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Someone has been in Napoleon's apartment. If the abnormal silence from his security system at the door wasn't warning enough, the state of the room beyond leaves no ambiguity. Drawers have been opened and their contents crudely rifled through, ornaments moved and overturned, even furniture has been shifted in places.
In any other home, this would be a burglary, but no ordinary burglar could have deactivated Napoleon's security system so cleanly. Someone was looking for something, and Napoleon has been in this business long enough to identify the signs that the target wasn't valuables or information, but bugs. Whoever's here wants to be sure they're alone.
In the circumstances, the familiar presence Napoleon finds slumped on his sofa explains much less than it might.
"Illya? Well, this is a surprise." Napoleon injects the greeting with a joviality that he doesn't entirely feel. "Why, I haven't seen you since..."
"Not today, Napoleon." Illya does not rise from his seat. His hands are visible, empty. There's nothing playful in his tone. "I regret to inform you," he says, eyes turned to the hands in his lap, "that THRUSH has ordered me to kill you."
The bottom drops out of Napoleon's universe. It's several moments before he manages to speak. "I, ah, I hope you're at least going to offer me a running start."
Illya's eyebrow twitches. "Don't be ridiculous, Napoleon," he scoffs, treating Napoleon to a scornful look that is intimately familiar. "You can't honestly believe I'd do it."
And with that, there's solid ground beneath Napoleon's feet again. Never has he been so glad to see that scathing expression on his favourite enemy spy.
"I'd like to think not, Illya," he says, smiling despite himself. "But you do know how to keep a man guessing." Approaching the sofa, he crouches to bring their eyes to a level. "Where has this come from? They've never gone gunning for me directly before."
"No," Illya agrees. "The prevailing attitude is that you are at least a known quantity, easily distracted and readily handled. They did not bother to inform me when or why that assessment had changed. There has been... some talk of recent upsets in the upper echelons of Central Command, but that is hardly unusual. THRUSH does not as a rule explain their orders."
The 'old assessment' is relatively familiar to Napoleon too. He'd be insulted, given the number of times he's personally foiled their dastardly plans in the past, but being underestimated is too much of an advantage to waste in this business.
"What will you do?" he says. "They aren't exactly known for their willingness to take 'no' for an answer."
"Except from me. My arrangement with THRUSH is predicated on the understanding that I have the right to refuse. I take contracts only at my own discretion. I do not take orders. That they have given me one now..." Illya lets that sentence trail off, allowing the implications to speak for themselves.
Meanwhile, Napoleon's higher faculties are starting to come back online. "This isn't about me, is it?" he guesses. "This is a test. They're testing you."
Illya nods. "Very perceptive. Someone at Central Command is forcing me to pronounce my loyalties, once and for all. It has been made abundantly clear what fate they have in mind for me should I fail."
THRUSH are known to be terribly old-fashioned about that sort of thing. They can hardly expect Illya to present himself for his own execution, and he's certainly stubborn and resourceful enough to elude them for a good long time. Even so, THRUSH has the power and reach to make life very difficult for anyone in their bad graces. Especially someone in Illya's line of work.
As much as it means that Illya would choose him over THRUSH, the question still remains, "What will you do?"
"What can I do?" Illya barely shrugs. "Either I must kill you, or I must accept that I no longer have any allies at THRUSH. And if that is so, I shall need allies of my own. There is only one place I could go." The smile he gives Napoleon is that of the defeated. "You know why I'm here, Napoleon. You always hoped it would end this way."
Hoped? Had he? If Illya is saying what he seems to be saying, this is something Napoleon never dared hope for. His mind reels in self-defence. "THRUSH... they must have had some idea you could react this way," he manages. It's among the reasons why the very idea of their issuing Illya such an order seems so ludicrous. "Are you completely sure they...?"
"Oh, that thought has certainly occurred to me," Illya agrees. "It is a move so perfectly calculated to drive me into your arms that I am intensely suspicious about its providence. But the order did come from THRUSH. It is genuine, I have made very sure of that. It will not be reconsidered or rescinded. And if this is how they have decided to deal with me, it matters not how or why—I must respond in kind. There can be little doubt that I was being watched when I came to your building tonight. They will surely be watching to see who emerges alive. There is only one way forward." Illya looks directly into Napoleon's eyes, his voice terrifyingly steady. "Make the call, Napoleon. I am sure."
Well. What else is there to be done? Napoleon slumps onto the sofa beside Illya; he can't do this on his knees. He's not sure he can do it looking Illya in the face either. His hands do not shake as he fishes his cigarette case from his pocket, opens it, and requests a secure line direct to Number 1 of Section I, maximum priority. He's only barely aware of Illya's fingers tangling with those of his free hand.
"Well, Mr. Solo," Waverly's voice spills clearly from the receiver, "I trust you have a compelling reason for requesting such a high-security line at this hour."
Napoleon wets his lips. He's running on little more than automatic as he begins to speak. "Sir, I've... had a surprise guest tonight. I'm calling you on behalf of a known THRUSH associate who, ah, wants to come in from the cold."
A brief silence across the line makes clear that the weight of Napoleon's words have been felt. "Should I take it," Waverly replies, shortly, "this is a guest of Russian extraction?"
"Yes, sir. It's Illya-"
"Nicovetch Kuryakin."
The interjection comes from Illya himself, his gaze steely and resolute as Napoleon looks at him in surprise. He's known this man for years, but with the exception of a colourful variety of pseudonyms, he's always been just Illya. Never has he so much as hinted at a real identity before.
"Did you get that, sir?" Napoleon speaks into the mouthpiece, though he can't at the moment look away.
"Yes indeed." Waverly cannot see Napoleon's expression, and that may be for the best. "Well, Mr. Solo, I must say I find your use of this line quite justified. Now, would you like to appraise me of the particulars, or would Mr. Kuryakin like to speak with me directly?"
Within ten minutes, having been duly appraised of all particulars, Mr. Waverly has outlined precisely what they will do next.
Within twenty minutes, anyone watching Napoleon's building would have seen two ambulances and one unmarked car converge in the parking garage beneath the building. Within thirty minutes, they'd be able to watch them leave again, not much the wiser as to how many persons in what state of health had been secreted within which vehicle.
Within forty-five minutes, both Illya and Napoleon have been delivered, alive and well, to the corresponding parking garage below UNCLE HQ.
UNCLE is capable of being remarkably efficient when they need to be.
Napoleon is not invited to participate when they take Illya away for questioning. It's for the best. In exchange for freedom from prosecution and protection from his former employers, Illya is very probably about to have to admit to things that may be easier to voice without anyone he cares for as much as Napoleon present. The same would be true of anyone who's been in their business this long, even on Napoleon's side of things.
Napoleon goes to wait in his office instead. Waiting for him on his desk is a slim manilla folder that was not there when he left earlier that evening, labelled with the name 'KURYAKIN, ILLYA NICOVETCH'. Already intrigued, Napoleon hesitates only a moment before falling into his chair and opening it onto his desk.
The documents within lay out sparse biographical details of a Russian national born to modest means in 1933, orphaned young and raised by a grandmother, but excelling in school in a manner that would eventually attract attention. The date and circumstances of his recruitment into the Russian secret services are duly recorded, though the details of his training and service record are predictably incomplete. As Napoleon moves through the available papers, however, he finds Illya Kuryakin himself reduced to little more than a footnote to the greater tale of a once-respected KGB handler who was caught with his fingers in the pie, and who managed to take down everyone beneath him at once in his fall from grace. The names of all but a few of his former agents have been redacted, but all were officially terminated with some finality. Agent Kuryakin's death certificate is brief and suggests no ambiguity.
The folder contains no photographs and little in the way of identifying detail, and yet, it's almost too easy for Napoleon to find glimpses of the Illya he knows everywhere. He's seen Illya naked more times than he can count, but never so exposed as this. This really is a whole new world.
Before he's had long to ruminate on the contents of the folder, however, there are new folders arriving, containing real work to do. Napoleon may be a field agent, but the unglamorous backbone of spy-craft will always be in the collation of raw data, and not even the best of Section II are exempt. Illya has evidently been able to recall a great deal. Already, he's produced a list of financial and strategic THRUSH collaborators among the well-to-do of multiple continents, dutifully transcribed by UNCLE's staff, two columns to a page over multiple pages. There are locations and facilities, some of which Illya is able to give more precise directions for than others. There are codes and protocols, some years out of date, others allegedly very recent. There's work here that could keep a dozen agents of Napoleon's calibre busy for months.
There's no time to be wasted. THRUSH may not know where Illya is or what he's doing, but they have every reason to suspect. Every nugget of information he can offer them may or may not still be true by this time tomorrow.
And it becomes increasingly apparent as Napoleon works—organising and cross-referencing against known intelligence while the stream of information keeps coming in—that Illya is holding little back. Napoleon knew, of course, that Illya had worked for THRUSH for a great many years; had made his name on his integrity, and had been deeply involved in relaying messages to and from many of these collaborators, but the scope of his involvement hinted at in these papers is beyond anything Napoleon had imagined. Illya must know as well as anyone that the only world in which he will ever be safe is one in which THRUSH no longer exists.
And Napoleon is just beginning to wonder if he might actually be capable of giving them enough to make that happen.
It's late enough to be early by the time Illya finally emerges from questioning. He arrives in Napoleon's office looking the very picture of exhaustion and all but collapses into the spare chair with a groan.
"Let you out early, did they?" Napoleon quips. It's not exactly a familiar sight, Illya in his office. It's going to take some getting used to.
"Shut up, Napoleon," Illya grouches, "I have answered enough questions for one night."
"You'll regret that, seeing as my next question was going to be 'are you hungry?'"
"They fed me in the interrogation room. Reasonably well, considering. No-one wanted me to risk my faltering for want of sustenance. I'll be back in there again, tomorrow, or possibly tonight. Whatever time it is when I've had enough sleep to be of some use again."
Napoleon leans on his desk and smiles. "You'll probably be able to get them to feed you more or less whatever you ask for, as long as you keep talking. You're just about UNCLE's favourite person at the moment."
Illya doesn't comment; he's busy taking in the state of Napoleon's desk, now littered with paper and files. "What have you been up to?"
"Oh, the usual." With a rueful smile, Napoleon follows his gaze, only to find his eye drawn back once more to the folder which had been his first delivery of the evening. Despite all he's done since, he'd found himself more than once moving it back to the top of the pile rather than put it away. It takes only a moment's hesitation for him to reach for it again now, and pass it to his guest. "Such as reading the tale of a promising young KGB agent from years past, whose career was cut tragically short."
Intrigued, Illya scans quickly through its contents. "That didn't take long. I suppose they must have had this filed under 'probable but unconfirmed' for some time." The same thought had occurred to Napoleon, at least in passing.
"Hm. I'm impressed," Illya concludes. "This is quite thorough."
Napoleon watches him thumb through the papers for a little longer before giving into temptation. "So what really happened? The only thing it doesn't cover is how you got out alive."
"Not tonight, Napoleon," Illya passes the folder back to him. "That's a longer story, and I've talked long enough today. Suffice to say that once one has been 'confirmed' dead, the authorities may be convinced to ignore a substantial amount of evidence to the contrary, rather than admit their mistake."
It wasn't really an answer, but Napoleon is in no hurry. They'll have time for that, won't they? Certainly neither of them will be leaving this building soon. Not while the advantage of leaving THRUSH to wonder which of them should be confirmed dead or alive far outweighs what good they could do in the field.
"Well, come on, Mr. Kuryakin," he tells Illya. "We could both use some rest."
Illya is not the first 'guest' UNCLE NY has found worthy of a somewhat more comfortable form of protective custody than is provided by the holding cells. Like most of UNCLE's interiors, the room set aside for Napoleon and Illya has no windows, being buried deep in the labyrinthine world of UNCLE's lower levels. Though it could pass as a hotel room, it would make a fairly poor one. It does, however, boast a semi-private bathroom, and a double bed.
The sheets smell fresh; they must have been recently changed. Someone's even laid out some pyjamas for both of them.
"We're not all business, you know," says Napoleon, in answer to Illya's raised eyebrow. He watches Illya begin to formulate a real question, then give up from fatigue.
"At this point, I would sleep anywhere." So saying, Illya collapses bodily onto the near side. Napoleon gives him a smile he doesn't see, tugs the larger set of pyjamas out from under Illya's leg, and makes for the bathroom.
He returns to find Illya changed, but not, as expected, under the covers and already half asleep. Instead, he's sitting on the bed with a pensive expression.
"Bathroom's free," Napoleon offers, making his way to the other side of the bed.
Illya doesn't rise. After a moment, he begins to speak. "Napoleon, you should know I have informed UNCLE that there is one condition upon my continued cooperation. THRUSH will not go down quietly, and an animal is never more dangerous than when it knows it is cornered. UNCLE will have to be prepared to accept considerable casualties in the coming days. Months, I expect. But I have made it known to your superiors that you, specifically, are not to be considered expendable. You may well be willing to sacrifice yourself to rid the world of our enemies, but I am not. I make no promises in the event of your death."
There are a thousand things Napoleon could and possibly should say to that, but he's so unprepared for that particular declaration that none are immediately coming to him. "Illya..."
"Not tonight, Napoleon," Illya shakes his head. "If you wish to argue with me on this matter, it can wait until tomorrow."
Quietly relieved, Napoleon manages a weak smile. "We could both use a few hours of real sleep." Not that sleep is going to be any easier with that bombshell on his mind.
"You are right, but I'm too full of nervous energy to sleep yet," this comes out in a rather different tone. Illya moves to straddle Napoleon's body. "You should help me spend it."
Napoleon is about to protest that he's far too tired to be good for anything before he realises that his body, at least, is in no way too tired to be interested in the fact Illya is in such easy reach. "They do have cameras in this room—internal security, you know," he warns Illya instead. "We're probably being watched right now."
"Good," says Illya, unbuttoning Napoleon's pyjamas, "We can show them all exactly who you belong to."
It's a level more exhibitionism than even the recording they inadvertently created during Illya's last visit to this office, but then, it's not as though anyone at UNCLE has any illusions about their relationship. If Illya isn't bothered, Napoleon decides, he isn't either.
They have, after all, been provided with this lovely bed. It would be a shame to waste it.
Napoleon wakes some hours later to the awareness that he's not alone in bed. It's hard to guess what time it might be; the only light is the dim glow of security lights near the floor, but he judges that he's had at least five hours of sleep. Beside him, Illya lies with his face turned towards the wall, his breathing soft and even, his pale hair faintly gleaming in the light.
This isn't the first time Napoleon has woken up next to Illya, not by a long shot. The very first time, in fact, dates back to the very first... well, that's more of a nostalgia trip than would be wise to indulge in at this time of the morning. But this is the first time he's woken up beside Illya with expectations of being able to do the same again tomorrow. Napoleon tries out the idea, seeing how it fits into the strange new world he's living in.
Soon enough, Illya begins to wake—far too professional a spy to sleep on while being watched. Yawning, he rolls over, towards Napoleon. The look in his eyes as they focus on his bedmate betray little surprise.
"What time is it?" he asks.
"Not sure." Napoleon's watch is on top of a neat pile of his clothes, but at the moment that seems an unnecessarily long way away.
"Hm," Illya murmurs, shifting a little closer. "Well, if they haven't come to get us yet, I suppose we needn't hurry." His fingers land lightly on Napoleon's chest and begin to trace idly through the light dusting of hair over his pectorals. He's probably only half-aware he's even doing it, but Napoleon is hardly going to stop him. It occurs to Napoleon that the fate of the world's single largest criminal organisation hanging in the balance is about what it's going to take to get him out of bed today.
It really is a whole new world. New, and just a little terrifying.
"You don't think this is going to kill the magic for us, do you?" he asks, on a whim.
"This what?" Illya looks at him.
"You know, all of this. The change in circumstances," Napoleon explains. "We could be seeing each other every day for, oh, who knows how long. No more working for opposite sides, no more meetings at gunpoint, no more liaisons in shady hotel rooms..."
Illya sighs and gives him a look. "Really, Napoleon? All these years, you've been at me to join you at UNCLE, and now you're afraid of commitment?"
Napoleon persists. "I'm serious, Illya. It's a whole new ball game from here on out. I'd hate to think that you might get bored with me from overexposure."
"Napoleon, for your sake, I have just broken ranks and made myself a target of the greatest international crime syndicate in history."
"Well..." Even Napoleon's not self-centred enough to imagine that was all about him. "That was also a matter of principle, wasn't it?"
Illya rolls his eyes. "You aren't getting rid of me that easily, Mr. Solo. But I'll tell you what: if you and I both survive the next few years of open THRUSH warfare intact, I will still chain you to the bed once in a while for old time's sake."
Napoleon lets himself grin. "You promise?"
"Maybe," says Illya, impishly. "Stick around long enough, and you'll find out."
Napoleon certainly intends to.