Requiem of Spirit (non-challenge fic)
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section7mfuMy first of two presents for Roberts's birthday...
Title: Requiem of Spirit
Rating: PG13
Word count: ~4000
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 "Nocturne of Shadow" I posted in September--and the conclusion (yes, we've reached the end!) of the "Baron of THRUSH" arc.
Illya paused as he entered the apartment and saw Napoleon talking on the phone. Illya knew that their intel had reported that Moran was heading to Niagara Falls; was there a change in their information?
Upon closer inspection, however, it was clear that the conversation Napoleon was having was casual, and Illya backed away towards the hall, not wanting to intrude on his partner’s conversation. But Napoleon waved him back in; clearly, it wasn’t a conversation that his partner minded being overheard.
“Yeah, Ma, I know I haven’t been home in a while,” Napoleon was saying.
Illya glanced back at Napoleon in spite of himself; having had no family of his own, he hadn’t given much thought to Napoleon’s family, even though his partner had mentioned having parents and an aunt. And now, on the eve of a mission, Napoleon’s mother was chiding him for not having visited? If it wasn’t for the fact that their mission was a dire one, the situation would have been amusing.
“OK, Ma, look, I’ve got some things to do, but if everything works out, I’ll swing by for a visit,” Napoleon promised. “Tell Dad I said hi. Huh? Will I be bringing someone with me? Ah… Can I get back to you on that, Ma?” Napoleon’s face took on an embarrassed grin as Mrs. Solo said something that Illya couldn’t hear, but he could quickly surmise as Napoleon glanced at him with a shrug and added, “Yes, Ma, I’ll let Illya know that he’s welcome to visit us at any time.”
Illya turned away, blushing slightly. He knew from Napoleon that Mr. and Mrs. Solo had been extending him an invitation for months now, but he had not wanted to impose, and so had politely declined each time.
“Yes, Ma, I’ll try my very best to convince him this time,” Napoleon sighed. “Okay, I’ll talk to you later. …Love you, too, Ma. Bye.”
“She has been trying very hard to get me to accept her invitation,” Illya commented, as Napoleon put the phone down.
“Yeah, she has been,” Napoleon said. “I’ve told her and Dad a lot about you; they would like to meet you, you know.”
“I could not impose on your parents, Napoleon,” Illya said, shaking his head. “And would it not be premature to introduce me to them when we still do not know if I will be called back to Berlin after this mission—assuming we succeed?”
Napoleon sighed again.
“That’s why you’ve been turning down the invite each time?”
“Well… yes. And besides, we have other matters to concern ourselves with now than worrying about invitations.”
“Well, you have a point there,” Napoleon admitted. “I’m all packed, and Mr. Waverly has a private charter plane for us this time—he doesn’t want THRUSH knowing that we know where the Baron is.”
“I have everything I need, as well,” Illya nodded, holding up his own bag. “Including the climbing equipment.” He shook his head. “Are you certain you wish to climb the Horseshoe Falls, Napoleon? It is fifty meters straight up!”
Napoleon gave a nod.
“The Baron won’t be expecting one of us to climb up the Falls,” he grinned. “Well, the cliffs right beside it, I should say. Look, we know that the only reason the Baron is going to the Falls is because he wants to use the vacationing tourists as his demonstration. I’ll be climbing up the cliff while you stall him, and I’ll tranquilize him the moment I get the chance; all I need you to do is secure one end of the climbing equipment to the railing at the top of the cliff.”
“I will do my best,” Illya said, with a nod. “Mercifully, we know he will not kill me on sight, as he is convinced he can get knowledge of the Russian launch codes from me. I should be able to give you the time you need.”
The grin faded from Napoleon’s face.
“…I didn’t think about that,” he said, honestly. The image returned to his mind from back in May—of Illya beaten and bleeding while dangling from a saltire. “No; it’s too risky for you to be the bait--”
“Napoleon,” Illya said, in a warning tone. “We agreed that we would not let sentiment get in the way of our judgment in this mission. We have no room for error; I thought I had made that very clear!”
“We agreed that we have no room for error, yeah,” Napoleon said. “Sentiment was never a part of the discussion. I’m making a judgment call based on past experiences. Moran didn’t stop to chat with you; he dragged you off and tortured you for information. But he did try to stop and chat with me. I can stall him with minimal risk; he might even try to persuade me to join him again.”
“And can you honestly tell me that sentiment doesn’t play even the slightest part in your decision?” Illya asked. Napoleon didn’t answer; he just glanced back at Illya awkwardly, and Illya shook his head. “Napoleon, as agents, our lives are expendable, especially in cases like this, with so much at stake. If I am to be tortured or even killed trying to prevent a global war, then so be it.”
“Even if we are expendable, it doesn’t mean that we don’t try to have us both come back alive,” Napoleon countered.
Illya exhaled.
“Perhaps, Napoleon, if I am called back to Berlin after this, it is for the best,” he said, quietly. “Perhaps I am not the kind of partner you can depend upon after all.”
“What? No…! Illya, I trust you with my life!”
“Do you really think you should?”
“Yes, I do,” Napoleon said, without hesitation. “Illya, I thought we had a good thing going here.”
“So did I.”
“Then why are you suddenly doubting things now? Is it really because of losing the Baron last time? I don’t think it is—at least not entirely. What else is bothering you?”
Illya glanced back at him now; he looked as though he was about to say something, but then shook his head.
“This is not the time,” he declared. “We must get to Canada right away.”
Napoleon sighed, but followed Illya out the door, worried that even if this mission was successful, he might end up losing a valuable partner regardless.
****************************************
The both of them were quiet on the way to Niagara; it was quite unlike their other lively conversations in the past several months since their first meeting. It was becoming clearer to Napoleon now that the end of this mission would be bringing about the end of their partnership. He had been beginning to think that he could have convinced Illya to stay; but it was clear now that for whatever reasons, Illya just didn’t think it would work. And Napoleon knew that he couldn’t force him to stay.
He sighed and forced himself to pay attention to the situation at hand once they arrived.
“Alright,” he said, once they had landed and arrived near the Canadian side of the falls. “We don’t know exactly how the Baron is going to strike—only that he will, and it has to be from this upper observation walkway by the falls, as that is where there’ll be the greatest concentration of tourists.”
“Is it not possible to evacuate the area?” Illya asked.
“He would regroup—strike at another time, or at another target,” Napoleon said, shaking his head. “He’s eager to make his move as soon as possible; that desperation is our once chance of his guard being lowered.”
Illya sighed, looking at all the carefree tourists milling about them already.
“It’s a very dangerous game, Napoleon.”
“Believe me, if I could get them out of here without alerting him to the fact that we know he’s here, I would,” Napoleon replied. “Okay, you need to get down there are start climbing up. It’ll be dark soon, and they’ll be lighting up the Falls for the light show. That’s when he’s most likely to strike—while everyone is distracted by the lights.”
“I see,” Illya said. He hesitated. “You are sure that you want to confront him and have me climb from below?”
“Yes, and that’s my final decision on the matter. I’ll take the high road and you take the low road. I’ll attach the end of the rope to the railing; you’ll be ready to climb it as soon as you’re ready.”
Illya shook his head.
“Look, if you have a better idea--” Napoleon began.
“I don’t,” Illya said. “I am only hoping that you will keep the goal of the mission in sight.”
“I know the stakes, Illya,” Napoleon said, glancing back at the Russian. “I just wish you’d trust me as much as I trust you.”
Illya blinked in surprise, and he looked as though he was about to say something, but thought better of it. He shook his head and headed down the lower walkway towards the bottom of the falls.
Napoleon sighed, regretting being slightly sharp towards Illya. Perhaps it wasn’t the Russian’s problem after all; maybe it was Napoleon’s problem. Why else had he never been able to hold onto a partner all these months? That Illya had lasted this long was a miracle.
“…Perhaps Solo is better off solo,” he muttered. But, at the same time, how could he say goodbye to Illya and pretend as though the last several months had meant nothing?
He pushed the thought aside, found the perfect place in the railing to attach the rope, and then did so, unobtrusively, securing it tightly and then strapping it down with leather straps for good measure.
It was as he was waiting—watching for the rope going taught as Illya began to climb it—that Napoleon noticed something small near the upper bar of the railing. It looked like a small piece of tubing running up the perpendicular post that he had tied the rope to; the open end of the tube was resting just beneath the upper bar.
Napoleon looked beside him at the perpendicular posts holding up the upper bar; all of them had the same small pieces of tubing ending just beneath the bar. A quick look up and down the railings showed that others, also, had that same piece of tubing.
Napoleon paled, knowing that they could only meant for one thing. He grabbed his communicator and called for backup; Moran had progressed further than he had thought.
There was no time to waste, he decided, as he climbed over the railing and began to follow the tubing to the edge of the cliff overlooking the Falls. Small, pressurized canisters of gas were dangling from the ends of the tubes. Beyond them, he could see Illya climbing slowly up the rope, unware of the existence of the paralytic gas canisters; there would be no chance to call him on the communicator while he was climbing. Napoleon would have to find a way to stop them on his own before Moran activated them. But he was soon faced with a daunting challenge—finding a way to stop them all.
There are too many of them, Napoleon silently realized. Even if I tried, I couldn’t take them all down. …And Moran can’t activate them all at once unless he has some way of doing it remotely…
He heard a scramble of dirt behind him and he turned around, freezing as he saw Moran standing there, a gun in one hand and a key in the other.
“Throw your weapon over the cliff, Solo,” Moran ordered. “Or else, I will shoot the Russian.”
“You wouldn’t,” Napoleon said. “You need him for his knowledge of the launch codes; you’re that desperate.”
“Not anymore,” Moran said. “In a matter of minutes, the Soviets will soon see what I have in store for them if they do not hand over the launch codes. That makes your partner completely worthless.”
He casually aimed over the cliff and fired; Illya let out a cry as the bullet grazed his left arm.
“NO!” Napoleon yelled, looking over the edge. Illya was holding onto the rope for dear life with his good hand, looking up at him, though he was still too far away for Napoleon to see the expression on his face.
“Toss your weapon off of the cliff,” Moran said again. “Or my next bullet goes through his heart. Three… two…”
Napoleon threw his Special off of the cliff and raised his hands, scowling at Moran as he chuckled.
“So, you, see, Solo? Every man does have his price.” He kept the gun trained on Illya as he backed away slightly, and pushed aside a fake rock by the edge of the cliff that had hidden some sort of electronic device beneath it. “I have no doubt that you have already summoned for help; I must make my move now.”
Napoleon saw him kneel beside the device, holding the key that was in his hand; clearly, it was the key that activated the gas canisters. Napoleon didn’t stop to wonder how it worked; he only knew that he had a limited window of opportunity—and he got it as Moran looked away for a second, just to search for the spot on the device to insert the key.
He dove forward and tackled Moran to the ground, right on the edge of the cliff, trying to grab the gun and the key from his hands; Moran was already fighting back, kneeing Napoleon in the stomach. Napoleon cringed, but kept on fighting.
Was that Illya’s voice yelling something? He couldn’t tell from the roar of the waterfall; and soon, it didn’t matter. Napoleon now bit Moran’s arm, and by reflex, the THRUSH leader dropped the key from his hand; it bounced off the cliff and disappeared into the falling torrent, but Moran lunged for it, and went too far over the edge—and Napoleon, now going for the gun, hadn’t let go of him in time as gravity took hold of them, pulling them down off the cliff, soaking them in the falling water as they fell with it. An icy cold hand of fear gripped Napoleon as he fell, and he shut his eyes, bracing for impact.
And for Illya Kuryakin, still dangling from the climbing rope with one hand, the whole thing played out in one horrific moment after another as time seemed to stand still—Napoleon throwing his Special away… Napoleon grappling with Moran… The both of them, falling with the water…
“Nyet! NYET!” Illya had yelled, but his voice had gotten lost in the roar of the water as he saw his partner and the Baron plunge into the water at the bottom of the falls.
He was attempting to ungainly climb down the rope with his wounded arm when, as he glanced back down, he saw Napoleon break the surface of the water for a moment, a wide-eyed look of shock on his face before he went back under.
“Napoleon!?” Illya called, knowing that his voice wouldn’t have been heard.
Alive… He was alive! He had survived falling from the Horseshoe Falls unprotected—not impossible, but Illya hadn’t dared to hope…!
Illya now scrambled down the rope until he was close enough to remove the belaying clip and allow himself to fall the rest of the way into the frigid water. As he was underwater, he saw Moran, unmoving and sinking, and then Napoleon, wide-eyed and flailing in a panic. He swam over to Napoleon, wrapped his arms around him, and pulled him to the surface.
Napoleon gasped for breath as they broke the surface again; he was shaking violently, and Illya now swam to the bank, pulling his partner up with him.
“Napoleon!” Illya exclaimed. “Napoleon, you…”
He trailed off as Napoleon didn’t seem to hear him; his partner was staring blankly ahead, hyperventilating, and still shivering. Illya glanced at him, then to the Falls, the cold water at the bottom, and then back to Napoleon.
“…Oh, Napoleon…” he said, sympathetically.
He held his shaking partner close, trying to keep him warm. Napoleon didn’t react at all; it was as though he wasn’t aware of Illya’s presence. Illya softly tried to talk to him as U.N.C.L.E. boats and helicopters approached.
****************************************
It was a long, difficult wait for Illya as U.N.C.L.E., deciding that Napoleon needed medical aid as soon as possible, opted that he be sent to the nearest hospital rather than flown back to HQ and Medical.
As other U.N.C.L.E. agents cleaned up Moran’s mess—including recovering his body from the bottom of the falls—Illya received treatment for his arm, and then waited to hear about Napoleon.
At last, the doctor approached Illya, whose arm was in a sling.
“How is he?” the Russian asked.
“Insanely lucky,” the doctor said. “Well, physically, at least; his leg is a bit twisted and he has some cuts and bruising, but he has no major internal injuries and should recover—again, physically.”
Illya did not looked relieved.
“Your insistence upon repeating ‘physical’ suggests that there is something wrong with him in some other aspect.”
“Mr. Solo appears to be in a stupor; I had our psychiatrist take a look at him,” the doctor admitted. “He underwent a highly traumatic experience; his current state has been brought about by an acute stress reaction. Psychological shock.”
Illya’s heart sank; he had already jumped to that conclusion after Napoleon had failed to even acknowledge his presence after Illya had pulled him from the water. Now, only one question remained…
“How long will it last?” he asked.
“The psychiatrist says there’s no way of knowing for certain,” the doctor said. “It can be anywhere from a few hours to…”
“You needn’t go on,” Illya said. “Please… I would like to see him.”
“Room 139,” the doctor said, pointing it out.
Illya nodded and thanked him, and then knocked on the door of the room.
“Napoleon?” he asked.
There was no answer; he knew not to expect one, so he opened the door carefully, pausing as he saw Napoleon sitting up in the bed in pajamas, staring blankly ahead. A transistor radio that one of the nurses had left was playing some holiday music, but Napoleon didn’t seem to be listening to it. Though Illya crossed his line of sight, he didn’t react, and he didn’t say anything as Illya sat beside him and gently touched his hand.
“Napoleon, it’s me—Illya. Your partner.” Illya swallowed the growing lump in his throat and continued. “I do not think you realize what you have done today, Napoleon. The Baron is dead—his plan to demonstrate the paralytic gas to intimidate my people was stopped, because of you. You did what you set out to do, Napoleon—protected the world from the Baron, sent THRUSH scurrying without their leader. For nearly three years, you worked to stop him, and you succeeded.” Illya gently placed a hand on Napoleon’s cheek. “But at what cost? Had you left me behind in Monte Carlo, you could have achieved this without ending up like this in the process.” His heart twisted as Napoleon shut his eyes tightly; was he recalling something from his trauma? “Oh, Napoleon, forgive me—please, forgive me…! I doubted you today—doubted that you would to what it took to stop the Baron, but not only did you do what had to be done, you did so in a way that saved the innocent tourists and me…! Your concern was not your weakness; it was your weapon…”
Napoleon still kept his eyes closed, trembling again slightly.
“You did what I was afraid I could not do,” Illya admitted. “You asked me why I had been wanting to return to Berlin since what happened at Dunkel Schloss. It was not merely because I was afraid that that sentiment was getting in the way of our mission. This past year has been an eye-opening experience, Napoleon. I was never partnered with someone for this long. And to know you, Napoleon… is to love you. I was afraid of it ending in some horrible way, so I wanted to end it on my terms. But I cannot bring myself to go back now; you… You have grown on me too much. Please, Napoleon… Return to your old self. I will do anything you ask of me—stay here in New York as your partner, visit your family… Just… return to the way you were.”
Illya then sat back in the chair and sighed. He would still stay in New York, he determined. Napoleon would need looking after, and Illya owed him that much, at least—Napoleon had treated him with an immediate, unexpected kindness, had looked after him, trusted him, and had been willing to take a fall from the cliff to save his life… Napoleon would not have done that had his heart not been filled with the same love and concern that Illya had felt for him.
“You must have felt the same way,” Illya said.
“‘Course I do,” he heard Napoleon murmur.
Illya froze and, slowly, dared to look back at Napoleon. His eyes were open again, but now they were in focus, searching the room with growing questions in his face.
“Napoleon?” Illya asked.
“Uh-huh?” Napoleon asked, still trying to take in the room. Once he was satisfied, he looked back into Illya’s eyes. “….I fell off a cliff and down the waterfall?”
“You… you remember?”
“…I think it’s going to be a long, long time before I forget… something like that…!” Napoleon exclaimed.
His vital signs were rapidly increasing, and Illya now gently placed his good hand on Napoleon’s shoulder to calm him.
“You are safe now,” Illya promised. “The Baron--”
“—Is dead,” Napoleon finished. “I know; you just said so.”
Illya hesitated for a moment.
“…Exactly what else did you hear me say?”
Before Napoleon could answer, Illya’s communicator started whistling; the Russian answered.
“Kuryakin here,” he said.
“Mr. Kuryakin?” Mr. Waverly asked. “I just received the report from the other field agents and the doctor.”
“The news you have received is slightly out of date, Sir,” Illya said. “I am pleased to report that Mr. Solo’s condition has improved considerably.”
“Excellent, excellent. And I presume that everything regarding the Baron has not changed?”
“No, Sir,” Illya said. “He is quite dead, and the other agents have dismantled his gas contraptions.”
“Then it would appear that congratulations are in order. That goes for you, too, Mr. Solo—can you hear me?”
“Ah, yes, Sir.”
“Then you’ll both be pleased to know that you’re due for a significant promotion on the basis of this meritorious success—presuming, of course, that Mr. Kuryakin decides to stay. I’ll let the two of you discuss that along with your mission report; in the meantime, I suggest you both focus on your recovery.”
“We will, Sir,” Illya said. He closed the channel and glanced back at Napoleon, who still seemed to be shaking; mercifully, his eyes were focusing on Illya. “Napoleon?”
“I… I’m just… Trying to grasp it,” Napoleon admitted. “The Baron is dead, I fell off a cliff, and now we’re getting promoted?”
“You deserve the promotion more than I,” Illya said.
“…Then you’re really going back to Berlin?” Napoleon asked.
Illya grasped Napoleon’s hand again.
“If you would prefer that I stay here, then I will,” Illya said. “A moment ago, I promised you that I would do anything you wished if it would mean your recovery. I do not believe in miracles; I have no explanation for what just happened. But I am a man of my word and will honor it.”
“I wouldn’t want to force you to do anything you didn’t want to do,” Napoleon said. “But I would want you to stay—and visit my family.” He managed a smile. “To know you is to love you, too.”
Illya blinked, but then smiled.
“Then I will stay,” he promised. “I think I will be quite happy here with you.”
Napoleon now drew him in a slightly shaky hug, taking care not to hurt Illya’s wounded arm.
“I know it,” he said.
Neither of them knew what the future held; this quest was now over, but new ones would soon be ahead. And they would be facing them together as partners—and neither of them could ask for anything more.
Title: Requiem of Spirit
Rating: PG13
Word count: ~4000
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 "Nocturne of Shadow" I posted in September--and the conclusion (yes, we've reached the end!) of the "Baron of THRUSH" arc.
Illya paused as he entered the apartment and saw Napoleon talking on the phone. Illya knew that their intel had reported that Moran was heading to Niagara Falls; was there a change in their information?
Upon closer inspection, however, it was clear that the conversation Napoleon was having was casual, and Illya backed away towards the hall, not wanting to intrude on his partner’s conversation. But Napoleon waved him back in; clearly, it wasn’t a conversation that his partner minded being overheard.
“Yeah, Ma, I know I haven’t been home in a while,” Napoleon was saying.
Illya glanced back at Napoleon in spite of himself; having had no family of his own, he hadn’t given much thought to Napoleon’s family, even though his partner had mentioned having parents and an aunt. And now, on the eve of a mission, Napoleon’s mother was chiding him for not having visited? If it wasn’t for the fact that their mission was a dire one, the situation would have been amusing.
“OK, Ma, look, I’ve got some things to do, but if everything works out, I’ll swing by for a visit,” Napoleon promised. “Tell Dad I said hi. Huh? Will I be bringing someone with me? Ah… Can I get back to you on that, Ma?” Napoleon’s face took on an embarrassed grin as Mrs. Solo said something that Illya couldn’t hear, but he could quickly surmise as Napoleon glanced at him with a shrug and added, “Yes, Ma, I’ll let Illya know that he’s welcome to visit us at any time.”
Illya turned away, blushing slightly. He knew from Napoleon that Mr. and Mrs. Solo had been extending him an invitation for months now, but he had not wanted to impose, and so had politely declined each time.
“Yes, Ma, I’ll try my very best to convince him this time,” Napoleon sighed. “Okay, I’ll talk to you later. …Love you, too, Ma. Bye.”
“She has been trying very hard to get me to accept her invitation,” Illya commented, as Napoleon put the phone down.
“Yeah, she has been,” Napoleon said. “I’ve told her and Dad a lot about you; they would like to meet you, you know.”
“I could not impose on your parents, Napoleon,” Illya said, shaking his head. “And would it not be premature to introduce me to them when we still do not know if I will be called back to Berlin after this mission—assuming we succeed?”
Napoleon sighed again.
“That’s why you’ve been turning down the invite each time?”
“Well… yes. And besides, we have other matters to concern ourselves with now than worrying about invitations.”
“Well, you have a point there,” Napoleon admitted. “I’m all packed, and Mr. Waverly has a private charter plane for us this time—he doesn’t want THRUSH knowing that we know where the Baron is.”
“I have everything I need, as well,” Illya nodded, holding up his own bag. “Including the climbing equipment.” He shook his head. “Are you certain you wish to climb the Horseshoe Falls, Napoleon? It is fifty meters straight up!”
Napoleon gave a nod.
“The Baron won’t be expecting one of us to climb up the Falls,” he grinned. “Well, the cliffs right beside it, I should say. Look, we know that the only reason the Baron is going to the Falls is because he wants to use the vacationing tourists as his demonstration. I’ll be climbing up the cliff while you stall him, and I’ll tranquilize him the moment I get the chance; all I need you to do is secure one end of the climbing equipment to the railing at the top of the cliff.”
“I will do my best,” Illya said, with a nod. “Mercifully, we know he will not kill me on sight, as he is convinced he can get knowledge of the Russian launch codes from me. I should be able to give you the time you need.”
The grin faded from Napoleon’s face.
“…I didn’t think about that,” he said, honestly. The image returned to his mind from back in May—of Illya beaten and bleeding while dangling from a saltire. “No; it’s too risky for you to be the bait--”
“Napoleon,” Illya said, in a warning tone. “We agreed that we would not let sentiment get in the way of our judgment in this mission. We have no room for error; I thought I had made that very clear!”
“We agreed that we have no room for error, yeah,” Napoleon said. “Sentiment was never a part of the discussion. I’m making a judgment call based on past experiences. Moran didn’t stop to chat with you; he dragged you off and tortured you for information. But he did try to stop and chat with me. I can stall him with minimal risk; he might even try to persuade me to join him again.”
“And can you honestly tell me that sentiment doesn’t play even the slightest part in your decision?” Illya asked. Napoleon didn’t answer; he just glanced back at Illya awkwardly, and Illya shook his head. “Napoleon, as agents, our lives are expendable, especially in cases like this, with so much at stake. If I am to be tortured or even killed trying to prevent a global war, then so be it.”
“Even if we are expendable, it doesn’t mean that we don’t try to have us both come back alive,” Napoleon countered.
Illya exhaled.
“Perhaps, Napoleon, if I am called back to Berlin after this, it is for the best,” he said, quietly. “Perhaps I am not the kind of partner you can depend upon after all.”
“What? No…! Illya, I trust you with my life!”
“Do you really think you should?”
“Yes, I do,” Napoleon said, without hesitation. “Illya, I thought we had a good thing going here.”
“So did I.”
“Then why are you suddenly doubting things now? Is it really because of losing the Baron last time? I don’t think it is—at least not entirely. What else is bothering you?”
Illya glanced back at him now; he looked as though he was about to say something, but then shook his head.
“This is not the time,” he declared. “We must get to Canada right away.”
Napoleon sighed, but followed Illya out the door, worried that even if this mission was successful, he might end up losing a valuable partner regardless.
The both of them were quiet on the way to Niagara; it was quite unlike their other lively conversations in the past several months since their first meeting. It was becoming clearer to Napoleon now that the end of this mission would be bringing about the end of their partnership. He had been beginning to think that he could have convinced Illya to stay; but it was clear now that for whatever reasons, Illya just didn’t think it would work. And Napoleon knew that he couldn’t force him to stay.
He sighed and forced himself to pay attention to the situation at hand once they arrived.
“Alright,” he said, once they had landed and arrived near the Canadian side of the falls. “We don’t know exactly how the Baron is going to strike—only that he will, and it has to be from this upper observation walkway by the falls, as that is where there’ll be the greatest concentration of tourists.”
“Is it not possible to evacuate the area?” Illya asked.
“He would regroup—strike at another time, or at another target,” Napoleon said, shaking his head. “He’s eager to make his move as soon as possible; that desperation is our once chance of his guard being lowered.”
Illya sighed, looking at all the carefree tourists milling about them already.
“It’s a very dangerous game, Napoleon.”
“Believe me, if I could get them out of here without alerting him to the fact that we know he’s here, I would,” Napoleon replied. “Okay, you need to get down there are start climbing up. It’ll be dark soon, and they’ll be lighting up the Falls for the light show. That’s when he’s most likely to strike—while everyone is distracted by the lights.”
“I see,” Illya said. He hesitated. “You are sure that you want to confront him and have me climb from below?”
“Yes, and that’s my final decision on the matter. I’ll take the high road and you take the low road. I’ll attach the end of the rope to the railing; you’ll be ready to climb it as soon as you’re ready.”
Illya shook his head.
“Look, if you have a better idea--” Napoleon began.
“I don’t,” Illya said. “I am only hoping that you will keep the goal of the mission in sight.”
“I know the stakes, Illya,” Napoleon said, glancing back at the Russian. “I just wish you’d trust me as much as I trust you.”
Illya blinked in surprise, and he looked as though he was about to say something, but thought better of it. He shook his head and headed down the lower walkway towards the bottom of the falls.
Napoleon sighed, regretting being slightly sharp towards Illya. Perhaps it wasn’t the Russian’s problem after all; maybe it was Napoleon’s problem. Why else had he never been able to hold onto a partner all these months? That Illya had lasted this long was a miracle.
“…Perhaps Solo is better off solo,” he muttered. But, at the same time, how could he say goodbye to Illya and pretend as though the last several months had meant nothing?
He pushed the thought aside, found the perfect place in the railing to attach the rope, and then did so, unobtrusively, securing it tightly and then strapping it down with leather straps for good measure.
It was as he was waiting—watching for the rope going taught as Illya began to climb it—that Napoleon noticed something small near the upper bar of the railing. It looked like a small piece of tubing running up the perpendicular post that he had tied the rope to; the open end of the tube was resting just beneath the upper bar.
Napoleon looked beside him at the perpendicular posts holding up the upper bar; all of them had the same small pieces of tubing ending just beneath the bar. A quick look up and down the railings showed that others, also, had that same piece of tubing.
Napoleon paled, knowing that they could only meant for one thing. He grabbed his communicator and called for backup; Moran had progressed further than he had thought.
There was no time to waste, he decided, as he climbed over the railing and began to follow the tubing to the edge of the cliff overlooking the Falls. Small, pressurized canisters of gas were dangling from the ends of the tubes. Beyond them, he could see Illya climbing slowly up the rope, unware of the existence of the paralytic gas canisters; there would be no chance to call him on the communicator while he was climbing. Napoleon would have to find a way to stop them on his own before Moran activated them. But he was soon faced with a daunting challenge—finding a way to stop them all.
There are too many of them, Napoleon silently realized. Even if I tried, I couldn’t take them all down. …And Moran can’t activate them all at once unless he has some way of doing it remotely…
He heard a scramble of dirt behind him and he turned around, freezing as he saw Moran standing there, a gun in one hand and a key in the other.
“Throw your weapon over the cliff, Solo,” Moran ordered. “Or else, I will shoot the Russian.”
“You wouldn’t,” Napoleon said. “You need him for his knowledge of the launch codes; you’re that desperate.”
“Not anymore,” Moran said. “In a matter of minutes, the Soviets will soon see what I have in store for them if they do not hand over the launch codes. That makes your partner completely worthless.”
He casually aimed over the cliff and fired; Illya let out a cry as the bullet grazed his left arm.
“NO!” Napoleon yelled, looking over the edge. Illya was holding onto the rope for dear life with his good hand, looking up at him, though he was still too far away for Napoleon to see the expression on his face.
“Toss your weapon off of the cliff,” Moran said again. “Or my next bullet goes through his heart. Three… two…”
Napoleon threw his Special off of the cliff and raised his hands, scowling at Moran as he chuckled.
“So, you, see, Solo? Every man does have his price.” He kept the gun trained on Illya as he backed away slightly, and pushed aside a fake rock by the edge of the cliff that had hidden some sort of electronic device beneath it. “I have no doubt that you have already summoned for help; I must make my move now.”
Napoleon saw him kneel beside the device, holding the key that was in his hand; clearly, it was the key that activated the gas canisters. Napoleon didn’t stop to wonder how it worked; he only knew that he had a limited window of opportunity—and he got it as Moran looked away for a second, just to search for the spot on the device to insert the key.
He dove forward and tackled Moran to the ground, right on the edge of the cliff, trying to grab the gun and the key from his hands; Moran was already fighting back, kneeing Napoleon in the stomach. Napoleon cringed, but kept on fighting.
Was that Illya’s voice yelling something? He couldn’t tell from the roar of the waterfall; and soon, it didn’t matter. Napoleon now bit Moran’s arm, and by reflex, the THRUSH leader dropped the key from his hand; it bounced off the cliff and disappeared into the falling torrent, but Moran lunged for it, and went too far over the edge—and Napoleon, now going for the gun, hadn’t let go of him in time as gravity took hold of them, pulling them down off the cliff, soaking them in the falling water as they fell with it. An icy cold hand of fear gripped Napoleon as he fell, and he shut his eyes, bracing for impact.
And for Illya Kuryakin, still dangling from the climbing rope with one hand, the whole thing played out in one horrific moment after another as time seemed to stand still—Napoleon throwing his Special away… Napoleon grappling with Moran… The both of them, falling with the water…
“Nyet! NYET!” Illya had yelled, but his voice had gotten lost in the roar of the water as he saw his partner and the Baron plunge into the water at the bottom of the falls.
He was attempting to ungainly climb down the rope with his wounded arm when, as he glanced back down, he saw Napoleon break the surface of the water for a moment, a wide-eyed look of shock on his face before he went back under.
“Napoleon!?” Illya called, knowing that his voice wouldn’t have been heard.
Alive… He was alive! He had survived falling from the Horseshoe Falls unprotected—not impossible, but Illya hadn’t dared to hope…!
Illya now scrambled down the rope until he was close enough to remove the belaying clip and allow himself to fall the rest of the way into the frigid water. As he was underwater, he saw Moran, unmoving and sinking, and then Napoleon, wide-eyed and flailing in a panic. He swam over to Napoleon, wrapped his arms around him, and pulled him to the surface.
Napoleon gasped for breath as they broke the surface again; he was shaking violently, and Illya now swam to the bank, pulling his partner up with him.
“Napoleon!” Illya exclaimed. “Napoleon, you…”
He trailed off as Napoleon didn’t seem to hear him; his partner was staring blankly ahead, hyperventilating, and still shivering. Illya glanced at him, then to the Falls, the cold water at the bottom, and then back to Napoleon.
“…Oh, Napoleon…” he said, sympathetically.
He held his shaking partner close, trying to keep him warm. Napoleon didn’t react at all; it was as though he wasn’t aware of Illya’s presence. Illya softly tried to talk to him as U.N.C.L.E. boats and helicopters approached.
It was a long, difficult wait for Illya as U.N.C.L.E., deciding that Napoleon needed medical aid as soon as possible, opted that he be sent to the nearest hospital rather than flown back to HQ and Medical.
As other U.N.C.L.E. agents cleaned up Moran’s mess—including recovering his body from the bottom of the falls—Illya received treatment for his arm, and then waited to hear about Napoleon.
At last, the doctor approached Illya, whose arm was in a sling.
“How is he?” the Russian asked.
“Insanely lucky,” the doctor said. “Well, physically, at least; his leg is a bit twisted and he has some cuts and bruising, but he has no major internal injuries and should recover—again, physically.”
Illya did not looked relieved.
“Your insistence upon repeating ‘physical’ suggests that there is something wrong with him in some other aspect.”
“Mr. Solo appears to be in a stupor; I had our psychiatrist take a look at him,” the doctor admitted. “He underwent a highly traumatic experience; his current state has been brought about by an acute stress reaction. Psychological shock.”
Illya’s heart sank; he had already jumped to that conclusion after Napoleon had failed to even acknowledge his presence after Illya had pulled him from the water. Now, only one question remained…
“How long will it last?” he asked.
“The psychiatrist says there’s no way of knowing for certain,” the doctor said. “It can be anywhere from a few hours to…”
“You needn’t go on,” Illya said. “Please… I would like to see him.”
“Room 139,” the doctor said, pointing it out.
Illya nodded and thanked him, and then knocked on the door of the room.
“Napoleon?” he asked.
There was no answer; he knew not to expect one, so he opened the door carefully, pausing as he saw Napoleon sitting up in the bed in pajamas, staring blankly ahead. A transistor radio that one of the nurses had left was playing some holiday music, but Napoleon didn’t seem to be listening to it. Though Illya crossed his line of sight, he didn’t react, and he didn’t say anything as Illya sat beside him and gently touched his hand.
“Napoleon, it’s me—Illya. Your partner.” Illya swallowed the growing lump in his throat and continued. “I do not think you realize what you have done today, Napoleon. The Baron is dead—his plan to demonstrate the paralytic gas to intimidate my people was stopped, because of you. You did what you set out to do, Napoleon—protected the world from the Baron, sent THRUSH scurrying without their leader. For nearly three years, you worked to stop him, and you succeeded.” Illya gently placed a hand on Napoleon’s cheek. “But at what cost? Had you left me behind in Monte Carlo, you could have achieved this without ending up like this in the process.” His heart twisted as Napoleon shut his eyes tightly; was he recalling something from his trauma? “Oh, Napoleon, forgive me—please, forgive me…! I doubted you today—doubted that you would to what it took to stop the Baron, but not only did you do what had to be done, you did so in a way that saved the innocent tourists and me…! Your concern was not your weakness; it was your weapon…”
Napoleon still kept his eyes closed, trembling again slightly.
“You did what I was afraid I could not do,” Illya admitted. “You asked me why I had been wanting to return to Berlin since what happened at Dunkel Schloss. It was not merely because I was afraid that that sentiment was getting in the way of our mission. This past year has been an eye-opening experience, Napoleon. I was never partnered with someone for this long. And to know you, Napoleon… is to love you. I was afraid of it ending in some horrible way, so I wanted to end it on my terms. But I cannot bring myself to go back now; you… You have grown on me too much. Please, Napoleon… Return to your old self. I will do anything you ask of me—stay here in New York as your partner, visit your family… Just… return to the way you were.”
Illya then sat back in the chair and sighed. He would still stay in New York, he determined. Napoleon would need looking after, and Illya owed him that much, at least—Napoleon had treated him with an immediate, unexpected kindness, had looked after him, trusted him, and had been willing to take a fall from the cliff to save his life… Napoleon would not have done that had his heart not been filled with the same love and concern that Illya had felt for him.
“You must have felt the same way,” Illya said.
“‘Course I do,” he heard Napoleon murmur.
Illya froze and, slowly, dared to look back at Napoleon. His eyes were open again, but now they were in focus, searching the room with growing questions in his face.
“Napoleon?” Illya asked.
“Uh-huh?” Napoleon asked, still trying to take in the room. Once he was satisfied, he looked back into Illya’s eyes. “….I fell off a cliff and down the waterfall?”
“You… you remember?”
“…I think it’s going to be a long, long time before I forget… something like that…!” Napoleon exclaimed.
His vital signs were rapidly increasing, and Illya now gently placed his good hand on Napoleon’s shoulder to calm him.
“You are safe now,” Illya promised. “The Baron--”
“—Is dead,” Napoleon finished. “I know; you just said so.”
Illya hesitated for a moment.
“…Exactly what else did you hear me say?”
Before Napoleon could answer, Illya’s communicator started whistling; the Russian answered.
“Kuryakin here,” he said.
“Mr. Kuryakin?” Mr. Waverly asked. “I just received the report from the other field agents and the doctor.”
“The news you have received is slightly out of date, Sir,” Illya said. “I am pleased to report that Mr. Solo’s condition has improved considerably.”
“Excellent, excellent. And I presume that everything regarding the Baron has not changed?”
“No, Sir,” Illya said. “He is quite dead, and the other agents have dismantled his gas contraptions.”
“Then it would appear that congratulations are in order. That goes for you, too, Mr. Solo—can you hear me?”
“Ah, yes, Sir.”
“Then you’ll both be pleased to know that you’re due for a significant promotion on the basis of this meritorious success—presuming, of course, that Mr. Kuryakin decides to stay. I’ll let the two of you discuss that along with your mission report; in the meantime, I suggest you both focus on your recovery.”
“We will, Sir,” Illya said. He closed the channel and glanced back at Napoleon, who still seemed to be shaking; mercifully, his eyes were focusing on Illya. “Napoleon?”
“I… I’m just… Trying to grasp it,” Napoleon admitted. “The Baron is dead, I fell off a cliff, and now we’re getting promoted?”
“You deserve the promotion more than I,” Illya said.
“…Then you’re really going back to Berlin?” Napoleon asked.
Illya grasped Napoleon’s hand again.
“If you would prefer that I stay here, then I will,” Illya said. “A moment ago, I promised you that I would do anything you wished if it would mean your recovery. I do not believe in miracles; I have no explanation for what just happened. But I am a man of my word and will honor it.”
“I wouldn’t want to force you to do anything you didn’t want to do,” Napoleon said. “But I would want you to stay—and visit my family.” He managed a smile. “To know you is to love you, too.”
Illya blinked, but then smiled.
“Then I will stay,” he promised. “I think I will be quite happy here with you.”
Napoleon now drew him in a slightly shaky hug, taking care not to hurt Illya’s wounded arm.
“I know it,” he said.
Neither of them knew what the future held; this quest was now over, but new ones would soon be ahead. And they would be facing them together as partners—and neither of them could ask for anything more.
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Date: 2016-11-24 01:21 pm (UTC)I hope to do a fully expanded version of a fic with Napoleon's parents next month!