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Napoleon burst into the warehouse, ready to fire his appropriated Thrush sniper rifle. Then he realized the place was empty and silent. Clearly the Thrushies knew that their super-weapon was destroyed and the U.N.C.L.E. cavalry was on its way, so they’d abandoned their base and their prisoners along with it.
“Illya? Are you all right?” He called out. As he moved rapidly around empty packing crates, a familiar, restrained silhouette came into focus.
“Yes, of course, Napoleon.”
He reflected, not for the first time, that the life he and Illya led had some curious patterns. The bad guys always tended to pump Napoleon full of truth drugs or subject him to odd, gimmicky psychological tortures to extract information, usually without success. But with Illya, their approach was more often to strip him naked and chain him up in weirdly decorative positions, apparently for pure entertainment value. That seemed to be the case this time, anyway.
Illya’s arms and legs were splayed in an X, chained at the wrists and ankles and secured to a ceiling beam and to the warehouse floor, respectively. Napoleon was still several yards behind Illya, sprinting across the concrete floor towards him, not yet able to see his face.
“I take it from the series of explosions that you succeeded in destroying their laser?” Illya called over his shoulder.
“Yep. Kaboom. Up in smoke. Sorry you missed the fireworks, buddy.”
Napoleon dropped the Thrush rifle on the floor and paused a few inches from Illya’s back, breathing hard and scanning his partner’s body for injuries. There was a series of angry little red marks cascading from Illya’s shoulders and upper arms to the middle of his back, but no sign of cuts, bleeding, or bruising. Good news, so far.
“What’d they do to you?”
Illya was characteristically nonchalant.
“Nothing much, really. I was captured about ten minutes after I got inside. Dr. Ingrid Iverson had her henchmen strip me and chain me up -” he paused to tug uselessly at the wrist restraints. “She then proceeded to give me a halfhearted lashing with a leather strap, and make various unwelcome comments about my appearance for the next two hours, until the conflagration sent everyone scurrying away like rats. She asked me no questions, and I am not damaged.”
Well, that was all reassuring enough.
Suddenly giddy with relief, Napoleon gave Illya’s right buttock a quick, light slap.
“Hmm. You don’t feel damaged, at least.”
Illya rewarded him with a sharp snort of laughter.
“Napoleon!” He sniggered. “Stop groping my задница and get me out of these.” He tugged again at the chains for emphasis.
“Your wish is my command, partner,” Napoleon grinned.
He moved around to the front to begin applying explosive putty to Illya’s right cuff, then noticed for the first time that Illya was wearing his tinted reading glasses.
“Say, why the shades? They uh, don’t exactly help preserve your modesty.”
“Presumably Dr. Iverson has a fetish,” said Illya dryly.
It might have been a joke, and Illya may have even meant it as such, but Napoleon was inclined to think it was the literal truth. Illya was quite a sight to behold, the spread-eagled position showing off the lines of his small, muscular body to full advantage, his blond Beatle haircut looking unexpectedly soft in the fluorescent lighting, the pouty lower lip, the sarcastic set of his jaw, the movie star glasses. Napoleon might object strongly to Dr. Iverson’s use of leather straps and chains, but he could hardly argue with her sense of aesthetics.
Gently, Napoleon used one hand to turn Illya’s head away as the putty ignited, shielding the side of his face not covered by the glasses.
“Napoleon,” Illya groused. “I am still capable of turning my own head and closing my eyes, you know.”
“I know, but…”
Not wanting to risk touching probably-sore shoulders, Napoleon laid a soothing hand on Illya’s chest instead. Maybe that was a mistake. Napoleon’s breath suddenly hitched at the feeling of Illya’s heartbeat, his warm skin under the dusting of gold hair, his chest rising and falling beneath Napoleon’s hand. Illya was so precious, so alive, so easy to lose in this dangerous job of theirs. Napoleon couldn’t bear that thought. He quickly pushed the reaction aside, and carried on talking.
“...But you’ve been smacked around and chained up for the last two hours, and it’s my job to take care of you. You’d do the same for me, y’know.”
Illya grunted a reply - a sound of acquiescence or annoyance, it was hard to tell which - and Napoleon patted his chest placatingly before turning his attentions to the chain on Illya’s opposite wrist.
With all four chains successfully dispatched, Illya stretched and flexed his joints painfully to restore circulation. Napoleon watched as Illya removed his glasses and started to slide them into an imagined shirt pocket…only to stop suddenly, his blue eyes widening in surprise as he recalled that he had no shirt on.
Loud, punchy laughter escaped Napoleon’s mouth, and a still-unsteady Illya nearly fell over in an answering peal of giggles. Napoleon caught him by the elbows and held him till he regained his balance.
“We’d better pull ourselves together and find something to wrap you up in, tovarich,” he grinned. “The locals may be grateful for the end of this nefarious operation, but they’ll certainly look askance if I make my triumphant exit with a naked, bespectacled Soviet in tow.”
“Our triumphant exit, Napoleon,” Illya growled. “You’d never have gotten out of your cell to destroy the laser if I hadn’t provided Dr. Iverson and her minions with a distraction.”
“True. But I think you’ve been distracting enough for one evening, don’t you?”
He threw Illya a dazzling smile, and a discarded lab coat to go with it.
“Put that on, and let’s go.”