Chapter Text
Edinburgh is bright and cold in the early morning, autumn leaves thick underfoot. There’s a pleasing bite in the air, enough to pink Illya’s cheeks but not enough for him to wrap a scarf around his neck, and he sits on a bench in Princes Street Gardens, book open on his lap, and watches the passersby.
It’s been a long month, a month of chases through the Highlands, attempted drownings in lochs, and a final, gun-heavy confrontation on the Royal Mile at midnight. They got him, though, got Gordon Macpherson on terrorism, counter-espionage, and murder, and he’s currently being bundled away by U.N.C.L.E.’s ex-MI5 agents while the trio that actually caught him takes a moment to breathe.
Illya sits in the cold, and breathes. Scotland in late November is nowhere close to Siberia in January, of course, but there’s something reassuringly familiar in the bite of the wind, the numbness of his fingers. It’s not home, but when the wind is blowing from the east, bringing a deep chill off the Russian Steppes, Illya can almost imagine it is.
“Illya Kuryakin?”
Illya looks up, hand still and flat on his thigh, ready to go for the gun inside his jacket in an instant. There’s a man standing in front of him, hands tucked in the pockets of his greatcoat, red scarf wrapped tight around his neck and tucked into his collar. He’s green-eyed and brown-haired, shorter than Illya but probably a hair taller than Napoleon, and his voice is thick with an American drawl. Illya has never met him before but a part of him already knows who he is. The wariness in the shoulders, the tell-tale bulge under the arm. He’s in the game, probably CIA, given the accent, and Illya says even though he knows the answer already, “Do I know you?”
“No,” the man answers. “No, you don’t.” He pulls his hand out of his pocket, and it’s leather-gloved and empty of a weapon. “David Mann. CIA.”
Illya knows that name. Where does he know that name from? – but, of course. It’s in the file, on the front page, listed under SOURCES. Agent David Mann, CIA, and Illya might have been practically asleep that night in New York but he remembers bits and pieces. One of the agents who caught Napoleon, all those years ago, but who then actually helped him, defended him against Sanders. Their contact in New York, but Illya doesn’t remember much after that because that was when he started crashing hard, the stress and adrenaline of the previous few days draining away and leaving nothing but exhaustion in its wake. He woke up twenty hours later to Gaby and Napoleon sitting in his suite, drinking coffee and eating room service lunch, and there was a lightness in Napoleon’s shoulders that Illya had never seen before.
Illya reaches out, shakes Mann’s hand. “Agent Mann,” he says. “I am sorry I was not able to meet you in New York.”
Mann waves the apology away, takes a seat on the bench next to Illya. “No need to apologise,” he says. “I understand that your team had just completed a tricky mission. I know that feeling.” A smile quirks his lips. “I’ve had a post-mission crash myself a time or two. There’s nothing much to be done about it but just let it happen.”
“Quite,” Illya says, and closes the book in his lap. “Is there something I can help you with, Agent Mann?” Not that he’s not happy to sit and chat with a man who made Napoleon’s life significantly easier at the CIA because sometimes when he thinks about Sanders and all the rest bile rises in his throat and his vision starts to fuzz around the edges, but he guesses that there’s probably a reason a CIA agent who had vital intel on this mission has turned up just as the mission comes to an end. The world of espionage rarely has time for coincidences.
“Yes, actually, there is,” Mann answers, a little wryly. His accent is thicker than Napoleon’s, deeper, more Southern, and he says, “I surveilled Macpherson for three years, and when I heard that your team had finally managed to catch the bastard—nice work in the Trossachs, by the way, I saw the aerial surveillance photos—well, I wanted to come ask for a debrief.” Something flickers across his face, something dark and indefinable. That’s okay, though, because Illya has plenty of dark and indefinable flickers himself “I spent three years of my life on that asshole,” Mann says, voice more heated, more angry, “and you guys caught him in a month. Impressive. Very impressive, but seeing as how I provided you with all that data on him, I have a goddamn investment in Macpherson and I figure I deserve to know how things went down.”
Something isn’t adding up. Agents following up on cases they failed to close isn’t an unusual thing, no, Illya’s done it himself a handful of times, because the ones that get away itch at the back of your mind, itch and pull and scratch, but why has Mann come to him? Illya shifts on the bench. “Why have you come to me?” he asks. “You are CIA, you knew Solo. Why are you not talking to him about this?”
A muscle jumps in Mann’s jaw. “Agent Solo,” he says, bitter and keen, “rejected my request for a debrief. Very rudely, actually. Told me that he’d moved on to better things, that he didn’t need to pander to the whims of some old guy he used to work with.” Mann shakes his head. “Ten years of standing up to that bastard Sanders, risking my own career for him, ten years of working together, of – friendship—” That darkness flickers in his eyes again. “—and this is the thanks I get? Not exactly my idea of a good working relationship.”
Illya frowns and tucks his hands in his pockets. Napoleon doesn’t like the CIA, that Illya knows and understands, because blackmailing someone into service isn’t exactly the best way to recruit effective agents – but Napoleon knows enough about the game to know that burning bridges like that is not a good idea, especially bridges that have helped you across troubled waters in the past. Espionage is about who you know and how well you know them as much as it is about guns and sneaking around darkened buildings at night, and so Napoleon just rejecting an old colleague out of hand is… disappointing. Dangerous, too, and Illya feels something start to burn in his chest, something protective and possessive. Getting on the wrong side of a high-level CIA operative is not a good idea. What was Napoleon thinking?
“I will talk to him,” Illya says, voice thick. “He can be impulsive, illogical. I am sure this can be smoothed over.”
Mann’s shaking his head. “It’s okay,” he says. “That’s not what I’m after here. If Solo wants to cut all ties, then so be it. I won’t feel guilty when he crashes and burns.” The voice is laden with bitterness, with anger, and it’s not unexpected but it is surprising. Allegiances shift and change, they always do, and while it’s not a good idea to cut them entirely it isn’t expected that they will always stay the same. Things change and there’s no point in getting angry about it – but, then again, Illya knows how he’d feel if Napoleon turned around and said no. It would kill him. Napoleon doesn’t like talking about his time under the CIA’s thumb, and he likes talking about the people he worked with even less. Illya’s never pushed because it never seemed relevant, but now? Now he’s wondering if he’s not the first agent to be caught by the exquisite wickedness of Napoleon Solo’s smile.
Something sits unsteady in Illya’s gut.
He stands abruptly, one hand in his pocket, the other curled tight around the spine of his paperback. “I will see that a copy of the report is forward to you at the CIA,” he says shortly, “and I will talk to Agent Solo.”
Mann’s eyes flash in surprise. “Mr Kuryakin—”
“No,” Illya interrupts. “It is okay. I am sorry I cannot stay, but I have preparations to make.” He pauses, just briefly, and nods. “Good to meet you, Agent Mann. Enjoy the city.”
Illya goes, stalking along Princes Street, pushing through the tourists and glowering at the creaking buses. His cap is pulled down low over his eyes, hiding his face from surveillance and hiding his anger from the crowds around him, and if his hands are shaking around the paperback’s pages, well, he’s had plenty of experience with that.
David Mann sits back on the bench in Princes Street Gardens, folds his gloved hands across his stomach, and smiles a festering, victorious smile.
It’s not the idea of Napoleon with someone else that’s the problem, no, Illya’s more than aware of the fact that his partner has a somewhat varied sexual past – and, if he’s honest with himself, a varied sexual present, because the need for a pretty face and a honeyed kiss doesn’t stop just because once he’s done with the mark Napoleon always comes back to Illya’s bed. That’s okay, that’s the job, and sex is sex is sex. What the problem is, though, is the idea that Napoleon could just turn his back on someone he cared for like that, because what happens when he’s had enough of Illya? When Illya gets old or slow or too scarred to hold Napoleon’s interest, does Napoleon just leave?
It’s not far to the Balmoral, the hotel they’ve been staying in since they got back to Edinburgh after their sojourn in Aberdeen, but by the time Illya steps into the lobby his heart is racing in his chest.
Napoleon’s room is on the third floor, with a view of Edinburgh Castle up on the hill. He lets Illya in with a distracted smile, wearing nothing but a towel around his waist, hair wet from the shower and shaving foam still smeared across half his chin. “Give me a minute, Peril,” he says. “Bad timing.” He retreats to the bathroom, and Illya hears the tap start running.
The room is practically scorching after the chill of Scottish autumn. Illya takes off his cap, keeps his jacket on, sits on the sofa and waits for the flood of water to stop. His head is pounding. He’s well aware of the fact that this is not the time for one of his explosive episodes, so he focuses on his breathing, keeps it slow, steady, doesn’t think about needing to be calm just thinks about being calm.
Napoleon emerges from the bathroom six minutes later, clean-shaven and hair slicked back. He’s still wearing nothing but the towel, but it’s nothing Illya hasn’t seen before. “Morning, Peril,” he says brightly. “You’re up early.”
“Not really,” Illya answers. “It is ten o’clock.”
Napoleon shrugs. “It’s the morning after the end of the mission,” he says. “That warrants sleeping in – although it looks like you missed that memo.” He gives Illya a pointed once over. “You’ve been sitting on benches and reading Russian literature again, haven’t you? I thought we talked about this. No Dostoyevsky before lunch.”
Despite the thudding in his head, Illya feels his lips quirk into a smile. “Just because you cannot handle good literature does not mean that I should have to go without.”
Napoleon catches Illya’s gaze, holds it, and then purposefully drops his towel. “I thought we were partners, Peril,” he says, mock-plaintively and completely naked. “I thought we shared everything.”
Illya’s fighting the urge to throw his book at him. The only reason he doesn’t is because Tolstoy deserves better, and he says, “Put some clothes on, Cowboy. Gaby will not be happy if she comes by.”
“I haven’t seen Gaby since we handed Macpherson over to Thompson yesterday,” Napoleon says, now propping his hands on his hips and still not getting dressed. “She’s out enjoying the city, I think. Probably found herself a nice Scottish boy to show her around. She’s not coming here.”
Illya gives him a sharp look. “Get dressed.”
Napoleon’s lips quirk upwards in a sly smile. “So boring,” he says, but goes to the chest of drawers nonetheless.
Illya watches Napoleon dress for a moment, studying the patchwork of scars across his back, the play of the muscles in his arms. He’s spent hours tracing those scars in the dark hours of the night, gripped those muscles so tight and heard Napoleon laugh a breathy, desperate laugh in return, and now all he can think about is not touching those scars, not feeling the strength of those muscles. He’s never been insecure, no, not really, but now he’s wondering whether Napoleon thinks about leaving him behind.
It never occurs to him that maybe that’s exactly what Mann wanted him to think.
“Peril?” Napoleon’s looking at him a little strangely, mostly dressed but still with his shirt undone. He’s finishing off the buttons as he watches Illya, and he says, “Peril, you okay? Looking oddly thoughtful there.”
Illya’s never really been one for keeping secrets. “I met an old colleague of yours from the CIA,” he says.
Napoleon’s forehead furrows, and he flips up his collar, loops a pinstriped green tie around his neck. It’s the same colour as Mann’s eyes, Illya absently reflects, and Napoleon says, “You did? In Edinburgh? Seems unlikely.”
“He came to ask for an update on the Macpherson mission,” Illya says. “Said that he was the agent who supplied us with our intel, that he was interested in hearing how the mission played out, in the end, how we caught him, but that you would not co-operate. That you… rejected him.”
Napoleon has gone very, very still. His tie is a perfect double Windsor, his shirt collar is smoothed down, his hair slicked into its usual perfection, and he stands stock still, socked feet motionless on the carpet. “The agent who supplied our intel,” he repeats. “Did he give you a name?”
Illya knows that stillness. It’s tension and fear and I don’t want to talk about this, Peril, will you just give it a rest? “Mann,” he says, and studies Napoleon’s expression. “David Mann.”
Napoleon’s face shuts down. He’s blank, expressionless. “What did he tell you?”
There’s nothing Illya can deal with less now than Napoleon’s evasiveness, his uncanny ability to duck out from under the question and escape every single consequence the world can throw at him. Illya doesn’t want to be left behind. “Enough,” he says. “That he helped you, and that you threw that help back in his face.”
Something stutters in Napoleon’s eyes, and just for a second he looks almost lost. “What?” he manages.
Illya can feel his heart beating faster again. “You cannot just burn bridges on a whim,” he says. “Sometimes you have to give as well as take. It is not all about you, Napoleon.”
Napoleon doesn’t look lost anymore. Now, his lips are twisted in confusion and something that might almost be pain. “Illya,” he says, and Illya’s name is almost like a plea. “Illya, I don’t understand. Why are you saying this? I didn’t want you to know about Mann, but I never thought this would be how you’d react.”
Illya’s jaw is tight. “How else am I supposed to react?” he asks, short and sharp and pointed.
Napoleon’s expression is shifting faster than quicksilver, confusion to hurt to fear to anger. He takes a step towards Illya, fists balled at his sides, and Illya feels himself tense in response. They both know that he’d win in a fistfight, but that doesn’t mean that Napoleon isn’t about to try. “Damn good partner you are,” Napoleon says, bitter and furious, “if you find out what that man did and this is your response. Damnit, Peril, he—”
The phone rings.
Napoleon’s chest is heaving. He’s looking at Illya like he wants to hit him and like he wants to run, all at once, and without another word he turns on his heel, stalks to the phone. His fingers are white-knuckled around the handset, and he picks it up, says, tight and tense, “Yes?”
Illya can’t hear the voice on the other end of the line. Even if he could, he’d be too tense to listen.
Napoleon frowns. “Speaking,” he says. He listens a moment longer, expression still delineated in confusion, but then his eyes change, his lips shift. He glances to Illya, face suddenly worried, and he says, “What’s her condition?”
Illya’s on his feet in a second. “Gaby?” he says, low and quiet.
Napoleon doesn’t answer, just gives him a sharp nod. “I understand,” he says into the phone. “I’ll be there as soon as I can. Thank you for calling.” He listens a moment longer, then nods, puts the phone down, and turns to Illya. His lips are set in a hard line. “Gaby’s in some village hospital a couple of hours drive outside Edinburgh,” he says, short and to the point. “They found her early this morning, lying half-in the sea, beaten and unconscious.”
Illya’s heart thuds loud in his chest. “What?” he spits.
Napoleon’s eyes are dark. “She’s okay,” he says. “Conscious just long enough to give the doctors my name and the name of the hotel.”
Illya picks up his cap, rams it onto his head. “We go now.”
A muscle jumps in Napoleon’s jaw. “No,” he says flatly. “No, Peril, I’m going. You’re staying here.”
A cold hand closes around Illya’s heart, and he says, “If you think I am waiting around in a hotel while Gaby is—”
Napoleon’s shaking his head. “Someone must have taken her,” he says. “Ending up beaten and hours away from the city isn’t exactly the result of a bad night out. That means someone took her, someone good, so I’m guessing that the Macpherson mission might be as over as we thought it was.” He’s quiet a moment, holding Illya’s gaze, and he’s as bright and intense as he ever is when they’re in the middle of a firefight. “Stay here,” he says. “Track her last movements, you’re better at that than I am. She said she was going to some bar the concierge recommended: start there. I’ll drive out and bring her back. Hopefully we’ll be back inside of four hours, then we can regroup, figure out what’s going on. Find whoever took her and put a bullet between his eyes. Okay?”
Illya’s not sure he wants to be left behind right about now, but there’s an intensity in Napoleon’s eyes that he can’t argue with. “Okay,” he says finally. “I will be back at the hotel in four hours. If I find lead, I will leave a message at reception.”
“Good,” Napoleon says. His jaw is tight, his fists are still clenched, and he’s staring at Illya like Illya just shot him through the heart.
Illya doesn’t understand what’s going on. The mission was supposed to be over, they were supposed to rest and relax and maybe even get some time off before U.N.C.L.E.’s next task, he spent last night in Napoleon’s bed in a frenzy of relief and exhilaration and everything was perfect – and now Gaby’s hurt and Napoleon’s looking at him with eyes that are so angry and so empty. Illya doesn’t understand, but he thinks about Mann and about Napoleon’s capriciousness, about his fleeting touch and his silvered laugh, and he starts, “Napoleon—”
“Don’t,” Napoleon snaps. “I don’t think I can be in the same room as you right now.” His teeth are gritted. “I’ll see you when I get back.”
Napoleon goes. Illya doesn’t stop him.
Illya stays in Napoleon’s room for a long moment, staring at the still-damp towel hung over the back of the desk chair. After a while, he moves, heads downstairs to Gaby’s room, picks the lock because Gaby’s always assiduous about locking her door after that incident in Mumbai, and slips inside without being noticed. He puts the swirl of confusion and the memory of the hurt in Napoleon’s eyes to the back of his mind, focuses on the task at hand, because they can work on fixing whatever’s gone wrong between them when Gaby’s back and safe and they’re out of this city none the worse for wear.
Gaby’s room is halfway between Illya’s pernickety precision and Napoleon’s organised chaos, camel coat hung neatly from the back of the door, shoes stacked messily next to the cupboard, window left open with the curtains billowing. Her bed is made, but it’s the eerie precision of a bed made by housekeeping. It’s not been slept in, so she never made it back here after the bar. That’s data. That’s data he can use. Illya prowls around the room, noting what’s missing—handbag, flat gold pumps, gun: out for the night, wary but not expecting trouble—and what’s not—scarf, gloves, knife: not expecting to be gone long, not armed for combat—and then stands against one wall, shoulders leant against the wallpaper, thinking.
He frowns. The window’s open. It was bitterly cold last night, dipping below zero, so why would Gaby leave the window open?
Because she didn’t open it.
The answer hits him at the same time as the dart that burrows into the side of his neck.
Illya slaps his hand to the stinging pain and yanks the needled dart out, throws it to the floor and stamps it into the carpet, but he can already tell it’s too late. There’s a leadenness starting in his limbs, a fuzziness crowding around his vision, and he grabs at the wall, slides down to the ground before he falls and breaks something. His breathing is getting faster even as darkness eats at his brain, and he blinks, tries to focus, whines into the suddenly so very thick hotel air.
Illya passes out, and the last word on his lips is Napoleon.