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"I don't like you very much and I wish you'd go away, because you're boring to me."
- Napoleon to Miss Belmont, under the influence of truth serum.
"Fight it Illya, do something. Think of girls!"
-Napoleon to Illya, as Illya is injected with truth serum
Illya
Napoleon tells him to think of girls -
The electronic thought translator, where is it?
- but mere girls have no power to halt the flow of pentothal roaring through his veins, forcing its way through his blood-brain barrier and overriding his higher cortical functions -
Tell me!
and so instead he thinks of Napoleon, and what Napoleon did, the first time they met in a crowded briefing room in New York, Napoleon lounging in his chair and lit up by errant sunbeams, suited and shining and so utterly unlike Illya that he cannot help but stare at the man with a mixture of incredulity and fascination from his vantage point at the side of the room where he is outwardly uncaring and inwardly cringing because he had not realised there was a meeting for all personnel this afternoon and so he is still wearing his lab coat because it is smarter than his rumpled clothes underneath and covers over a multitude of sins, and they are standing too close, the bodies, crowding him, breathing on him -
The translator! A slap across his face.
And the pain, brief and fleeting though it is, snaps him into awareness, and the girl is crying, and there is Napoleon's voice too, sharp and loud, but he tries his best to block them all out, because the river of pentothal is rushing over his head and so he dives long and deep, back into the memory of the briefing room where
Napoleon is lounging in his chair, so free and uninhibited, oblivious to the frowns Mr. Waverly is sending his way as the retiring regional head drones on and on and the room is warming up rapidly with body heat and sweat and he is too hot inside his lab coat and he struggles to take it off but his arms won't move and it is stifling now and the nausea, rising -
A hand in his hair. Where is it? Nails scratching his skin. Answer me!
With a monumental effort he swims against the tide of barbiturates in his bloodstream and makes a last, desperate lunge for the briefing room where
Napoleon is lounging in his chair, cool and suave as if he's just walked off a film set, and he looks up abruptly, aware of the scrutiny, and in an instant their eyes meet before Illya can look away, and then -
then Napoleon winks at him.
And there is another sting on his arm – more shouting – a great torrent of chemicals closing in with frightening speed, and he tries in vain to hold onto the memory of the briefing room and Napoleon, lounging in his chair and gilded in light but the room is filling up with water and the lights are growing dimmer and it is getting harder and harder to breathe –
and when the wave finally breaks it sweeps everything away.
Napoleon
"Fight it Illya, do something. Think of girls! Don't say anything."
And Illya hasn't said anything so far, despite Miss Belmont railing at him and slapping him and pulling his hair, and it is only because of the clenched hands gripping the arm rests that Napoleon knows he's still conscious.
“Give it up, Miss Belmont, your serum's not working” he says, injecting a note of authority into his voice, partly to reassure Mimi and to stem the crying that is making his post-drug headache hurt even more, and partly because he doesn't know how much longer his partner can hold out.
Miss Belmont looks at him, her eyes wild. “I'll make it work,” she hisses.
And when he sees what she means to do, he feels true fear for the first time since all this started, and he tries to reason with her in earnest.
“You can't give him another shot, you'll kill him. He's no use to you dead.”
She smiles coldly, tapping the cylinder with her polished fingertip. “Without the information he's no use to me alive.” And she plunges the needle into Illya's arm.
At first there is no reaction. But then he sees the colour literally drain from Illya's face and Illya's body goes stiff, his back arching.
“Stop it!” Mimi cries, even as Miss Belmont continues to shriek her questions at him.
But Illya doesn't respond, he's still rigid, straining against the straps, and now Napoleon's fear is morphing into something close to panic.
“He's not breathing,” he snaps at Miss Belmont, “you've got to do something.”
She seems flustered, as if she hadn't expected this to happen.
“Give him adrenaline. Hit him. Anything!”
But Miss Belmont takes a step back, out of her depth now.
“Illya, snap out of it,” he shouts at his partner as he struggles again in vain to free himself. “Breathe, Illya!”
After a long moment Illya suddenly slumps, boneless and limp. Miss Belmont motions to one of the guards to check him, as if she is afraid of touching her handiwork.
The guard comes over, grabs a handful of Illya's hair and jerks his head up. And the relief Napoleon feels when he sees Illya open his eyes is enough to make him sag too, tension leaving his limbs in a rush. But before he can catch Illya's eye she is there, standing in between them and blocking his view, and when she starts to question his partner again he is almost glad when Illya answers her.
After Miss Belmont is done with them, the guards release them to escort them to the cell.
“Your friend ain't looking too good,” one guard informs him.
“Ah gee, I wonder why,” Napoleon says lightly, stepping down and flexing his arms. He looks over at the girl; she's upset still, but at least she's not hysterical.
When the guard unties Illya, Napoleon is there to catch the barely-conscious, too-hot and reeking-of-sweat body of his partner, and he is pleasantly surprised when Mimi displays some initiative and helps him to carry Illya to the cell, Illya propped up between them, arms slung around their shoulders, and although Mimi means well, Illya is heavier than he looks, so Napoleon still ends up supporting most of his partner's weight, and the three of them do a bizarre half-step shuffle down the stairs into the cell. Mimi enters first, and Napoleon drags Illya with him as the door locks behind them.
“Is he gonna be okay, Mr. Solo?” Mimi says, wide-eyed.
“Uh yeah, he'll be fine,” he says, grunting with effort as he lowers Illya to the floor. “Say, Mimi dear, would you mind keeping an eye on things outside?” She opens her mouth to protest, and he continues, “just watch out the window for a while, there's a good girl.”
Now that Mimi's out of the way, he can get a real look at his partner. Somewhere between the embalming room and the cell he seems to have passed out completely, and he looks washed out and sick. Napoleon is reluctant to wake him because he's sure Illya could use the rest, but they need to escape toute suite.
And so he pats Illya's cheek gently, kneeling over him. “Wakey wakey, sleeping beauty.”
Illya stirs and groans but then settles again, and so Napoleon lifts him by his jacket lapels and props him against the wall. “Illya,” he says more sharply, “wake up.” He remembers his own grogginess and nausea after the truth serum wore off, and so it is no surprise to him that the first thing Illya does after opening his eyes is to turn aside and throw up.
“All right?” he says after Illya has finished.
Illya nods, resting his head against the wall with a sigh and closing racoon-bruised eyes. “Did I talk?”
“Ah – you did,” he says, his tone delicate even if his words aren't. He checks on Mimi at her post by the window, gives her an encouraging thumbs up, and when he turns back to Illya he finds his partner looking at him.
“Why did you wink at me?” Illya says.
“I'm sorry?” He's thrown by the non sequitur, afraid that the double dose of truth serum has scrambled his friend's mind, but Illya's gaze is clear and lucid.
“At the transcontinental briefing, when we first met. You winked at me.”
“I didn't - ” and then he stops in mid-sentence. He knows what his partner is referring to. Strictly speaking, they didn't meet, as such. But it was the first time they'd been aware of each other.
He remembers the room being packed with Uncle agents. He's one of the few to get a seat - the perks of being section leader. The briefing is a public relations affair, it's of no real value. And so he relaxes, aware that most of the women in the room are looking at him, admiring him. He preens under their attention.
And yet there is someone else watching him too – scrutinising him – it's making him uncomfortable, and it takes him a while to figure out who it is. And then he spots him, the little blond guy over by the far wall. For some reason he's wearing a lab coat, and he looks out of place among all the suits and skirts. Something about that hair jogs his memory – he thinks back to the personnel files, and recalls a name. Kuryakin. 'The Russian fellow', Waverly had called him. And now here he is in the flesh, regarding him coolly, revealing nothing.
Well, he'll soon see about that. There's no better way of getting the measure of someone than to surprise them.
And so he winks at him.
Predictably the man purses his lips in disapproval with the air of a schoolmaster reprimanding his pupil, before directing his gaze elsewhere. But before that – just for a split second – there is something else. A flash of amusement.
Interesting.
He doesn't know how to explain all that to Illya though. He isn't sure he even wants to. And so he counters the question with another. “That was years ago. What made you think of that?”
Illya shrugs. “Before, when that woman injected me. You told me to think of girls.”
“Yes…?” He doesn't follow.
It's quite possible that Illya is still under the influence of the truth serum, because he answers Napoleon's question unblushingly and without shame. “I thought of you.”
For once he has no clever reply. He can do nothing but simply stare at his partner, and Illya stares back at him, and the room recedes around them until Mimi is calling his name,
“Mr. Solo, oh Mr. Solo, Mr. Marton is coming!”
and so he gets to his feet, still looking at Illya, aware now in a way that he hasn't been before that this partnership of theirs has somehow shifted, giving way to something deeper and truer. Perhaps it's been shifting all along, evolving into something that he's not quite sure how to name. He thinks Waverly knows, and this should be cause for consternation, and yet it isn't.
Well, then, he can't help but think as he turns to Mimi, and she gives him an odd look, things are about to get even more interesting.
And that's good. He hates to be bored.
Finis