Chapter Text
“You really need to talk to Illya.”
Sometimes, Napoleon can swear Gaby is far too intuitive for her own good.
“He’s a big boy, he’ll be fine,” Napoleon says, taking another sip of his coffee like there isn’t a sour taste in his mouth.
They’re sitting together at a tiny café outside Central Park, sharing lunch over small talk that has just taken a turn for the uncomfortable. He and Gaby are sitting close enough for people to assume they’re lovers, less for undercover considerations than for Napoleon’s attempt to test her observational skills using street traffic. She steals another fry off of his plate, and stares at him with knowing eyes hidden behind a pair of bright orange shades.
“You know he’s worried about you, right?”
Napoleon catches the eyes of a gorgeous blonde woman and offers her his most dashing smile. She glances at Gaby and then turns away with a look of distaste, Napoleon frowns.
“I don’t see any reason why he should be,” Napoleon says, leaning back in his chair and scanning the afternoon crowd for a new victim. He doesn’t need to look to know Gaby is rolling her eyes.
“Are you still pretending you don’t care about each other?”
An indignant retort (I don’t know what you’re talking about) almost makes it past his lips before he recognizes he’ll just be digging himself a deeper hole. If it’s anyone else having this conversation with him, they’d have read between the lines and dropped the topic long ago. But Gaby is not just anyone, and in the four months since their first meeting, all three of them have become too invested in each other to fake emotional distance in any remotely convincing way. UNCLE’s little trust exercise two weeks ago had made sure of that, as far as he and Illya are concerned.
“We’re good friends,” Napoleon admits, and he can’t help the edge of bitterness that slips into his voice. Illya hadn’t precisely held a gun to his head when Napoleon made that concession, but it doesn’t stop the indignant fury that arises at the memory. His anger is mostly directed at himself, for not realizing in time that Illya would turn Napoleon’s own questions against him, for not knowing when to leave well enough alone, and for shattering his hope with reality before he really even got the chance to dream.
But Gaby doesn’t know any of that, and it’s better to let her come to her own conclusions about why Napoleon is annoyed.
“I just don’t see why he’s making such a fuss over this particular mission,” Napoleon continues, recalcitrant.
“Then talk to him,” Gaby moans, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world and Napoleon is just too stupid to see it. Then, she pushes down the rim of her shades and directs the full force of her glare at Napoleon. “Don’t make me make you.”
-
The current problem between him and Illya, like most problems in Napoleon’s life, is one entirely of his own making.
“Your target is this man,” Waverly had said, sliding a pair of folders across the table toward the two of them. “Mark Barath. He is an expert at helping people disappear. Has made quite a name for himself in the business, I hear his forgeries are top notch.”
He and Illya were in Waverly’s office, sitting in the exact same seats as they had sat in during the aftermath of their very successful (or is it disastrous?) passing of UNCLE’s loyalty challenge. The entire debacle had inspired horrible realizations followed by multiple uncomfortable conversations. Illya had only forgiven Napoleon after he awkwardly apologized and admitted that yes, he had behaved like a five year old and yes, he really was an asshole. Just not in those exact words.
Thankfully, Illya had never asked why Napoleon had started tossing around inappropriate accusations, likely chalking all of it up to Napoleon’s suspicious and offensive capitalist sensibilities. For once, Illya’s apathy had been appreciable over the truth. What would Napoleon have said? That the electricity had fried his brain, and for a crazy moment he had believed Illya might be secretly in love with him?
In retrospect, it was good the conversation turned out the way it did. Now he can put aside his own unwelcome feelings and try to move on, through the company of attractive ladies… and maybe a few gentlemen.
Napoleon had listened with half an ear as he skimmed through the contents of the dossier, distracted by the familiar urge to stare at the Russian sitting beside him. The team was to track down an errant corporate thief, who’d stolen the research and plans for an advanced prototype supercomputer from the company contracted to develop it. The technology was supposed to give the U.S. a significant advantage in the Cold War, that is, until their data and backups mysteriously disappeared two months ago, along with Ms. Janine Russell, a company secretary.
“Our intelligence indicates that Ms. Russell made contact with Mr. Barath two days before she disappeared from her apartment on the Champs-Élysées.”
Napoleon had always liked Paris.
“That doesn’t seem like the type of neighborhood you can afford on a secretary’s wages,” he remarked, directing his gaze toward Waverley. Illya looked at Napoleon, and Napoleon wanted to point a conspiratory smirk his way, one full of innuendo and nefarious suggestion as to the character of their female target. Napoleon didn’t so much as twitch, and Illya turned his attention back to the files.
“It’s not,” Waverly said, “The apartment belongs to her close personal friend, Élodie Beaumont, heiress to the Beaumont fortune. They’re bankers who financed half of France’s reconstruction costs following the war, and made a pretty penny off those loans. The two met while Ms. Beaumont was visiting the States during her debutante days, and since then, Ms. Russell has been known to make frequent visits to her friend in Paris.”
A young, wealthy heiress usually ticked all of Napoleon’s usual boxes when it came to preferred targets for intelligence gathering. But Napoleon didn’t know and didn’t really care if Élodie Beaumont was as beautiful as her name and position implied. He never made it past Barath’s dossier, his eyes caught by a certain phrase in the man’s file. It was as though the sky had suddenly cleared and the heavens sent down a ray of light, highlighting three little words that stirred to life every delinquent urge Napoleon had ever suppressed.
“Agent Solo, you are to make contact with Élodie Beaumont,” Waverly continued, oblivious as to the terrible idea that was forming in Napoleon’s head. “See if you can find out what she knows about her friend’s illegal activities and, most importantly, Ms. Russell’s current whereabouts.”
Illya’s anger from two weeks ago played in Napoleon’s mind. This would definitely earn Napoleon a reaction, maybe even an outburst. There was only one way to find out.
Napoleon glanced over toward Illya and drinked in the sight of his unsuspecting victim, still intently reading the second page of the dossier. Then Napoleon met Waverly’s gaze, and took the plunge.
“What about Barath?”
Waverly raised one eyebrow. “What about him, Solo?”
“Who’s pursuing him?” he asked, taking out the photo of their target, a handsome grey-eyed gentleman, and displaying it to Waverly.
Waverly’s eyes flitted to the photo. “Kuryakin will approach him as a Soviet defector, and request for a new identity.”
Napoleon immediately turned to Illya with a blossoming grin, to find the Russian’s eyes already shining with outrage.
“He will take the opportunity to investigate Barath’s operations, and ascertain the location of Russell.” Waverly concluded, watching Illya warily.
“I would never-“
“I know, Kuryakin, you are very loyal to mother Russia,” Waverly interjected before Illya had the chance to work himself into a rage. “But need I remind you that this is for the sake of the mission? If those plans fall into the wrong hands it’s not just the U.S. that may find their encrypted communications compromised for a long time to come.”
Illya’s shoulders slumped, and when he looked away to glare holes into the wall, his lips pressed into what Napoleon almost wanted to call a pout. How did he make that look so cute?
The Russian’s obvious displeasure at having to ‘betray’ his country was the final nail in Napoleon’s self-designed coffin.
“With all due respect for Peril’s undercover skills,” Napoleon said, wondering if it was better to just come out and say it. “I feel like everyone here can agree that he will probably make the least convincing Soviet defector in the history of the Socialist Union.”
Illya’s glare turned on Napoleon, but his eyes were confused, like he wasn’t sure if he should be affronted or complimented.
Waverly frowned, looking between the two of them. “What are you proposing, Solo?”
“Barath,” Napoleon said, raising the photo with a flourish. “Give him to me. A rogue thief trying to escape the CIA is a far more convincing story than Boris the Soviet defector. I’m sure Gaby could become great friends with Ms. Beaumont.”
“You trust Solo to make contact with a known identity forger?” Illya interrupted.
Napoleon turned his eyes toward Illya. It was his turn to be outraged. “Peril! That is hurtful!”
“I do not appreciate you trying to steal my assignment, Cowboy.”
“I am trying to protect your virtue, Peril,” Napoleon said, teasing, readying himself to deliver the final blow. “This man is a known homosexual. Tell me, what do you think you’d do if he decides to proposition you?”
Illya froze, a deer in the headlights, and Napoleon’s heart twisted at the expression on his face. It couldn’t be fear in Illya’s eyes, but Napoleon had no other word for what he saw. Anger and disgust too, swirled at the edges.
Then, Illya was leafing through the pages of the file Napoleon only skimmed, until he landed on the critical page and began to read it with a stony expression.
Napoleon watched Illya’s reaction with a sinking heart. Feeling slightly sick, he turned back to Waverly.
“I think in light of what we know about Mr. Barath, it might be best for me to take on these responsibilities.”
“No,” Illya growled, staring up with eyes so intense Napoleon felt struck by lightning. “I’ll do it.”
There was something dangerous in Illya’s eyes, a feral glint hiding behind that look of cold determination. Napoleon had no idea where it came from, and what it was driving Illya toward, but the strength of it was enough to unsettle him.
Napoleon’s gaze turned toward Waverly, waiting for his decision.
The man studied both of them thoughtfully, his eyes unreadable behind his glasses. Illya was tense beside him, his fingers tapping against the folder in a worrying manner.
“Well,” Waverly said at long last, back to his good humor, “I think Agent Solo here has made quite a good case. And forgive me Kuryakin but, your anger has been known to cause problems during missions.”
Rome, Tunis, Greenwich, just to name a few incidents. Napoleon relaxed into his seat, studying Illya out of the corner of his eye. The Russian looked positively stricken, and Napoleon had the distinct feeling he just brutally kicked a puppy. There seemed to be more than just wounded pride behind Illya's hurt. Was he trying to protect him? Napoleon swallowed back a knot of guilt.
“Solo will be the one to make contact with Barath, and Kuryakin, at this time I will request for you to act as his backup. I’ll bring in Ms. Teller, and ask for her to investigate Ms. Beaumont."
Illya’s face shifted into an expressionless mask of acquiescence, but his hands, Napoleon noted with alarm, were trembling even harder.
Then, all that was left to discus were logistics. They were both dismissed soon after, and Illya almost immediately disappeared from the room, his steps heavy in the hallway. Napoleon adjusted his suit, readying himself to follow and ask Illya just what was going on, praying that the Red Peril hadn’t picked up on Napoleon’s selfish intentions.
“Agent Solo?” Waverly called, stopping Napoleon before he could make it out the door. Napoleon turned around, again the impassive foot soldier.
“I do hope you know what you are doing,” Waverly said, considering Napoleon with serious eyes.
He’s been caught. The shock silenced Napoleon for only a moment, before he broke into a smile he didn’t quite feel.
“Don’t I always?”
He didn’t, and Waverly looked at Napoleon like he knew it.
-
Napoleon, mostly because he believes in resisting attractive bullies in designer dresses and oversized sunglasses, and also because he is used to being a man who makes his own unwise decisions, doesn’t talk to Illya.
Waverly’s reaction throws him, and he can’t help feeling like the petty five year old he had jokingly admitted to being. He had been curious as to how Illya would react when confronted with a target possessing ’known homosexual proclivities’, one Napoleon has stepped forward to possibly seduce if the need may arise. Illya’s reaction hadn’t been lacking. But with Waverly’s words floating in his mind, Napoleon finds himself wondering if he’s trying too hard to prove something that should best be left behind. What does it matter if Illya hates homosexuals like the rest of the world or not? What does it really matter?
Napoleon is supposed to be moving on.
The die is cast, and Napoleon has to take responsibility for his actions. But he’s not quite ready to immediately apologize. Not talking to Illya turns out to be very simple, because Illya starts to ignore Napoleon in the aftermath of the briefing. On that day, he disappears into the streets of Manhattan, and completely misses their lunch date with Gaby. With Illya’s absence hanging over their heads, and without the man’s usual distraction, Gaby had rapidly moved her focus onto the current tension between the two of them.
Illya says nothing to Napoleon when the three of them meet at the airport and board the flight to Paris. He stays quiet on the flight over, remaining silent as they collect their luggage and take separate cabs to the hotel where they are meant to stay. Gaby is the only one who can get anything other than single syllables out of him. As hard as she tries to include Napoleon in the conversation, Illya freezes up and glares at the nearest flat surface whenever Napoleon so much as makes himself known.
In his hotel room, Napoleon pours himself a finger of scotch, and takes a long drink. He stares out at the Parisian street outside and regrets both his reckless decision and his stubbornness from before. His personal pride is not worth it when Illya is clearly far more hurt than Napoleon had expected.
How should he phrase the apology? I’m sorry, Peril, I didn’t mean to imply you are a bad spy? I seem to still be as big of a jerk as I was too weeks ago, sorry I didn’t learn my lesson? There is no way Illya would buy that Napoleon had really been thinking of the mission, even Waverly had seen right through him. Illya must feel humiliated. Napoleon should have chased after him when he still had the chance.
Three loud, heavy knocks sound from the door, and Napoleon turns toward it in alarm.
Speak of the devil.