personal.”
“Kuryakin?” Broker asked in disbelief. “This is about some scrawny socialist?”
“This is about my partner,” Napoleon corrected him. “Moran’s men tortured him for three weeks, trying to get those launch codes before I got him out of that dungeon!”
“You should’ve left him there,” Broker said. “Solo, for crying out loud, he’s one of them. I was doing you a favor! The entire reason I’m supporting Moran is because he’s intending to have THRUSH disarm the Soviets!”
“Oh, sure--so he can set the world on fire himself!” Napoleon shot back.
“I’m warning you, Solo--you throw in your lot with Kuryakin, and you’ll end up dead for certain!” Broker said. “They’ve been systematically trained to hate us. You can’t trust them—only use them.”
“So that’s why you used a man who thought he was working with you?”
“Oh, so he told you?” Broker asked. “As if Kuryakin hadn’t been planning to do the same to me! I just beat him to it.”
“And then gave him a beating, as well,” Napoleon scowled, leaning into Broker’s personal space. “And then you gave him one again in Monte Carlo. And then he had to put up with three weeks of beatings because you put the idea into Moran’s head that Illya knows something about the launch codes.”
“He does,” Broker countered. “I kept tabs on Kuryakin after our encounter; his naval division was one that was eventually selected for intelligence work. You’ll never know the things in his head.”
“Give me one good reason why I should believe you,” Napoleon said.
“Because I’m one of you, and Kuryrakin is one of them,” Broker said. “You can’t trust him, Solo. You’d have seen his file; he’s still a member of the Soviet Navy--says so right there. They can call him back at any time, and he’ll blast you to kingdom come without blinking if they order him to.”
“He saved my life in Brazil.”
“It’s in their interest to use you to stop Lord Moran; that’s why he did it. Anything Kuryakin does for you is filled with ulterior motives. The moment your mission is done with and you have Lord Moran in custody, Kuryakin will leave you for dead and return to Russia with Lord Moran.”
“I said give me a good reason, not some sick and twisted fairy tale!”
“I’m being serious, Solo!” Broker said, raising his voice now. “People like Kuryakin need to be reminded that it’s us--Americans like you and me--who run this world, and he needs to know his place in it!”
“Don’t put me in the same boat as you,” Napoleon countered. “Illya’s place is by my side.”
“Then you’ll end up with a knife in your back,” Broker warned. “But I see you won’t believe me, so I’ll tell you this--some information on good faith; once it checks out, you’ll know that I’m telling the truth--about this and about Kuryakin.”
“Go on…”
“Lord Moran owns a yacht that he likes to take around the Pacific during the summer,” Broker said. “It’s August now, so you’ll find him just offshore of Oahu, but he’ll be heavily guarded after Monte Carlo, so don’t expect to get near him.”
Napoleon exhaled.
“That checks out with what intelligence we’ve picked up,” he murmured.
“So, you see? It’s true.”
“Maybe that is,” Napoleon admitted. “But as far as everything else is concerned, we’re done here.” He pushed a button to indicate to the person outside--Mark Slate, in this case--that he was done questioning Broker and moved to leave.
“Solo, I’m serious!” Broker yelled after him. “You have to admit that I’ve known him longer than you have! And I’m telling you that you can’t trust him! One of these days, you’re going to have to choose between him or us--and the wrong choice will kill you!”
Napoleon ignored him and nodded a greeting at Mark as he left; his expression was neutral as he returned his badge at the badge desk and headed back to the apartment building.
He glanced at the door of Illya’s apartment, decided that he’d change before dropping in, and instead opened his own apartment door—pausing as he saw Illya looking up at him from the sofa, a bowl of goulash in his hands.
“Oh, hello,” the Russian said. “I got a bit hungry, and I knew there was that leftover goulash you had made yesterday, so I let myself in.”
“When are you not a bit hungry?” Napoleon mused.
Illya shrugged and resumed eating, much to Napoleon’s amusement.
It was amazing, the change in Illya after six months as partners; for the first few months, the Russian had been walking on eggshells, being overly quiet and polite about everything for fear of offending him. Now, he was letting himself in and raiding the refrigerator. It was, in part, due to having spent the last few weeks recovering from his ordeal in Napoleon’s apartment; Napoleon had insisted that Illya stay here where he could look after him, and Napoleon had, apparently, done a good job in making him feel right at home.
Illya’s voice brought him back to the present.
“Anything new on the Baron?” Illya was asking.
“Broker confirmed Moran’s current location,” Napoleon said. “Mr. Waverly said that I could head there as soon as I received confirmation; I’ve booked tickets already.”
Illya’s shoulders went rigid at the mention of Broker, but he relaxed after a moment.
“I hope you have a successful mission,” he said, resuming his snack. “Who are you taking with you?”
“That’s the other news I have for you,” Napoleon said, handing Illya an envelope. “This came from Medical; you’ve sufficiently recovered enough for out-of-state missions. So, I’m taking you.”
Illya looked up at him in surprise, but then smiled.
“Thank you, Napoleon. Hopefully I can be of more use to you now than I have been these past few weeks.”
“You were fine,” Napoleon insisted. “And I’m sure you’ll be even better once we go to Oahu.”
The Russian froze.
“…Oahu…?” he repeated.
“Yeah,” Napoleon grinned. “Moran’s out in the warm tropics. It’s going to be like a working vacation.”
Illya mumbled something unintelligible into the goulash in response, and then finished it up and put his bowl in the sink.
“You alright, Illya?”
“Da. I shall be fine. I should probably start packing.”
“Need any help?”
“I can manage,” Illya said, and he took his leave and returned back to his apartment. He sighed. Just his luck that his first return out-of-state mission would be to a hot and humid climate…
The flight had been long but uneventful. After enduring getting garlanded by leis and stepping out into the hot, tropical air, escaping to the air-conditioned comfort of their hotel room was a much-welcomed retreat.
Illya now scowled to himself as he donned a pair of short shorts and threw on a short-sleeved white polo shirt. He opted to leave the shirt unbutton as he glanced in the mirror; his scowl deepened as he looked at his skinny, gangly legs. How he wished that he could dress with a bit more dignity! Alas, the heat and the humidity of Hawaii in summertime made covering up a nightmare.
“And people call this paradise…?” he muttered.
“Don’t knock it ‘til you’ve tried it, Tovarisch,” Napoleon recited once again, from behind him.
“I did try it!” Illya said, turning to face him. “And from the moment I stepped out into this humid, tropical climate, I…” The Russian trailed off, staring at his American partner, who had changed into a pair of cargo shorts and a loud, Hawaiian shirt that was bright crimson, splotched with colorful tropical flowers.
“Do I look that stunning?” Napoleon asked.
“You look like a bird trying to attract a mate with bright colors,” Illya said, flatly, giving him a searching look. “All that is missing is some sort of bizarre courtship dance…”
“Well, since you brought it up, I have been practicing my Hula ever since I first heard that Moran was likely here in Hawaii…”
“Da, Napoleon, but if we are here to trail Moran, you are going to stand out like a sore thumb!”
“On the contrary, I’m actually going to blend right in,” Napoleon said, slipping on a pair of sunglasses. “Take a look out the window, and you’ll see that this is what most of the tourists here are wearing.”
“…Why?” Illya asked, flabbergasted.
“Funnily enough, I never questioned that,” Napoleon said, with a shrug, before heading to the mirror to check that his lotion was properly applied. “Need some suntan lotion for yourself, Illya?”
“I need sunscreen,” the Russian muttered, getting the bottle from his own luggage, which he had packed the moment Napoleon had announced they were to be assigned on a mission in the tropics.
“You don’t tan?” Napoleon asked.
“No, I do not,” he replied, applying it. “I burn. And unless I use this sunscreen, by the end of the day, I shall look like your shirt.”
“Well, for future reference, in case you ever get a sunburn, you’ll find that a few paper towels soaked in vinegar can help you.”
“You would put an acidic substance on a sunburn?” Illya asked. “It sounds like an invitation to further pain.”
“I know it defies all logic, but it works,” Napoleon said.
“Are you speaking from personal experience?”
“No, but I have a cousin who swears by it. I’ve never actually had a sunburn…”
“…You would not,” Illya agreed. “Of course. What was I thinking?”
Illya didn’t question that; it seemed like the natural order of things—Napoleon Solo always looked 100% flawless… even when wearing a Hawaiian shirt so loud that Illya was certain it could be heard from the mainland.
Napoleon just grinned at his partner and checked his watch.
“Okay, after compiling all of the information we received, Moran should be out on his yacht all afternoon starting at 2:30. That gives us a two-hour window for lunch and a short stroll down a nearby beach before we begin our surveillance,” he said.
“A walk in the peak of the sun’s heat, surrounded by tourists on a crowded beach? I can hardly wait,” Illya said, in a flat tone of voice.
“I thought you’d say that,” Napoleon said. “So I bought you this—from the gift shop downstairs.”
Illya was dreading something garish like Napoleon’s shirt, but he was pleasantly surprised when Napoleon tossed him a canvas sunhat instead.
“…Thank you, Napoleon,” he said, humbly. “I feel that this shall be useful, indeed.”
“Glad you like it,” Napoleon grinned. “Now how about we find something to eat before we take that walk?”
“Da,” the Russian replied, finally grinning, as well.
He donned his new hat and followed Napoleon out of the hotel room. Perhaps Hawaii wasn’t going to be that bad after all…
And, indeed, it wasn’t as bad as Illya thought it was going to be initially. The sunhat proved to be an adequate shield. And lunch and a walk with Napoleon proved to be enjoyable, after all. And soon, it was time for surveillance as they searched for Moran’s yacht.
“Illya, I think that must be it!” Napoleon said, looking out onto the water with a pair of binoculars, reading the name on the bow. “The Sharpshooter. Yeah, that’s Moran, alright—the name is another reference to his ancestor Sebastian.”
Illya exhaled.
“So, what are we to do?” he asked. “Storm the yacht and take him prisoner? It shall not be that easy, and with all of his prestige, he can easily turn the crowd of vacationers here against us.”
“I’m aware of that,” Napoleon said. “The most important thing right now is for us to affix a tracking device on that yacht—I have a couple of small, waterproof trackers that can be attached on to the bottom of the yacht and won’t come unstuck. We can wait until he goes somewhere more secluded and then attempt to apprehend him.”
“And how do you propose we bell the cat?”
“Simple--we grab a small boat, get alongside the yacht and attach a tracker—or both for good measure,” Napoleon said. “And then we track him.”
Illya kept his expression neutral, even though his stomach did a somersault at the thought of it. His seasickness was his best-kept secret--and one of the few things that could impede him.
“A boat?” he repeated. “You think we should just head out there in a boat?”
“You have another idea?”
“As a matter of fact, I do,” Illya said, eager for an alternative strategy. “We can rent a couple of wet suits, swim underwater, and attach the trackers that way.”
Now it was Napoleon’s turn to struggle to keep a neutral expression. He forced a smile and a chuckle.
“You know what? Why don’t we both try it our way? There are two transmitters, after all. One of our plans has to work. In fact, that’s a good insurance policy.”
“Da,” Illya said. “We shall meet back here later, then, with all the equipment we shall require.”
“Sounds good to me,” Napoleon said. “How about in twenty minutes?”
“Fine,” Illya said, with a nod.
“Great! Good luck,” the American said.
“You, as well,” the Russian returned.
And the two partners temporarily separated to get what they needed, each hoping that his quiet sigh of relief had gone unheard.
They hadn’t had any difficulty trying to get what they needed; Illya, dressed in a wet suit, had headed over to where Napoleon was getting ready to launch his rented boat.
“…Aren’t you hot in that?” Napoleon asked him.
“Insanely,” Illya replied, through gritted teeth as he bore the weight of the scuba tank on his back. “Give me a tracker so that I may retreat to the water, at least.”
“Here you go,” Napoleon said, handing one over to him. “Good luck—again.”
“And you—again.”
Illya retreated into the water; Napoleon shook his head and launched the boat, heading out to the yacht. He could hear chatter and a radio playing music; this was the opportune moment, he realized.
He activated the other tracking device and used the waterproof adhesive to stick it to the side of the lower bow. It was then that he heard a shout from the deck.
“What do you think you’re doing!?” one of Moran’s cronies fumed.
Napoleon blinked.
“I… I was just admiring the paint job here,” he lied. “I didn’t mean any--”
Moran had appeared at the railing with a gun in his hand, took one look at Napoleon, and opened fire—clearly, word of who he was had somehow gotten to him, or perhaps he just wasn’t taking any chances after Monte Carlo. Regardless, the young U.N.C.L.E. agent had to quickly determine which of the two threats to his life was the most survivable. He chose the ocean.
Bullets sped past him in the water, narrowly missing him; the marksmanship skills that the Moran family had prided themselves on were still affected by the refractive effect of the water. Still, it was only a matter of time until Moran’s aim rang true—and he’d get a clear shot the moment Napoleon tried to surface for air.
His limbs flapped about ungainly as he tried to get away from the yacht, and then his lungs protested, prompting him to try to break the surface; it was difficult for him as it was, and he froze as another bullet narrowly missed him. His mind was still calculating his next move when a pair of hands grabbed him by the arm, dragging him downwards.
Out of reflex, Napoleon struggled; he froze again as he saw that it was a man in a wet suit.
Illya!?
Why… why was Illya dragging him down, away from the air he so desperately needed? Surely he wasn’t trying to…
No! There’s no way Broker was right; there’s gotta be a reason--
Napoleon’s thoughts trailed off as Illya shoved the breathing apparatus of the scuba gear into Napoleon’s mouth. Napoleon breathed in the welcome air, furious with himself for allowing his faith in his partner to waver for that split-second, and furious with Broker for trying to plant that seed of doubt that allowed his faith to momentarily waver.
The breath that Illya had been holding escaped him in a mouthful of bubbles. Napoleon’s eyes widened, and he quickly handed over the breathing apparatus. Illya breathed a few times and handed it back to Napoleon with one hand while indicating that they flee with the other hand.
Napoleon nodded, realizing that they would have to make their getaway underwater, much to his dismay. But Illya still kept a hand on his arm and led the way as they continued to share the breathing apparatus—but they both stopped in their tracks as another bullet narrowly missed them.
Illya’s eyes widened now in sudden realization, and he started pointing frantically at Napoleon’s Hawaiian shirt. And Napoleon understood—the loud, red shirt was a big, bright target for Moran.
Napoleon practically tore the shirt in half trying to remove it and let it float upwards as he and Illya then fled once more. Sure enough, the bullets were now targeting the shirt—at least until it surfaced.
Napoleon and Illya continued to make their escape, still sharing the breathing apparatus. They stayed underwater until their air supply ran out, and then, finally, surfaced. Moran had abandoned the pursuit, obviously assuming that Napoleon had either drowned or been hit when he hadn’t resurfaced. Napoleon took a few minutes to survey around them and catch his breath before he looked to Illya, his expression filled with gratitude.
“I… I owe you one, Illya.” His gut still twisted in guilt, however, for momentarily doubting his partner, who had only been trying to save him.
Illya shook his head.
“You would have done the same,” he insisted. He looked around now; there appeared to be nothing but ocean around them. “We must have gotten caught up in a current—there is no other reason for us suddenly losing sight of Oahu.”
“Yeah, I thought we were moving rather fast…” Napoleon said, biting his lip as he looked around. “The question is, where did we end up?”
“We cannot be that far from Oahu,” Illya said. “Unfortunately, there is every chance that Moran is looking for you.”
Napoleon winced.
“Yeah. And what’s worse, they probably saw me put the tracker; they’ll be sure to have it removed.”
“Then it is fortunate that I stuck the other tracker to the bottom of the boat.”
The American managed a wan smile.
“Looks like you were right about going underwater,” he sighed. “I probably should have stuck with that idea, but…”
“Never mind now,” Illya said. “We cannot stay here in the water; we need to find land and call for an extraction once our communicators dry out.”
“Some seagulls are over that way, and some of them are over that way,” Napoleon said, indicating the birds. “And they’ll always be near land. I’m guessing the larger group is from where we came—where Moran will be.”
“Then we shall go to the smaller group,” Illya said. He still hadn’t let go of Napoleon’s arm; whether or not he had figured out Napoleon’s alarm at the water, Napoleon didn’t know, but he was grateful that his partner wasn’t saying anything about it.
It was a bit longer before they made it to the shore of what appeared to be a small cove. Napoleon took apart his communicator and laid the pieces on a rock, hoping that it wasn’t waterlogged beyond repair.
Illya did the same after removing the wetsuit; he had managed to slip the communicator and the sunhat under the suit, and he had continued to wear the short shorts.
“I think you better go into the shade of that palm tree,” Napoleon said. “That sunscreen you put on won’t last, even if it was waterproof.”
“Da,” Illya murmured, and he retreated to the shade of the tree, looking weary from the heat.
Napoleon looked around, feeling helpless that there was nothing he could do for his partner—the partner who had saved his life only a little while ago.
“I’m going to look around,” he announced. “You keep resting here.”
“I will,” Illya said, closing his eyes.
Napoleon headed inland, hoping that wherever they had ended up was close to people. Unfortunately, the pristine quality of the nature around them and the lack of footprints made it clear that they had made it to some uninhabited cove.
“Well, at least we’re not that far from Oahu…” Napoleon sighed aloud, to no one in particular. Hopefully, the extraction would be quick, once they were able to get a message out.
Napoleon’s walk resulted in him finding some tropical birds relaxing at a freshwater spring; beyond the spring seemed to be a cave. There was nothing in it, but it was much cooler inside than out in the elements. Deciding that would prove to be better shade than the tree that Illya was resting under, Napoleon went back.
“Hey,” he said, gently nudging the Russian’s shoulder.
“Mmh?” Illya replied, after some time.
Napoleon frowned, growing more concerned.
“Illya, I think you’ve got a case of heat exhaustion.”
“Mmh…” the Russian said again, tiredly.
“OK, that’s it,” Napoleon said, picking his partner up and balancing him across his shoulders. “You’re going to the cave, like it or not.”
“Mmh…”
“Are you even listening to me?”
“…Da….”
“OK, that’s an improvement.”
Napoleon took Illya back to the cave, setting him up on a makeshift mattress of palm fronds. Still not satisfied, Napoleon headed back to the spring, soaking a handkerchief he had been carrying in his pocket and made several trips from the spring to the cave to clean the sweat off of his partner by soaking the handkerchief repeatedly and cleaning his partner off with it.
Illya seemed to have fallen asleep, but that didn’t stop Napoleon from talking to him anyway.
“I know you don’t think it was much,” Napoleon said, as he ran the cloth across Illya’s chest. “But I still owe you big time for that underwater rescue.”
Illya didn’t respond, but Napoleon continued anyway.
“You didn’t have to put yourself in harm’s way; you could have gotten out of there and saved yourself,” he said. “…Illya…” He sighed, remembering that moment—that fleeting moment—he had wondered and worried what Illya had been trying to do when he had been pulling him away. Never again, he vowed. Never again will I doubt you, even for a moment. “Illya, I meant what I said in Monte Carlo; I trust you—with my life. Just… know that.”
He looked back at his partner, who was still resting peacefully. His skin didn’t seem to be as hot, which was a good sign, as far as the heat exhaustion was concerned. Illya appeared to be out of danger.
“Okay, you rest up,” Napoleon said, folding up the handkerchief and placing it over Illya’s forehead. “I’m going to try seeing if our communicators have dried off.”
He got up and paused at the opening of the cave, looked back at his partner once more, and then headed back to the beach.
He spent the next several hours alternating between trying the communicators and checking up on Illya, making sure he had fresh fruits to keep hydrated, as Napoleon wasn’t entirely sure of the quality of the spring water. The American was still trying to contact U.N.C.L.E. by the time the sun had gone down and the moon had risen.
“Napoleon?” he heard Illya call.
“Over here!” Napoleon called back.
Illya soon found him, resting on a nearby rock on the beach, the bright moonlight practically illuminating his hair.
“Ah… how are you feeling?” Napoleon asked.
“Much better, thank you,” Illya said, looking at Napoleon with sincere eyes.
“Oh, good.”
“No, Napoleon. I mean… thank you.”
Napoleon smiled.
“Anytime, Tovarisch.”
“I heard you.”
“Hmm?”
“In the cave. What you were saying. I thank you for continuing to trust me even after whatever Broker might have said to you.” Illya gave a wan smile as Napoleon gave a start. “It’s alright, Napoleon; I would have expected Broker to try to turn you against me. What did he say?”
“…You don’t want to know.”
“Da, you are probably right.”
Any further discussion was sidelined by Napoleon’s communicator finally whistling in response to a call. At last, Napoleon got through and requested an extraction, as well as instructing the trackers on Moran’s boat to be monitored.
He sighed as he placed the communicator back down.
“Well, we’ve got another hour to kill before the Honolulu branch extracts us,” he said. “I guess we’ll just pay attention to wherever Moran is headed next after this.”
“I am only sorry that he knows your face now,” Illya said.
“Yeah, but he doesn’t know that I know he’s the Baron; he just thinks I’m after him because of whatever secrets he tried to get from you,” Napoleon said. “We’re so close, Illya. Two and a half years’ worth of work, and we’re so close.”
“Most of that work was yours,” Illya pointed out.
“Yeah, well… now it’s ours. And I’d like it if…” Napoleon trailed off, glancing back at his partner, who was looking back at him intently. “…I’d be honored if…” He trailed off again, searching for words.
“If I were to continue this endeavor with you?”
“…Yeah,” Napoleon said.
“I would consider it an honor to continue working with you, as well,” Illya said, sincerely.
Napoleon grinned, and Illya smiled back, and the two of them continued to chat idly until backup came to get them back to Oahu.
Moran may have eluded them once again, but they would try again—determined to one day stop him, together.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2016-08-28 12:38 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2016-08-28 12:42 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2016-08-28 01:23 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2016-08-28 07:54 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2016-08-29 07:41 am (UTC)I've not read the previous parts, which I really must do, but this was certainly exciting and well written. Nice work!
no subject
Date: 2016-08-29 08:08 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2016-08-29 08:09 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2016-08-29 08:09 pm (UTC)