Chapter Text
The people who say that knowledge is power are idiots. Knowledge is a tool. If you don't know what to do with it, it doesn't do a damn thing.
Anybody can hear rumors that a certain aristocrat has old Allied plans from the war. A curious person could discover that they plan to sell them to any interested Soviets with the not-incorrect-but-also-not-entirely-true description that they're "American plans". And a moderately intelligent person can guess that this won't end well. The question is what that moderately intelligent person will do with that information.
Or rather, what a very intelligent person will do.
The answer goes something like this:
First, you verify the relationship between "truth" and "rumor" is something along the lines of siblings, or at least first cousins. If you're wrong in one direction, you've wasted your time for nothing. Wrong in the other, and you've possibly failed to stop World War III. Up to you which sounds worse; it depends on the person.
Next is some research on the aristocrat. All of them are ultimately the same person in different expensive clothes so it might even be a negligible step in any case.
If you have a Russian companion, now could be the appropriate time for them to say they're KGB (yet another not-incorrect-but-also-not-entirely-true description) and attempt to get the plans from the aristocrat and leave them none the wiser.
If you are Napoleon Solo, you do have a Russian companion. But said Russian companion has terrible people skills so depending on the situation it might not even be worth wrestling with the iron Soviet will in an attempt to teach him concepts like “charm”.
Either way, you weasel the documents away and give the man with too much money and time on his hands a firm talking to.
And, inevitably, at some point in the operation your German partner will bail you out of trouble, reminding you to buy her something pretty as thanks.
Simple, really.
So the fact that it doesn't work out that way is really quite disappointing. And throws an irritating wrench in Napoleon's evening plans to celebrate victory with half-hearted bickering and liquor.
And -- more frustrating still -- Napoleon can't figure out where it went wrong. Not that it was a catastrophic end result, but the fact remained that Illya’s Russian former-handlers
shouldn't
have gotten there first. UNCLE, Waverly had assured him time and time again, had access to the best intel possible for the sorts of assignments they were supposed to be completing. To be fair, until this point that had definitely seemed to be true. Tonight, though, communication from Waverly was notably absent. Maybe he was going over every detail in mild irritation the same way the rest of them were.
Or at least, that's what Napoleon assumed his partners were doing. Illya was curled over his chessboard. He hadn't touched a piece in twenty minutes in favor of giving them moody glares. Gaby was cleaning all of their guns with sharp, angry movements.
None of them like to lose.
“Any idea how your friends managed to get right in under our noses, Peril?” Napoleon says, pointedly looking to the bottom of his glass rather than meeting the flinty eyes he can feel suddenly boring holes into the side of his head.
“No.”
“Really. Because it's a bit uncanny--”
Illya's chair scrapes, then clatters to the floor.
“I said. I do not. Know.”
Ignoring him now will only make it worse, so Napoleon sets down his glass and looks up. Even yards away, Illya manages to loom over him, posture tight and coiled. He looks like he wants to break Napoleon's nose. More than usual, that is.
“ Stop it .”
Napoleon can see the exact moment when hard blue eyes flick to the corner of the room where Gaby is wiping her hands off with a grimy towel in quick jerks.
“He said he doesn't know. Leave him alone.”
“I asked a simple question, Peril flips his chair, and you're lecturing me ?”
It's bullshit and they all know it. Needling Illya is practically a reflex by this point, but this is intentional. A deliberate attempt to start a fight, hoping to burn off the indignation of losing by winning something else. But lying was a reflex long before Napoleon knew Illya even existed. Besides, a fight with Gaby would do just as well.
“Leave him alone.” she repeats, meeting his eyes.
“I think he can stand up for himself without your help.”
Illya has gone oddly quiet. It's the only way Napoleon can think to draw him back into the tense conversation, high emotions simmering under their words. Why choose between arguing with Gaby and Illya when they can all yell at each other? Win-win. Er, win-win-win. It's bad to bottle up your emotions.
That was Illya's problem. Well, one of them.
The man in question has his hands tightly curled into fists, jaw clenched. But nothing indicating imminent eruption. They're safe. Napoleon can keep pushing without fear that when Illya snaps, it'll be his neck.
He doesn't get the chance. The Russian stalks from the room, retrieving his jacket as he goes and slamming the door behind him.
“Happy?” Gaby asks, terse and disappointed.
“No.” Napoleon says, honestly, and downs the rest of his glass.
Illya is gone all night.
He rejoins them when they're at breakfast in a quaint outdoor cafe with awful tea but excellent service. Napoleon has spent the entire meal trying to decide if a tip is deserved. Illya is suddenly there after Napoleon had looked down to make sure the strawberries weren't falling off his pastry. The Russian smiles at Gaby, familiar and reassuring.
“Rough night, Peril?” Napoleon asks. Tactless, yes. Very. But he's not trying to be an ass-- he is genuinely curious. Illya looks terrible. Napoleon knows from having shared rooms with him that Illya doesn't sleep well on the best of nights. Last night was clearly not one of the best. Illya pulls one of the metal chairs to their small table with a scrape, and he seems to deflate as he falls into it. He ignores the question entirely. Instead, Illya presses his fingertips to his eyes and Napoleon is near positive he isn't inventing the low groaning sound he can hear. Whatever he did that kept him from returning, it didn't seem like it was enjoyable. Which ruled out the idea that he had gone out to blow off steam, as it were. A suggestion that had earned him an elbow from Gaby the previous night.
...Unless the sex was spectacularly bad; there was an option. Attempting to boost your spirits only to be monumentally disappointed? That would put anyone in a bad mood.
Speculation about his partner's sex life aside, the most likely explanation was wetwork.
Napoleon preferred not to, and Gaby was never asked to. He didn't know if that was because she had requested that, or because Waverly assumed she wouldn't handle it well. He hadn't asked. Though Gaby hadn't shown the same restraint. Napoleon had said it was because it wasn't one of his skills. Illya said it was because Napoleon didn't like that you can't gloat to dead bodies. He'd gotten a laugh out of Gaby for that one. Whatever the reasons, when that was the focus of a mission it usually fell into Illya’s more than capable hands. He didn't seem to mind; hardly seemed to notice the bodies stacking up under his name. Which-- perhaps Napoleon was wrong about it but he had the distinct feeling that it was other demons that haunted Illya. Something aside from the murder of evil men kept him awake, kept him tense and ready to snap at almost any moment. Maybe even something worse.
Even if it didn't haunt him, it did tend to be time consuming.
“You know you can kill people in the daytime, right?” Napoleon says between another bite of pastry. Not that it would make any difference: Illya was a traditionalist. And a bit dramatic. Which was, admittedly, a very pot-calling-the-kettle-black thing to think.
Illya gives him an odd look. It's a little startled, a little wounded, maybe. It's gone and settled easily into disdain before Napoleon can pin it down to his satisfaction.
“Didn't kill anybody, cowboy.”
Not the reaction Napoleon anticipated, and for a moment he wishes he had the sort of camaraderie that would justify asking how Kuryakin had spent the night. But seeing as they weren't even on a first name basis, it was unlikely Napoleon would get anything but a blank look in return. They could work together. They didn't have to be best friends. That was all that mattered.
“I've a meeting to go to. Stay out of trouble.” Gaby says, collecting her things and giving Napoleon and Illya both a kiss on the cheek in farewell. Both men smiled to themselves, but Illya suppressed it as soon as he noticed Napoleon was watching him.
Waverly had been right, that first mission. They were all very fond of Gaby.
However, Napoleon couldn't help the spike of annoyance when he realized she had left him with the bill.
He still hasn't decided if he's going to tip.
“Another assignment, boys,” Gaby announces when she returns from her meeting with Waverly, dropping the folders on the coffee table en route to the bathroom. Napoleon can hear her stripping off her heavy jewelry; clanking it down with little care. Gaby was all business, at heart. She hadn't had the chance to learn about luxury, and with a few notable exceptions, didn't care. She took Illya with her whenever she went shopping, and Napoleon assumed she just bought whatever he told her to. As much as Napoleon hates conceding defeat to what was in many ways their first argument, he has to admit she always looks good.
“What sort of assignment?” Napoleon asks from where he's pretending to read a book. He's not going to get up if it's not one that concerns him. Some of them didn't. And frankly, given how the last one went, Napoleon could use a break.
Gaby’s voice comes from the bathroom.
“Honeypot.”
Damn.
Illya didn't do honeypot missions. For obvious reasons, starting with “highly volatile” and ending with “abysmal interpersonal skills”. Which meant it was either Gaby or himself.
Napoleon levers himself up with a sigh, heading toward the table. Illya is already thumbing through one of the files.
“Playboy or femme fatale?”
“It's me.” Gaby comes to the doorway and leans against it. Her makeup is off, as well as her shoes. Her hair is coming out of its careful styling. Napoleon likes her like this. A mix of the chop shop girl he first met and the spy he now knows.
“Too cute to be femme fatale.” Illya grunts and turns a page in their brief.
Gaby purses her lips.
“Fooled you.”
Illya doesn't look up, but Napoleon can see the corner of his mouth bow into the shadow of the soft, warm smile he reserves just for her: the Gaby Teller Special.
“And what of me and Peril? Bodyguard duty?” Not a bad deal, all things considered. Gaby could more than handle herself. They would only need to bail her out if things got extremely serious. Napoleon might get a break after all.
“Sniper--”
“Me.” Illya interrupted her, but she continued as if she hadn't noticed.
“And tail.”
Napoleon's natural competitive nature flared at Illya calling dibs before she had even finished speaking, but he couldn't fault the conclusion. Illya was better at sitting in one place than he was, and Napoleon was better at blending in. It played to their strengths. They could have swapped, but it made sense this way. For someone so unbalanced, Illya often made a bizarre amount of sense.
Gaby looked between them and Napoleon gave her a nod. No complaints there, even if he would be on his feet the whole time. Better than lying on his stomach on a rooftop, though, in his opinion.
Illya hadn't looked up from the brief. He didn't read English very quickly, and neither of them was about to rush him about it.
“Anything special we should know?”
Gaby fell into a chair and swung her feet, still in her stockings, up onto Illya's thigh. One big hand dropped to her ankle and stayed there until Illya had to turn another page. There was something beautiful about the ease of their interactions, and Napoleon couldn't help but watch, maybe do some speculating.
“Not really.”
“Where?”
“Sofia.”
Napoleon gives her a blank look.
“Capital of People's Republic of Bulgaria, cowboy.” Illya explained, and when Napoleon shrugs in response, unrepentant -- is he supposed to know every city in every country? -- it prompts a snort from Illya.
“It's apparently a popular holiday destination--” Gaby pauses, looks over at Illya as if for confirmation.
“Very popular,” he mutters, distracted. He has the brief open again and his brows have knit together while he reads.
“Which means politicians.” Napoleon finishes before Gaby has the chance.
She nods.
“Ones we're not entirely sure of, these days. They've been pretty quiet lately.”
Napoleon took the plunge and flipped open one of the other folders.
Ah.
That politician.
Whoever thought that Swedes were inherently neutral was painfully misinformed.
“Shouldn't be too bad, right?” Napoleon says, tossing the folder back into the pile and sending papers fluttering weakly to the floor.
Famous last words.
“Should start carrying around a pair of boots for you to slip in for whenever this happens,” Napoleon panted, trying to keep Gaby moving while still being mindful of the fact that she was wearing heels.
“Please,” she spat, shaking his hand off her wrist. Napoleon realizes in retrospect that he had probably been pulling her off balance. No time for apologies, he would make it up to her later somehow.
With nothing but a look between them, they duck into a crooked alleyway. They had been circling the site of the operation, trying to give Illya a chance to take out the thugs that had been giving chase for -- Napoleon checks his watch -- half an hour now.
But the men don't follow. A furtive glance into the street reveals their bodies on the ground.
“About damn time, Peril.” Napoleon finds himself muttering.
For the first time since Gaby had been confronted about her identity, they allow themselves a rest. If they had waited in one place before, undoubtedly more goons would have shown up, and that was a fight they never would have seen the other side of. Gaby wrestles off her shoes, hissing curses in three languages. Now on the priority list for preparation for the next mission: boots.
Ten minutes later, Illya skids around the corner. He's flushed, but not breathing half as hard as they are. He scans them quickly, looking for any injuries.
“Okay?” he says, and his voice is a little hoarse.
They both nod.
“How the hell did they know?”
None of them have answers, but he asks anyways.
He didn't know it then, but Napoleon would be asking that question a lot over the next few months.