Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

”Napoleon.”

“What is it?” Napoleon leaned back against the lab counter, cheerfully ignoring the edge in his partner's voice.

“Move. I need something from that cabinet.”

Napoleon stayed put. ”Don’t you think you’ve been working long enough? There’s only so much sunshine left and I want to get out of this basement before it’s gone.”

”There’s nothing stopping you. Now move.” Why he insisted on lounging around Illya’s lab was a mystery. There was nothing down here that Napoleon was interested in. Just boxes of experimental technology and jars of various dangerous chemicals.

“Sunshine, Illya? The thing that lets crops grow and human civilization flourish? What ancient people worshipped as a life-bringing god?”

Clearly something had gotten into him, and he’d be intolerable until he played it out. Which meant Illya would have to play along. 

”I would have thought you’d be perfectly happy as a lurking creature of the night. There aren’t many bars to find adventurous ladies in the middle of the day.”

“There are other nice things you can do during the day. Driving, sailing, to name just two. So if you need another incentive, I can give you plenty.”

Before he could launch into an extensive list, Illya replied, “And I can give you an incentive to get out of the way of my cabinets. I’m working, Napoleon. I’m sure there’s some girl out there you can complain to instead of coming to me.”

“I don’t think I’ve seen the sun all week,” Napoleon sighed, and for a moment Illya almost felt bad for him. “We’ve been arriving at the tailor shop in the dark, spending all day in the office and the labs, and then leaving in the dark. I’m starting to feel like some sort of naked mole rat.”

There were any number of innuendos Illya could make after a remark like that, and he wouldn’t give Napoleon the satisfaction of voicing any of them. Or saying anything about Russian winters.

“Do you?” he said, reaching for a notebook to jot down the baseline readings. 

Napoleon was quiet for a few moments. Illya almost thought he was about to leave him in peace when he said, ”Sunshine or not, I was hoping to spend the evening with a friend of mine.”

”What’s stopping you? I’m sure she’d be willing.”

”Well, he’s insisting on finishing some sort of experiment, and won’t tell me when he’ll be done…” Napoleon smiled, a real one this time, and Illya had no chance.

He sighed and studied his progress. If he waited until tomorrow to prepare the second set of samples, it would give him a chance to verify the setup of the first batch before putting more resources into the next. He would never admit it out loud, but maybe Napoleon had a point.

“I should be able to wrap this up in about ten minutes,” he offered. “But I will need access to my cabinets.”

”Granted.” Napoleon stepped aside, beaming like the sun. 

Chapter Text

Illya came back to himself slowly. Not a good sign. You needed all your wits about you in the field, or you got killed. But as far as he could tell he was still alive, which probably meant he wasn’t in mortal danger. For now. He kept still, kept his eyes closed, strained his ears to hear any signal from his surroundings. When the noise of blood whooshing through his head settled, a quiet sound replaced it. Someone breathing. Not a threat, some instinct told him, a second before he felt as much as heard a huff of amusement go through his companion.

”There you are. Stay still. You’re not bleeding anywhere that I can see but you fell pretty hard.”

Napoleon. Illya let out the tension that had gathered in his wakening muscles. If Napoleon was here, that ruled out at least the worst half of the possibilities Illya had considered.

He made a sound, not quite a word but enough for Napoleon to know he was awake and aware and listening. 

“Are you hurt anywhere?” A question, one he was duty-bound to answer. He surveyed his body. Something hard under his shoes and his knees, dirt under his fingers. His head rested on something warm. The voice came from above him. 

The only way any of this made sense was if he had his head in Napoleon’s lap.

”Not hurt.” He forced the words from a dry, aching throat, and fought the need to cough as dusty air rushed into his lungs. It wasn’t exactly true; his left knee ached terribly and there was a stinging scrape on his elbow, but nothing incapacitating, which was what Napoleon meant. Nothing that would stop him completing the mission.

”Good. We should be safe for now, but as soon as Bergan’s men realize we’re not where they left us, they’ll mount a search.”

Dr. Bergan. Illya remembered a grey-haired little man with a cruel sneer and a penchant for whistling off-key showtunes as he worked.

”Where are we?” Illya couldn’t justify lazing around any longer. Groaning, he hauled himself up into a sitting position, stubbornly ignoring the way every motion set his head pounding. Gray haze swam in front of his eyes, but he somehow managed to keep himself upright. Assisted, he realized a moment later, by Napoleon’s arm behind his back.

”Basement of an abandoned warehouse. I should be concerned that you don’t remember but you were pretty out of it for the last mile or so. I had to carry you over my shoulder to get you through the door.”

“Oh. Did you hit my head while you were at it?”

In the dim light of a dusty antique lightbulb, he saw Napoleon pout in mock offense, the effect ruined instantly by the gleam of humor in his eyes. “Don’t blame me. That was all Bergan.”

”And he didn’t do the same to you because?”

”I suppose he needed a control sample?”

Somehow, Illya managed to smile at that. He finally gave up any pretense of dignity and sank down against Napoleon’s shoulder. “I should applaud you for remembering basic scientific principles.”

”Do you really think it’s a good idea to insult the man who’s holding you upright?”

”You wouldn’t let me fall. There would be too much paperwork to do.”

A soft snort from Napoleon in response. 

“We’ll have to go back,” Illya said after a while. “The files.”

”I think you’ll find the microtape is safely stashed away in my inside pocket,” Napoleon said, and for once Illya didn’t begrudge him his intolerable smugness. 

“Well done.”

“Thank you, I agree.”

A few minutes passed. Illya listened to Napoleon’s breathing, felt the rhythm of his heartbeat against his side. Slowly strength returned to him, and the aches became a little more bearable. Damn THRUSH scientists and their experimental drugs. He’d probably be stuck in UNCLE Medical all night while the doctors insisted on running all of their most uncomfortable tests instead of simply letting him sleep…

Napoleon’s voice again broke into his reverie. “Do you think you can walk now?” 

”I shall have to try,” Illya offered with a sigh. A very small and quickly-squashed part of him wished for just another few moments of rest, but that was hardly an option now. They weren’t safe here. He’d had enough of a chance to gather his energy, and now they had to move on. 

Together, they hauled themselves to their feet and crept from the building, guns at the ready to take down anyone who tried to stop them.

Chapter Text

The young woman monitoring the live feeds from the security cameras in UNCLE’s New York headquarters peered sleepily over her coffee cup at a shadowy figure sneaking down a quiet back hallway. He came to a crossway and furtively glanced back and forth down the intersecting hall as if expecting pursuit from any direction. The motion exposed a blurry flash of intelligent eyes and bright hair. 

Yes, that was Mr. Kuryakin, all right. But what was he doing creeping around like an intruder? Suzanne would know, the woman thought to herself. She’d been talking to Illya a lot the past few days. A suspicious amount, one might think, even for a girl in Research who frequently worked alongside Section II agents on the prep work for international assignments.

It must be fun to work with the agents, the woman thought with a silent sigh, instead of simply watching them on screens. The most she’d ever gotten was Mr. Waverly breathing down her neck while she monitored some training exercise or other in the main gymnasium.

On screen, Illya rounded another corner, hurrying past a young Section III coming the other way. No words were exchanged, not that the woman would have heard them if they had; the security system wasn’t wired for sound. 

She switched the camera feed to follow along as Illya went deeper into the maze of corridors that made up UNCLE’s central facility. What was he up to? Maybe he’d been given a secret assignment. He could be trying to root out a mole. She shivered in excitement at the thought. Or maybe he was avoiding someone. But no, she would have heard if there’d been any quarreling between Illya and the secretaries, or Illya and his partner. For spies, they never managed to keep their personal business at all private. 

Speaking of personal business… maybe he was meeting a girl, and that’s why he was being so secretive. Yes, that made sense. 

A few moments later, he vanished off her cameras and into the science labs, leaving her to return to scanning the hallways, noting the comings and goings of other agents at their work.

She took another sip of coffee and wondered who the lucky girl was. Suzanne was on vacation, so it had to be somebody else, but who?

Hours later, Illya pulled another bottle out of the cabinet, one with a prominent warning label on its stark black surface, and set it on the lab bench alongside the others. The experiment he was working on didn’t strictly require it, but it would serve other needs, ones not documented on the thick notebook on the table in front of him. Mainly, the need to keep curious eyes away from him until the end of the day.

He was almost there.

Illya didn’t believe in luck, at least not his own, but he considered that he was lucky Suzanne was on holiday this week. She’d been so disappointed when she realized which dates she was going to be away. He’d almost feared she was going to call up her friends and change their plans, just so she wouldn’t miss it. 

So he’d put on his nicest smile and said, “You should enjoy yourself. I’d really rather nobody make a fuss in any case. And besides that, it’s just as likely Waverly will send me on an assignment, so I wouldn’t be here for it.”

She’d shaken her head and given him a playful slap on the arm. 

“Don’t be like that, Illya. If you really don’t want anyone to know, I promise I won’t tell them,” she sighed. “But you know it is in your personnel file.” 

“I’m well aware. I am counting on the fact that most of the staff don’t believe there could be anything of interest in the heavily redacted file that is available to them.”

She’d nodded, and said, “They’re smart girls, but sometimes they sure don’t act like it.”

It wasn’t just the girls Illya was concerned about, but the others would be significantly harder to keep off his trail. At least he could get some work done in the meantime.

He measured out a few of the chemicals and stirred them together, then used a pipette to put a few drops onto a small square of experimental foil. They fizzed and shuddered, but the material beneath remained intact. A good result. Illya wrote it down in his notebook.

Illya tensed at the sound of footsteps outside in the hall. And then the door opened, and Napoleon showed himself in. Trust him to find his partner, no matter how much he didn’t want to be found.

“So this is what you’ve been up to?” Napoleon studied the labels on the bottles. “Should I be worried?”

“Only if you plan to remind anybody what day it is. I’ve told you I would much prefer it if nobody knows. I managed to escape Suzanne planning a party, and I’d like to keep it that way.”

”Oh, is there something special today?” Napoleon asked, his big eyes the picture of innocence except for the glimmer in their depths.

Illya shook his head and went back to his notes. ”Don’t play dumb. It’s not attractive.”

”I could say the same of you. If you don’t clean that up soon, you’ll be late for your appointment.”

Illya looked up. ”I don’t have an appointment.”

”Yes, you do. You and me, at the new steakhouse across from that record store, tonight.” He made a show of checking his watch. “Forty-five minutes from now, actually.”

This time, he couldn’t begrudge Napoleon sounding so pleased with himself.

”I’ll be up in Del Floria’s in a moment,” he said. Despite the massive spread of chemicals and equipment in front of him, he really wasn’t doing very much, and Napoleon, despite his lack of experience in this field, clearly knew it.

Napoleon smiled. ”I’ll meet you there. And, Illya?”

“What is it?”

”Happy birthday.” 

Chapter Text

Napoleon dropped into the hotel room’s single armchair with a groan. Illya, busy hanging up his coat and triple-checking the air vents for bugs, glanced over at him with carefully hidden concern. It had been an uneventful flight for both of them, with the peak of excitement being the moment when a stewardess tripped in the aisle and would have dropped a tray of half-empty coffee cups if Napoleon hadn’t caught her arm in time. Illya couldn’t even blame him for the shameless flirting that’d followed up his impromptu heroics. The blushing girl had certainly enjoyed it. 

No, Illya didn’t truly begrudge Napoleon any of his flirtations, as long as they didn’t get in the way of an assignment. But he always preferred having his partner to himself at the end of the day.

“Room’s clean,” Illya reported. And then, after a few moments of quiet, “Are you all right, Napoleon?”

“My neck aches,” Napoleon said, running a hand along it and wincing. “All I did was fall asleep on it. It feels like I’ve gone three rounds in a THRUSH torture chamber.”

“Let me,” Illya offered, coming around the back of the chair. He hardly needed to touch Napoleon to understand why he was in pain. He could already see the stiffness and tension that locked his muscles into aching knots.

He reached around to unbutton Napoleon’s shirt, to give himself better access, and then began. Napoleon made a small noise and leaned into the touch. 

As Illya worked, Napoleon was quiet in the way he only was when he had something on his mind. Illya waited. Finally, he took a breath and said it.

”Am I getting old, lllya?”

Was that what this was about?

”Yes,” Illya said with characteristic bluntness. “I would be rather more concerned if you were not aging. Even you cannot break the laws of biology and temporal mechanics, my friend.”

”Ha ha. Thank you for the diagnosis, Doctor Kuryakin.”

“I happen to be glad for every day you get older,” Illya said, digging his fingers into one of the knots that clung to Napoleon’s neck like a particularly vicious barnacle.  

“It’s better than the alternative, but that doesn’t mean it’s comfortable. Or attractive.”

“Some people have a taste for older men.” Not that Illya appreciated them monopolizing his partner’s time and distracting him at key moments, but it could do a man good to be admired. And desired. 

“Some don’t,” Napoleon countered.

Illya continued to knead Napoleon’s neck. Most of the knots were gone by now, but he wasn’t ready to stop, and it might serve some comfort for Napoleon’s troubled thoughts.

”Are you truly so worried?”

Napoleon sighed. “I don’t want to end up as some fat buffoon hiding behind a desk, who’s forgotten what it’s like to be in the field.”

“I find that highly unlikely.” Illya didn’t require any time at all to think of at least a dozen field missions he knew he would never forget for his entire life. ”You would never hide, Napoleon. You might occasionally be a buffoon, but never for long.”

“And fat?” Napoleon pressed, turning his head to look at Illya and raising an eyebrow. 

”Consider it a sign of luxurious living,” Illya reasoned. He’d rather be fat than starving. “And you aren’t, if you’re wondering,” he followed up. “Not yet, at least.”

Napoleon snorted, but when Illya looked he was smiling.

Illya rested a hand on his shoulder. “If you’re old, what does that make me?”

Napoleon pretended to consider the question. ”Beautiful? Irresistible?"

Illya sighed. “Enough with the flattery. You don’t need any of that to get me in your bed. Or you in mine,” he added. It helped to remind Napoleon that in their personal life, he was no longer always the senior agent. 

”Just expensive meals, and rare records…”

”And saving my life, and protecting the world from tyrants,” Illya added.  

“You do enough of that yourself.” How, after years, could a look from Napoleon still make him feel this good?

Illya found the sense to say, ”And you should remember that when the pretty girls are knocking down your door,” even if he couldn’t quite manage the scolding tone that was supposed to go with it.

Napoleon took a deep breath, then stood, reaching for Illya’s arm to guide him towards the bed.

”I might ache in places, but I’m still strong enough for this,” he said.

Illya made sure to prove him right. 

Chapter Text

"Napoleon, that is the most ridiculous Halloween costume I've ever seen." An unorthodox greeting to give one’s direct superior, but Illya decided Napoleon deserved it.

"Really?" Napoleon grinned around his fangs. "Then you should see Alice in Records. She's dressed up as a gumball machine. Lots of little rainbow paper circles stuck to her hair. I'd love to help her brush them out."

"Don't be crude," Illya scolded, without much venom. "And besides, she's seeing Dave from R&D. Not that that's ever stopped you before."

"I'm enough of a gentleman to avoid a taken woman. And to ignore that insult." Napoleon adjusted the collar of his cape in mock affront.

"Of course, Count Solo," Illya said, resiting the temptation to roll his eyes.

Another grin. "Count Solo, I could get used to that."

"Even if it adds up to one?"

"What's your costume, by the way? Don't tell me you forgot to bring one."

"Forgot? No. I simply decided not to participate in this bizarre fantasy. I am myself, nothing more."

"Not a sheik from India, or a foreign warrior, or powerful ambassador?” Napoleon’s eyes searched Illya as if looking for some secret.

"Not this time. The glue makes me itch."

"Come on, it doesn't take much. A set of ears and a tail and you'd make a nice cat, no glue or makeup needed at all." From the way Napoleon was looking at him, Illya didn’t doubt he was imagining it, and enjoying it.

Illya flipped though his files, deliberately ignoring Napoleon’s comment. "Do you have nothing better to do?"

"We could go trick-or-treating."

Illya refused to be tempted. "A game for children."

"It doesn't have to be,” Napoleon insisted. “Beatrice was handing out candy earlier at the front desk."

"I know, I made sure to get some." He opened a drawer of his desk, pulled out a toffee, then unwrapped it and put it in his mouth, all without looking at Napoleon.

"So you are enjoying the holiday!" Napoleon said with triumph.

"I never said I didn't enjoy it. Only that I would not participate in the sillier parts."

"Now I know that's not true. Trick or treat is exactly your game. Just last month you tricked Dave into thinking mice had eaten his suit."

Now Illya glanced his way, and smiled. "A trick played on an ordinary day is unexpected. A trick played on a holiday designed for the purpose is trite and unoriginal."

Napoleon’s eyebrows went up. "Should I be expecting something scary waiting in our office tomorrow, then?"

”If you think it necessary to be wary, I doubt I’ll be able to change that.” Now that sort of threat would have Napoleon questioning everything for days. Good. As soon as he let down his guard, Illya would be ready. As he’d said, trick or treat wasn’t limited to just one night.

Chapter Text

The little hut is full of dust and looks one storm away from falling apart, but it’s the best place to camp out while they plant bugs in the abandoned construction site THRUSH wants to use to test their new explosives.

When they get there, they find it isn’t exactly uninhabited. Napoleon looks around disbelievingly at the flock of chickens wandering about pecking at the ground. Clearly there are no foxes or wolves anywhere in the vicinity.

”All the better for us,” Illya says.

”How so?” Napoleon asks. “Unless you have a severe craving for eggs.”

“Chickens are better watchmen than men or dogs,” Illya informs him. “Dogs can be bribed, and men can be distracted. But a chicken will scream at the unfamiliar regardless of how quietly you creep or how much seed you bring with you.”

Napoleon shrugs and steps over the line of corroded fencing, only to be met with a chorus of alarmed squawks. “I see what you mean,” he admits.

”We’ll be safe here,” Illya tells him. “I only hope THRUSH doesn’t decide to use any of these poor creatures for target practice.”

”I know. I prefer my chicken roasted or fried, not demolished.”

Before Illya can respond to the terrible joke, Napoleon drops a bag of equipment into Illya’s arms. “You can set the first batch.” He wiggles his communicator between his fingers. “Stay in touch.”

Illya grunts and heads out the door into the fading evening light. Napoleon can hear him telling the offended chickens to quiet down, not that it does much good. They do settle after a while, and Napoleon peeks out of a window to see the shadow of his partner climbing the fence into the field.

After about half an hour, Napoleon gets his promised updates. The first few devices are in place, and there’s no signs of any THRUSH surveillance at all.

“Another hour, maybe two,” Illya estimates. “Try not to get into trouble while I’m away.” He closes the connection and gets back to work.

There’s nothing much for Napoleon to do while he waits, and Illya can more than take care of himself, so after a while Napoleon settles himself on the moth-eaten blankets on the saggy bed, arms folded behind his head and starts working on a report in his head, communicator resting by his ear. His thoughts soon drift to other things: the pretty new translator at HQ, an upcoming shooting contest against the Midwest office, that enchanting character Illya played on his last undercover assignment…

He’s not sure how long it’s been when the sound of awakening birds breaks into his thoughts. He sits up, reaches for his gun, and sets it down again when a familiar secret knock at the door heralds Illya’s return.

”All set?”

Illya sits on the bed beside him. “One of the devices was unfortunately a dud, but the rest are in position. I brought spares for a reason.”

”An UNCLE agent is always prepared,” Napoleon says, hoping it’s too dark for Illya to see his sleepy smile. 

“You’ll be pleased to hear we won’t be needing a second round,” Illya adds. “There was only enough structure out there to plant the ones I brought. Any more and we risk them noticing the addition.”

”Oh. Thank you for that.” Saved him a few hours poking about in a muddy field. “I suppose I’ll be writing the reports then.”

”It would be a fair exchange,” Illya says, in a tone that promises danger if Napoleon tries to renege on the deal.

“If we’re done here, we should go.” Napoleon’s limbs are protesting the idea of getting out of bed, even as shabby a bed as this, but duty calls. He should be grateful for the nap.

“The van won’t be here until dawn,” Illya says, reading his intent and his reluctance in one glance. “Shove over.”

Napoleon obediently moves out of the way. The bed creaks under the weight of two men as Illya presses close beside him, breath tickling his arm. 

He closes his eyes again. It’s always hard to sleep on assignment, even in far better accommodations than this. But with his partner beside him, not to mention their well-tuned avian alarm system outside, he thinks he might just be able to manage it.

Chapter Text

Napoleon had just sat down at his desk when he heard the sound for the first time. Frowning, he adjusted his chair. UNCLE-issue furniture was usually sturdy, no matter what it lacked in style, so a squeaky chair would be a surprise. He wasn't looking forward to the paperwork if he had to request a replacement. Or the withering remarks from Waverly on why exactly he was requesting changes only a month after their office had been rebuilt from the last time it was demolished by an enemy attack.

No noise. He wiggled again. The chair was, to all appearances, perfect.

He looked across the room. Illya was watching him.

"Are you quite all right, Napoleon?"

"Yeah. I thought I heard something."

"You are due for your regular hearing exams," Illya commented. Napoleon decided to ignore that, and reached for his pen and drew the first sheet of paper from his overflowing inbox.

He'd signed and dated the header, and then he heard it again. Followed by Illya adjusting a pile of papers in a way that was too deliberate to be casual.

He raised an eyebrow. Whatever this was, he had a feeling he would find out soon.

Only a few minutes later, he heard the sound again, and this time, he recognized it. He put down his pen and turned to look at Illya, hiding his amusement under a severe expression borrowed from Mr. Waverly.

"Illya, if I'm not very mistaken, and I'm usually not," Napoleon began, earning himself a sarcastic look from his partner, "your paperwork just meowed."

Illya remained unmoved. “Paper does not meow, Napoleon. For you to claim so is most alarming behavior. I suggest you seek help from Medical if you continue to have these delusions.”

Now he knew Illya was lying. If he had even the slightest reason to truly suspect Napoleon was losing his mind, he’d be worried, not roundly dismissive. No, he was hiding something. And Napoleon had a strong suspicion as to what it was.

He forced his face into a serious, professional expression, which he knew was ruined by the humor he couldn’t keep out of his eyes. “As your superior officer, I have the right to know if you’ve acquired any new… companions.”

Illya wasn’t convinced. “You’re hardly my superior,” he began. “And the UNCLE handbook contains no rule-“

Whatever Illya was going to say in response was interrupted by the distinctive yowl of a very indignant kitten. Illya sighed and reached under the paper, withdrawing a small black-and-white creature.

“So I was right,” Napoleon said. “You were hiding something.” A very adorable something.

The ball of fluff and claws in Illya’s hands gave another pitiful wail, then turned around and sank its teeth into the collar of his sweater.

“She wants to be fed,” Illya observed, in the sort of tone that indicated he expected Napoleon to do something about it.

“What she needs to be is outside,” Napoleon said. It was a losing battle and he knew it but he had to at least try. “Where did you find a kitten, anyway?”

“Huddled under a newspaper outside of del Floria’s,” Illya said, patting her on the head. “Someone must have abandoned the poor thing.”

“Do you think she’s a THRUSH spy?” Napoleon suggested, only half-joking. A sweet, defenseless baby animal was exactly the sort of bait their foes would love to make use of towards the goal of capturing one particularly slippery Russian.

Illya scowled, his disapproval only somewhat spoiled by the adorable furry lump perched on his shoulder. “Certainly not. She has much finer taste than that.”

Napoleon watched the little creature in question continue to suckle on Illya’s collar, utterly unaware of the accusations being flung above her head. “Speaking of taste, she’s going to chew right through that thing if you don’t move her.”

“I have others,” Illya said, but he reached up a hand and carefully detached the kitten’s teeth and claws from his clothing. “Enough, sweetheart. There’ll be milk and fish for you soon.”

Napoleon realized he was still watching Illya’s gentle hands as he tended to his new pet. He was only looking because it was a kitten, Napoleon told himself. They’d basically evolved to attract loving human attention. It wasn’t because he was fascinated by how the man who could throw a bomb and kill an enemy agent without a trace of regret was handling the little creature as delicately as he would a computer’s circuit board or a fragile piece of artwork.

The kitten blinked up at Napoleon with guileless, wet eyes, and then opened its mouth and wailed.

“Shush,” he said automatically. 

Another wail. Followed by a sleepy sniff and an expectant stare. Two expectant stares, in fact. 

Napoleon, defeated, pushed his paperwork aside, then stood up and went to the door.

“Do you think she’ll eat tuna salad?”

Chapter Text

Paperwork was the one constant in their lives. Travel, danger, and paperwork. The one did not necessarily make up for the other, Illya thought, but any of it was better than being dead, or living under the bootheel of the sorts of people THRUSH wanted to push into power. But, he wondered multiple times a day, did they truly need this many copies, with the details explained over and over in so many fractured fields? If he was in charge, he knew he could cut the workload by at least half. If the resources were available, he could attempt to involve computer processing as well…

"What are you thinking about?" 

Napoleon's voice brought him out of his reverie. He opened his eyes to find that his pen had leaked an ugly dark splodge onto the sheet he was working on, and it had bled through to the one underneath as well. He made a face.

"I'm thinking about how recklessly inefficient UNCLE's filing system is."

To his surprise, instead of heaving a sigh and commiserating with him, Napoleon smiled. "It isn't meant to be efficient, you know."

"Really. I can think of fifteen more useful ways to document all this data."

"I’m sure the Records department would be interested to hear it. But you need to understand that the goal, my friend, isn't documentation."

Illya narrowed his eyes. "Then what is it?"

“Control.”

Illya’s first instinct was to dismiss this line as only another example of the good-natured insults that agents leveled at Mr. Waverly on a regular basis. But then the idea took root, and unfurled extrapolations.

“So it is,” he said, thoughtful now instead of simply frustrated. “A busywork task meant to keep us from getting into too much trouble.”

“And to make us think twice before doing something reckless on an assignment, knowing we’ll be made to answer for it later,” Napoleon said, with an approving nod at how quickly Illya had caught on.

“Since when have you been known to think twice about anything?” Illya needled.

“I survived this long. Clearly I’m doing something right.” Napoleon gave an irritatingly casual shrug and leaned back in his chair. 

“Or you’re simply too lucky for your own good.”

“I thought you didn’t believe in luck?” Napoleon smiled. “Maybe it’s because I know you have my back.” 

“That is far more likely.” Sometimes Illya didn’t know how they managed to work together so well. But he knew they’d both be dead a dozen times over without each other’s skills and support. 

He finished recopying the page he was on, waited a moment for the ink to dry, and flipped it over into the outbox with a sigh. 

“Don’t sound so depressed,” Napoleon said. “When we’re finished with these, I know a nice little place we can go for dinner. Get the weekend off to a good start.”

“And get summoned to the airport halfway though, most probably,” Illya groused.

Napoleon raised an eyebrow. “Tempting fate? Another superstition from my atheist scientist partner?”

Illya glared. “There’s superstition, and then there’s simply expecting and planning for the inevitable,” he said. “I do the latter.”

“Sure, sure. How about this? If we do get called away in the middle of it and you tragically miss a chance at a very good meal, I’ll pay for both of us.”

“You have yourself a deal.” And despite his legendary frugality, Illya found himself hoping that he’d lose this particular bet.

Chapter Text

"Three days' vacation time," Napoleon said, peering at the piece of paper on his desk in disbelieving wonder.

Illya got up from his desk and wandered over to stand beside him. The scowl he’d been wearing had turned to a look of curiosity, and Napoleon could see the edges of a smile beginning. The hope was carefully masked with his typical cynicism. "Are we entirely sure that Mr. Waverly has not been replaced by a THRUSH imposter?" He reached for the paper, read it over twice, and then folded it up and put it in his pocket.

"That was addressed to me," Napoleon complained good-naturedly, but he made no attempt to take the letter back.

"It also had my name on it," Illya reasoned. "Anyway, I’m the more likely of the two of us to succeed in keeping this in a secure place. If we are questioned upon our return, we will need proof that our holiday was authorized."

We. Napoleon ignored the insult and grinned over at him. "So you're saying you're up for going on a holiday with me?"

"I didn't say that,” Illya began. “But if you were to invite me..."

"When are you going to learn that I wouldn't go without you?" Napoleon stood up and patted Illya's shoulder in what he hoped could be taken for a brotherly manner. "Come on. Let's get out of here before the old man changes his mind."

Illya, for once, didn’t waste any time arguing, but simply grabbed his coat and followed Napoleon out the door.

---

The airport was thoroughly crowded, which was surprising on a Thursday evening nowhere near a national holiday. Illya scanned the throngs of people with well-trained suspicion. It would be just their luck if their holiday was spoiled by some coincidence out of their control.

A few things caught his eye almost instantly. A spy never forgot his training, even on holiday. Nothing immediately registered as a threat, but he wouldn’t let his guard down until he was sure and perhaps not even then. 

"Very few of these travelers are carrying luggage," he said quietly in Napoleon’s ear, glancing towards a crowd without making it obvious to anyone else that he was watching. "And they are not purchasing tickets. So what are they doing here?"

Napoleon didn't reply. He was staring at something across the terminal. Illya followed his gaze.

"They're not going anywhere," Napoleon said. "But I imagine SHE is." He nodded towards a woman who stepped through the terminal doors and into the center of a rapidly-growing crowd of onlookers. She was wearing dark glasses and her hair fell around her shoulders in glossy curls.

"Clearly a woman of some distinction," Illya mused. He looked her over. Probably a mere celebrity or fashion icon, but there was always a chance she was carrying a weapon under that voluminous fur coat.

"Don't tell me you've never seen her before," Napoleon said, with that tone he adopted whenever Illya professed ignorance of some aspect of American culture or history that he believed all civilized men should know, from the farthest islands to the biggest cities.

"Enlighten me," Illya said. He rarely let Napoleon get away with this sort of thing, but he figured he’d have his comeuppance later.

”Do you remember the movie we saw last month?”

“Of course.” Illya frowned. He should have recognized her immediately, even though the last time he’d seen her she had been wearing far less clothing and much blonder hair. “The hero’s journalist girlfriend.” He couldn’t remember her name, or the character’s, but he supposed it didn’t matter.

”Exactly.”

“Don’t tell me you’re about to try and invite her to accompany you on a date,” Illya said, making his distaste for the idea very clear. 

Napoleon smiled with that unshakable pride he always carried with him. “I’m certain I could, but the papers say she’s dedicated to her husband.”

“Ah,” Illya said. He resisted adding a snide not that that’s ever stopped you before. He watched as two dark-suited bodyguards swept the woman through the airport and into a car waiting outside. Napoleon gave her a nod as she passed, but nothing more.

“Besides,” Napoleon added, “I’m very happy with the company I have right now. Shall we find our flight?”

Chapter Text

The man in the white coat, the signs plastered all around the shop said, was selling light bulbs of a sort Hitherto Unknown To Science, but the crowd surrounding him was so thick that not one shaft of light came through to catch the eyes of the two UNCLE agents patrolling the perimeter.

Napoleon cast a suspicious eye on the steady line of customers walking away, having exchanged their hard-earned cash for little boxes containing Dr. Sperry’s Miracle Illuminations, Guaranteed To Relieve Aches And Pains. 

“Are we sure THRUSH is going to buy this? This man’s an idiot.” Two happy customers brushed past him, too wrapped up in staring at their prizes to even notice him standing there.

”Many of the most important scientific discoveries in history were made by accident,” Illya said, though he sounded distinctly unimpressed. 

“Really,” Napoleon said. He’d heard of a few cases, penicillin and vulcanized rubber among them, but somehow he didn’t expect Dr. Harlan Sperry to be counted amid the likes of Alexander Fleming. 

Illya’s expression remained still, but the hint of a smile came into his eyes. “The refining of those discoveries into something useful was usually done by other people,” he added casually. “And that process took decades of work.”

“So why are we here again?”

”Because THRUSH has exactly the resources and motivation to turn Dr. Sperry’s so-called invention into a weapon capable of harming innocents,” Illya explained. “Furthermore, if they manage to hire him to their cause, they will put him to work developing more such technologies.”

“And why exactly are we worried about this?” There were dozens of hobbyist inventors out there, many with less-than-stellar ethics. UNCLE couldn’t exactly keep tabs on all of them.

”Because, as ridiculous as his sales tactics are, he does possess provable engineering skills. The research team found his graduate thesis. And he is clearly not selective about what causes he puts them to as long as it results in personal profit.” 

Napoleon sighed. “As long as this isn’t coming out of our pay,” he said, with a resentful glare at the signs. “Five dollars each. That’s absurd.”

”Short on cash?” Illya accused.

“I spent more than I’d planned to last night with Bea,” he admitted. As if Illya was going to be at all sympathetic. 

“It’ll go on expenses. Waverly can’t argue that.”

“And how many weeks will I have to wait to get those expenses reimbursed?” Napoleon reminded him. 

“Patience is a virtue,” Illya suggested.

Napoleon wiggled his fingers in his empty pockets. “Well, unless you want to counteract that virtue by shoplifting…”

Illya gave him a glare that could have cut glass, but he reached into his pocket and handed over a five-dollar bill.

”Thanks. I’ll pay you back.”

Napoleon cleared his throat and stepped forward out of the crowd to beam stupidly at the salesman. Now that he was within arm’s reach of the sample bulb, he noted that it did seem different than a standard lightbulb. It gave off more heat, he thought, without being brighter or blinding. Maybe there was something to this after all. 

“Hello! So you’re the one selling these things? My secretary won’t shut up about these. What is it you say they do again?”

The salesman puffed out his chest. “Why, many things, my friend! This is a new technology specifically designed for medical purposes. I had to wrestle the plans away from those who would have kept it limited to select clinics!”

”How does it work?”

”The light is produced by a special sort of filament - patented, of course! - and passes through several filters to focus its energy. When it touches the human body, it interacts with the natural atomic waves to smooth out any irregularities and restore sore or injured flesh to peak health.”

Complete and utter rubbish. He could tell that Illya was almost vibrating with the effort of not tearing this charlatan to shreds. But the mission had to come first. If Sperry was indeed working with THRUSH, he would face the consequences. 

Napoleon let Sperry chatter a little longer, then handed over the bill and walked away the proud owner of one Miracle Illumination Bulb. 

Illya fell in step beside him. “You are going to have to hand that over to the lab, remember,” he said.

”Hm?” Napoleon noticed he was holding the box a little more tightly than made sense. “Of course. Can’t wait to get rid of it, honestly.”

”I see.” Illya said with some suspicion.

“What? You don’t think I actually believe this, do you?”

”No,” Illya said. “You’re not quite that gullible. But I do wonder about the effects of that bulb…”

Chapter Text

“What are you so anxious about, Napoleon? There is nobody here besides us, and we would know well in advance if any were approaching.”

“It’s not them that I’m watching out for,” Napoleon admitted. He turned to glance into the inky shadows behind them. Nothing but dust and old stone, at least for now.

When he looked back at his partner, Illya was eyeing him in the torchlight, as if trying to determine if he was joking. “You fear the supernatural?” he asked.

Not something a man wanted to admit to. But how could one help it, in a place like this? “Well, not really, but…” Napoleon trailed off, embarrassed. At least in this light Illya couldn’t see his face heat. “There’s so many stories, and they don’t end well. You’re not worried at all?”

Illya kept walking. "You know as well as I do that the dead cannot reanimate. Not as ghosts, not as zombies, and certainly not as mummies."

"There was that time with the zombies..." Napoleon started, but he didn’t get any further.

Illya scoffed. "Living humans, put into a trance through a noxious combination of drugs. An unfortunate state of affairs for the victims, but nothing supernatural in the least."

"I'm just saying that I find exploring a four thousand year old tomb a little unnerving. Can you blame me?"

"I find it fascinating." Illya lifted his torch and admired the dim stone tunnel around them. "The people of the ancient world built this place to last until the end of time. Who knows what secrets they could teach us?"

"They also wanted to keep raiders and tomb-robbers out."

"We don't qualify. We are here for scientific investigation.”

 "I'm not sure they'll make that distinction." Napoleon ran a hand along one hieroglyph-adorned wall and sneezed.

“And please refrain from touching the walls. The oil in your skin might damage the artwork."

They continued on. They must be close to some sort of burial chamber by now, right? These catacombs couldn’t go on forever.

“You do not need to fear,” Illya said. It wasn’t particularly comforting, and somehow that helped. “Think instead of the many things we may learn here. Perhaps you should be proud. It was your namesake who spearheaded the modern rediscovery of ancient Egypt.”

“He can take the credit. I’m not interested.”

“Only because you fear showing any interest in dusty ruins might scare away a pretty girl.” Illya made his displeasure clear. The accusation wasn’t completely fair - he’d dated several women of a more scholarly bent before, though none seriously - but before Napoleon could protest, Illya continued, “Why don’t you look for one who isn’t bored by such things? I knew several female archeologists at Cambridge.”

“I realize it’s deeply ironic for me to be the one saying this, but would you mind keeping your focus on the assignment? I don’t want to stumble into any traps.”

”Traps? This place has been abandoned for thousands of years. There’s no poison darts or falling stones waiting for us, or anything else out of those adventure books boys read.”

Now that caught his interest. ”Did you? Read them, I mean.”

Illya was quiet for a moment. “A few. Out of curiosity, nothing more. They present an interesting combination of cultural influences…”

Oh no, he wasn’t getting away with that. Napoleon grinned. “You enjoyed them. Admit it.”

Illya swung around in alarm to look back the way they’d come. “Someone’s coming!”

”No, I’m not letting you avoid the question that easily,” Napoleon said. “Besides, you just said there are no supernatural monsters here.”

Illya grabbed his hand and pulled him down the corridor. ”I believe that mummy must be a THRUSH in disguise. I’d still suggest we run!”

Chapter Text

”I swear, I have absolutely no idea how any of this happened.”

Napoleon’s hands were raised in surrender, and his shocked face was the picture of innocence. Almost. That amused sparkle in his eye was something far too subtle for a stranger to recognize, and even if they did, they might take it for the beginning of remorseful tears. 

Illya knew better. Much better. He’d taken in the crime scene that was their office in an instant, but he let his eyes scan over it a few merciful seconds longer, giving Napoleon a chance to come up with a slightly better excuse.

”No idea? Are you certain of that?”

“Well…” Napoleon lowered his arms. 

“Because to me, it looks very much like you ‘borrowed’ a prototype lock-breaker gun from the engineering lab, attempted to use it on that secure case, and missed, demolishing half the room in the process. You’re lucky you didn’t put a bolt through your hand when the device slipped out of your grasp.”

Napoleon examined his dirty fingers, smiling. “Did anyone ever tell you you’d make a good Sherlock Holmes?”

”Not unless they’re trying to flatter me, which you know will have no effect on the report I’ll have to make of this incident.”

”Illya…”

Usually, Illya might give in and “cut him some slack,” as Napoleon would put it. Neither of them were fond of the discipline handed down to erring agents. But this was so exceptionally stupid and dangerous that Illya didn’t care he’d likely be ruining Napoleon’s weekend plans and condemning him to the worst tasks Waverly had to offer.

Napoleon tried again. ”I only knocked over a shelf.”

”Which spilled its contents over my desk, and rendered my lunch thoroughly squashed and inedible.”

”I can buy you another sandwich.”

”I was looking forward to that sandwich,” Illya groused.

But Napoleon, as always, was ready with an answer. ”Look, let’s go down to the canteen, I‘ll get you anything you want, and maybe you can wait until after lunch to put in that report.”

”Bribery doesn’t become you, Napoleon.” But he had to admit he was hungry. And the last thing he wanted to do today was more paperwork. And filing a complaint against Napoleon would just result in Napoleon finding the next petty thing to hold against Illya.

Illya took a breath. “Did you damage the prototype? Or yourself?”

Napoleon shook his head. “Nope. Everything’s still intact.” He wiggled his fingers to prove it. “I’ve had worse recoil.”

Illya nodded, considering the information. Finally, he made his decision. “I have too much to do without adding another report on top.”

”I knew you’d see reason.” Napoleon smiled.

“To the canteen we go. And be sure to put that shelf back together. I’ll know if you miss anything.”

”Whatever you say. Is my wallet going to survive this?”

”Hush. I can always change my mind and tell the lab boys to check on their new invention…”

Napoleon, obediently, shut up.

Chapter Text

A massive boom tore through the warehouse.

Napoleon winced at the harm done to his poor exposed ears. No way to cover them, not with his arms tied to the chair. 

THRUSH stooges ran this way and that, tails on fire. Napoleon smiled. This sort of chaos could only mean one thing.

Moments later, Illya strode into the room, brushing bits of charred debris from his suit. He pulled out a knife and set to work cutting Napoleon’s bonds. 

“Plan Dos. Worked like a charm.”

Napoleon raised an eyebrow. ”What was Plan Uno?” 

“Not getting caught in the first place.”

Chapter Text

Napoleon toyed with his cuffs. It was an exceptionally hot May morning after a series of cold, rainy days, and he was starting to sweat. It didn’t help that the train car had next to no ventilation. 

“Now I know what a chicken boiling in a pot feels like,” he complained.

Illya leaned back in his seat. “We recover the jewels, and then you can celebrate the evening with a fine filet and a bottle of wine.”

“Don’t count your winnings before you cast the dice,” Napoleon muttered.

Illya’s communicator beeped. 

Napoleon sat up. “That must be April. She’s found something.”

He was right.

“Get this, Illya. They’re hiding the jewels they stole in a shipment of snowglobes.”

”Snowglobes?”

”Big ones, with a scene of Santa on a sled.”

“Christmas toys? In May?” Napoleon was incredulous.

Illya shrugged. “They might simply be preparing for the Christmas rush. It must take months of shipments to satiate the American hunger for extravagant store-bought gifts and holiday-themed tat.”

“You can lecture me on the excesses of capitalism after we retrieve the jewels.”

”I plan to. I’ll enjoy the opportunity.”

“And then you can also enjoy the opportunity to pay for your own dinner.”

Chapter Text

“It should be wearing off right about now.” The words seemed to come from a great distance away. Illya tried to move towards them, or at least away from whatever heavy sucking darkness had grabbed his head in its vice. 

That was a mistake. The world tilted, and then was held firm by a warm hand against his shoulder. 

“Hey, no, don’t move,” the voice warned. Napoleon. It was Napoleon.” You’re going to fall if you keep doing that.” And damn him, he sounded amused. 

“I’ll try not to,” Illya managed through an achingly dry mouth. He groaned and forced his eyes open. He was greeted with the sight of Napoleon’s kitchen. He was sitting at the kitchen counter, head resting on his arms. Napoleon sat next to him, mixing something in a glass. The motions were dizzying.

He let his eyes rest instead on Napoleon’s collection of exotic glassware. It did very little to combat the rising nausea, but at least it was better than keeping them closed. There was less spinning this way.

Peevishly, he searched his memory. Nothing, except for a blurry recollection of a speeding vehicle, a cloud of dust, and a pain in his arm. Well, he wasn’t in a bed in Medical, and Napoleon didn’t seem too alarmed, so he decided it couldn’t be too dire.

A question occurred to him regarding his current circumstances. “Why did you leave me on a bar stool if you didn’t want me to fall?” he asked, then swallowed hard against the rising tide of pain in his head.

”I didn’t. You did that all by yourself.”

”I find that hard to believe.” Then again, it was harder to believe that Napoleon would have played such a prank with his half-conscious body, not with the sofa at arm’s reach.

”You did. I guess we’ll have to tell the boys that loss of memory is a part of the package.”

”What package?” His head hurt far too much for this. 

“You, my friend, were hit by a very special dart just as we were finishing the assignment.”

”One of ours?” 

“So you do remember!”

”Pieces of it.” Illya groaned. It was coming back now. They’d been supplied with a prototype dart gun designed to shoot cartridges that couldn’t fit into standard bullets. He’d stuffed it into his coat pocket and all but forgotten it as they scrambled onto the parked vehicle. Until it fell out of his pocket and right into the hands of the THRUSH stooge loading the van with supplies. 

He groaned again. Not only had he suffered the indignity of being shot with his own weapon and stumbling drunkenly around afterward, but he was yet to suffer the fury of Waverly and the engineering labs for delivering the prototype straight to their enemies. 

“Why didn’t you take me to Medical?” Illya asked.

”You wouldn’t go. You looked completely lucid, Illya, you almost fooled me. Told me you wanted a sandwich. I wasn’t going to take you to a deli in that condition, so I brought you back here. That was before you fell asleep on my table.”

That he had been hungry after a mission wasn’t a surprise. But Illya found himself very glad he hadn’t completed that particular quest - if he had, it would probably have come back up by now.

”I suppose I should thank you for that.”

“It took some convincing. Far be it from me to discourage you when you have your mind set on something. Or your stomach.”

With the frequency with which the two of them suffered such poisons, he wondered bitterly why they hadn’t built up some sort of resistance. At least he hadn’t. Maybe Napoleon had. 

“The good news is we managed to get a tracker onto their van. HQ should be listening in on their conversations.”

”They are? What are we doing here, then?”

”Waiting for you to recover.”

”Oh.” Now that he thought about it, that was a rather good idea. He folded his arms on the table and rested his head on them.

”There’s a couch,” Napoleon said. An even better idea. 

Illya considered it. His head whirled. “No moving yet,” Illya said.

”Take your time. I’ll make those sandwiches.”

Chapter Text

"Sir?" Illya peered at the papers for a third, no, a fourth time, still not fully able to believe what they said. He'd seen all manner of absurd THRUSH plots over the years, but this was in an entirely different league. Metaphorically speaking. 

He wondered briefly if it might be some sort of joke. But Waverly was not a man known for his humor. At least not when it came to handing out top-secret assignments. 

"I assure you, Mr. Kuryakin, our intelligence has been checked and verified. This is what they plan to do."

Illya frowned. "Do they truly believe that selling poisoned chocolate ice cream at a baseball game will help them accomplish anything?" THRUSH’s plans could be opaque at times, but they usually served a purpose. Consolidating power, gaining leverage, stockpiling weapons. 

"I believe their goals are two-fold," Waverly said, as severe as if speaking of bombs and warships. "First, such a thing will no doubt cause significant chaos. The common man will begin to doubt the security of his daily life if something as innocent as a sports match can be corrupted by strange influences." Illya knew the purported philosophy of terrorists. He'd seen far too many of them himself. "And second, it seems from our findings that THRUSH may believe that they have concocted a drug that will alter the mental state of their victims in such a way as to make them susceptible to new political arguments. It would be seen as an easy way to gather willing adherents." 

"I see," Illya said. "A frightening concept, I am sure."

It made sense when spelled out like that. But it still sounded absurd. Something the most rudderless conspiracy theorist could never think up given a hundred years and an entire library of mistranslated apocrypha. 

"I expect you and Mr. Solo to put a stop to it," Waverly finished.

“We’ll certainly do our best,” Illya said. First, he would have to find a way to explain this to Napoleon that wouldn’t get him laughed out of the office. He glanced back at Waverly as he walked out the door, finding him perusing a folder of documents with such an air of innocence that Illya was certain Waverly had planned this.

He found Napoleon right where he expected, in the middle of the transcription pool talking to Nancy, the new transfer from the West Coast office. She smiled politely at him, eyes sparkling. Clearly she’d been warned about his charming ways, and decided to enjoy them as far as she wanted and no further. Illya found that an entirely suitable response to his partner’s reputation.

“Ah, Illya. I think you’ll be pleased to hear that all of our reports are properly filed, thanks to Nancy here.”

“And I believe you will be rather less pleased to hear that we have another assignment.” 

“It depends. Are we flying off to any exotic locals to eat foreign cuisine in the company of lovely ladies?”

Illya decided not to entertain his partner’s ridiculous fantasies for another moment. ”We are attending a baseball game.”

Napoleon grinned. “The great American game. I believe you’re in for a bit of an education, my friend.”

Illya stared him down, unimpressed. “I have watched games before. And I’m sorry to say that with our assignment we won’t be able to see much of the activity on the field.” He carefully didn’t offer an opinion on the game itself, or on the arrogance of Americans claiming to have invented the age-old boyish pastime of hitting balls with sticks.  

Napoleon pulled a face. “Don’t tell me we’re running concessions.”

”In a manner of speaking. THRUSH is planning on poisoning the concessions with a mind-control drug.”

“And the old man is sending us out there in caps and suspenders instead of calling up the stadium and canceling the food service?”

“That would tip them off that we’re aware of their plot,” Illya said. “They would be long gone by the time we reached the first hot dog stand.”

“I didn’t think you liked hot dogs.”

”Focus, Napoleon. Besides, it’s not the hot dogs they’re poisoning, it’s the ice cream.”

Napoleon’s helpless, boyish smile revealed that he’d just been making fun of Illya the whole time. Illya sighed.

”The game is this evening. We have some time to prepare.”

”And I suppose that means you have something planned?”

Illya nodded. “Come down to the lab. Please try not to touch anything. I’d rather like to have you alive to assist me with this mission.”

”Assist you? Did Waverly promote you while I was gone?”

”Unfortunately, no. But I am currently in possession of the closest thing we have to a lead on this case, and if you would like to see it, you will have to come with me.”

Napoleon had little choice but to give in, and in a surprising show of sensibility, he agreed.

Chapter Text

Gunfire whizzed overhead, followed by the sounds of crumpling metal and splintering wood.

"Poor little treehouse," Napoleon observed, watching the destruction from the relative safety of a stand of rocks that their aggressors had somehow not yet discovered. "Some children are going to be very sad when they come back here tomorrow."

Illya made a noise in his throat. "They should have chosen a sturdier abode." It wasn’t that he had no sympathy for the treehouse’s owners, but he favored other priorities at the moment, including getting out of here alive.

The hail of bullets slowed and finally came to a stop. Dust and smoke drifted up from the lovingly-crafted wooden wall reinforced with metal slats carefully scavenged from a nearby dump. Now, it was more full of holes than swiss cheese, and about as structurally stable. 

Boots squelched in the mud. THRUSH was getting closer. Illya scrambled up the grassy hill and, still half-crouched, reached out a hand to Napoleon. "This way. We don't want to be sitting ducks when the hunters get here."

"Um," Napoleon began, and smiled awkwardly. "I think I'm stuck." He gave a pained glance towards his feet.

"What?" Illya scrambled closer. And saw the blood staining his partner’s sock, creeping up his ankle.

“My shoe’s caught on something. It’s gone right through.”

“Through your foot?” Alarm spiked.

“Napoleon’s face twisted in pain. “Feels like it, but no, I think it’s just gone through the shoe and scratched me. But I can’t get free.”

Illya spent a few precious seconds studying the puzzle before him, then shook his head.

"We can't wait," Illya said. He wrapped an arm around Napoleon and pulled, brows set in a furrow against the choked noises of pain that escaped Napoleon as his foot pulled free of the tattered boot. 

"I'll need to buy new shoes," he said distantly.

"Choose a reasonable replacement, and this time you might even get your expenses approved," Illya observed. "Come, this way."

He continued up the hill and into the safety of the trees, Napoleon leaning heavily on his shoulder and hobbling along beside him. By the time they reached a dark corner shaded by enough trees to keep out even the most keen-eyed of hunting birds, Napoleon was breathing hard. He crumpled more than sat on the damp ground, face pale with effort and pain.

"This will have to do for now," Illya said. "A better fort than those boys had by the river."

"Don't knock it," Napoleon said, trying to smile and failing. "Some boys work very hard on those things, I'll have you know. When I was nine I spent an entire summer building a hideout in the woods by my aunt's farm."

“I’m sure it was a sight to behold,” Illya said. “For a nine year old child, of course.”

“Insulting an invalid?” Napoleon teased. 

“You’re not that damaged yet.” Illya reached for Napoleon’s leg. He refused to waste any time feeling guilty about the flinch and sound of pain that followed his touch. “Tell me more about this fort. What did you do there?”

Neither of them were under any illusions as to the purpose of the conversation. They’d talked each other through enough agonizing operations in the past. Yet somehow Napoleon always seemed to have more stories to tell. Illya actually believed most of them were true.

Napoleon gave a weak laugh and launched into a tale about a days-long battle between two gangs of boys, full of clever stratagems, wicked treachery, and the searing disappointment of parental interruptions. 

Illya listened with half an ear as he worked. He was correct - relating the story was enough to keep Napoleon distracted as Illya picked thorns from his skin and washed the blood away as best he could with a threadbare handkerchief. Illya found himself wishing he could have been there, spending his summers in carefree games, instead of how it had been. Only for a moment, and then he pushed the thoughts away.

“And that’s how I spent my summer vacation. You?” Napoleon said, and instantly regretted it. He winced. “Never mind.”

Illya looked away for a moment, which said more than any words could.

Napoleon was about to say something, anything to change the topic when he finally spoke.

“I did construct a rather fine shelter during a trainee survival course in Russia,” Illya said, forgiving him with the thoughtful glimmer in his eye. “Four of the other boys walked straight past me never knowing I was there. And it kept the snow out, at least until the last gasps of the ice storm swept through.”

Napoleon shivered. “I hope you got credit for creativity.”

”I was reprimanded for reaching the final course marker two minutes late.”

”That doesn’t seem fair.”

”Perhaps not, but it was how we were taught. I’d like to think it did me good.” No use fighting the past. Those commanders were no doubt retired and bitter now, if not dead and buried. They’d certainly drank enough both on and off duty to make the latter a strong possibility.

”It kept you alive. I’m grateful for that,” Napoleon said. “But I’ll try to make sure you don’t have to build any snow shelters in the near future.”

”That is hardly ours to choose,” Illya said, but he was smiling. He knew Napoleon was just the sort of man to make a ridiculous promise like that, and mean it. “Can you walk?”

”I’m going to have to try.” With Illya’s help, he was able to get to his feet. The birds had flown elsewhere, leaving the agents free to limp their way back to civilization.

Chapter Text

"I forgot about this one." 

"Hm?" Illya glanced over his steaming coffee mug towards where Napoleon was kneeling next to a rusty filing cabinet, pulling out folders and blowing the dust off of their moth-eaten covers. He was making a terrible mess, but Illya didn't have the heart to scold him for it. Besides, they wouldn't be the ones who needed to clean it up. That would fall to whatever lucky Section II agents got their office. There was probably a betting pool going on it. Illya might have joined, but he doubted the ladies in Accounting would have let him. Insider work, they’d call it.

"The mission in Florida," Napoleon went on, shaking Illya out of his ponderings. 

"Which one? I can recall at least three."

"Then you've got a better memory than I do," Napoleon said, and Illya knew he was right. "The one where I nearly got bitten by a snapping turtle."

"I would have thought something like that would be hard to forget." Illya allowed himself a smile. It was funny how amusing some of their scrapes with danger could be when one was looking back years after the fact. At the time, neither of them had found it very amusing. Napoleon, because he lost a very nice set of leather shoes to the creature’s vicious maw. And Illya, because the fried clams he'd waited half an hour for ended up scattered across the sand, leaving the little golden curls to go to feeding the seagulls instead of the hungry Russian who’d spent his hard-earned money on them, as he was sure to let Napoleon know loudly and frequently afterwards.

“It isn’t even halfway to the strangest thing that’s ever happened to us,” Napoleon said with a shrug. “Some of them have to slip to the back of your mind from time to time.”

“I try to keep my mind more organized than that,” Illya claimed. “I’m sure you would remember the story if it had ended better for you. Then you might hope to impress someone in the retelling.”

“The only person I’m trying to impress is you,” Napoleon said, because he never could give up an opportunity for a cheesy line.

”And you do, every day,” Illya returned, with uncommon sentimentality. Age had brought out a soft spot in him, it seemed. “Finish that up and let’s head upstairs. I’m sure they’ve got work for you already.”

”It never ends,” Napoleon sighed. “Newly promoted and not even time for a party. No wonder the old man was so dour.”

“There will be time later,” Illya promised. “When we’re home.”

Napoleon smiled. “That’s one good thing about this job. We’ll be home more often.”

”And we’ll make the most of it.”

Chapter Text

“Where did you hear about this place?” Napoleon asked, studying the little bakery’s modest window display. Cookies dusted with sugar, cakes with elaborate frosting flowers wreathing their tops, and a tower of little pies, filling winking out through slits in golden crust. They’d had to go down two alleys to find it. 

Napoleon shivered. His boots hadn’t been enough to stop the deep snowdrifts from creeping their chill into his skin. Illya, on the other hand, was prancing about like this was a nice spring day, but that was only to be expected. 

“I have my sources,” Illya said. “Come. It looks like they’ve just taken a new batch out of the oven and I wish to buy one before they get cold.”

“By sources, do you mean French spies?”

Illya shrugged lightly. “We do have access to a very significant network of intelligence agents. It seems a pity not to make use of it. This way.”

He opened the door and strode inside. The scents of sugar and pastry filled the air, along with a faint hint of spices. Gingerbread, perhaps. Napoleon spared a moment to be glad there were no THRUSH agents waiting for them in the back. At least, he hoped there weren’t.

”Do you want something?” Illya said.

”If you’re buying, I think I could go for an eclair.”

”You’re not interested in trying their specialties?”

”Do you have any suggestions?”

Illya considered. ”They have a spiced apple tart that is supposed to be unforgettable.”

”Do you think it could compete with Aunt Amy’s?”

Illya frowned. “If that is to be your standard of judgment, perhaps you’d prefer something else.”

”I’m sure I can find something.” Napoleon studied the towers of pastries, the display cases stuffed with rows and rows of treats. Someone in the kitchen was melting a vat of chocolate. He could smell the sweet richness of it. 

Through the window at the back he could just glimpse a worker piping cream onto some new tray of delights.

Near-constant international travel had its perks, Napoleon reflected. There were bakers in New York that would kill to be able to sell a fraction of what this shop whipped up on a daily basis. 

Illya was already at the counter picking his prizes, sending the pretty little assistant dashing this way and that, piling treats into a paper box lined with tissue paper. 

While he paid, Napoleon nabbed a shortbread biscuit from the collection, earning himself a glare as Illya carefully closed the box to protect his bounty.

”Not going to share?” 

“If you want some so badly, you can buy your own, Napoleon,” Illya accused. He snatched the half-eaten biscuit from Napoleon’s hand and finished it off.

”Sure, sure.” He’d wear Illya down eventually, he thought. By the time they got back to the hotel he’d have laid claim to at least half of the goodies in there.

As it turned out, he was overconfident. That one bite of shortbread would be all he’d have for a while.

They’d just crossed the street; Illya was in the middle of some story about how medieval Europeans considered some spices to be aphrodisiacs, and then he stopped mid-word and dragged Napoleon down to the ground. The box of treats went flying and landed in the road.

”What are you-“

Bullets flew over their heads. 

“A shooter, hiding behind that hedge,” Illya hissed in his ear. He’d unholstered his own gun and returned fire as Napoleon got out his.

In their line of work, no vacation lasted for long. And any man who let his guard down was very likely to meet a sorry end. Fortunately, Napoleon and Illya were not that sort of men.

Chapter Text

”Look on the bright side. If it leaves a scar, you’ll always have an interesting story to tell at bars.”

”Is that what you Russians consider a silver lining?” Napoleon replied, the complaint slightly muffled by the balled-up towel he was holding to his split lip. 

They were sitting in the dingy back room of an abandoned movie theater, trying to work out their next steps now that their best lead had run out the door screaming. 

Illya didn’t seem to be in much of a hurry. “Next time someone throws a rock at you, I suggest you duck.”

“Advice taken.” Napoleon sighed. “I don’t think I can blame him too much. That kid was completely out of his mind. For all we know, he was hallucinating that I was King Kong.”

“It’s not a wise idea to stand right next to the giant picture of an ape, especially when you’re so easily mistaken for one.”

Napoleon considered being offended by that, but then again he’d put the insult right into Illya’s hands. On the other hand, he wasn’t about to laugh, and not only because it would pull on his injured face.

Illya glanced around at the peeling wallpaper. “An old cinema is not the place I would choose to have an LSD trip.”

”Oh yeah? Where would you want to be while you expand your mind?”

Ilya gave him a distinctly disapproving look. ”I can expand my mind through books and research. We get exposed to enough nasty drugs in our line of work. I will never understand the sort of people who would do that voluntarily.”

“I’m not saying I would partake.” He could only imagine what Waverly would say to that particular suggestion. “I’m only saying I, personally, would enjoy the location. I happen to like the art deco style. It’s always classy.”

Illya raised an eyebrow. ”Even when THRUSH moves in?”

“They might be hoping to make a profit.” Napoleon nodded to the framed image behind him. “This collection of RKO posters would be worth a lot to the right collector. This place is practically a depot of film memorabilia."

Illya frowned. “I’m not sure about that. The posters look fairly shoddy to me. Blurry ink, creases, tears. I’d be surprised if they’re even worth the paper they’re printed on.”

“Paper.” Napoleon shot his feet, nearly sending the chair toppling over. ”That’s how they’re smuggling the LSD.”

Illya stared at him, disbelieving, and then nodded. ”It was right in front of our eyes. How clever.”

Napoleon searched the edge of the frame for hooks, and found them. Along with a great deal of dust, an obvious sign that the poster had not been hanging there for very long. If it had, the back would have been cleaner than the wall around it. 

Illya joined him and tugged it free. “Let’s get one of these down to the lab to confirm your theory. And get you some ice for that lip.”

”An exciting evening to look forward to…” Napoleon sighed.

Chapter Text

Napoleon, leaning against the wall with every appearance of causal arrogance, raised his eyebrows at his partner. "See?" he said, sounded more cheerful than any man on disciplinary duty ever had a right to. "I told you you'd be good at training the newbies."

Illya snorted. "If you call two or them bursting into tears and another breaking his ankle during a toilet break a success, I suppose I will have to accept the praise."

Napoleon turned his budding smile into a diplomatic frown. "Were they that bad?"

"I didn't mean to make them cry.” The surprising part was that Illya even sounded vaguely defensive about it. He crossed his arms over his chest. “If they'd displeased me that much, you would have known about it."

Napoleon shrugged. "They'll bounce back. If they don't, they can stick to the labs, or maybe Accounting. If they want to be field agents they'll have to learn to face a lot worse than you, my friend."

Illya shook his head. "I would have thought Survival School would have pounded any sentimentality out of them already."

"What do you mean? We can be plenty sentimental."

"Don't insult me, Napoleon."

"Ah well." Napoleon stuck his hands in his pockets. "What's up next? Rope climbing? A field trip to the firing range? Disguise and accent training?"

“Lunch,” Illya said simply as a woman in UNCLE-gray sweatpants and jacket jogged down the hall towards them. She held out a paper bag, searching her instructor’s face for some sign of approval. After a moment, he gave her a curt nod, and she hurried off, relieved and satisfied.

“You’ve got the newbies doing your chores, I see. Maybe you are a tyrant after all.” Napoleon reached over and helped himself to the sandwiches without asking. Illya didn’t stop him.

”I’m simply doing as I was trained,” Illya said. “At least I am not wasting half my time flirting, as you have done.”

”Not for lack of trying on their part,” Napoleon observed. “When a pretty girl flutters her eyelashes at you, you should at least smile back, you know.” 

Illya ignored him in favor of taking a large bite out of his sandwich. After leisurely chewing and swallowing, he answered, “The goal of my lessons is not for them to be pretty. My goal is to make them into competent secret operatives who will not be taken by surprise by any physical or mental challenges they might face in the line of duty.”

“And if the best way to worm her way into enemy secrets is to come off as a harmless ingenue?” Napoleon prompted.

“If that day does come, I can assure you that you are not the first person I would ask for assistance in training her.”

Napoleon shook his head in theatrical despair, but he couldn’t help but smile at the clever insult. God help them all if Illya taught his recruits that particular skill. 

He finished the sandwich and balled up the paper wrapper. “I suppose I should get back to it.” He turned to Napoleon. “Unless you want to take over for the afternoon? The next lesson is in martial arts.”

”Ah, I believe that’s your specialty. I have a date tonight. It wouldn’t be polite to show up with bruises.” 

“Wise choice.” No need to risk his skin just to watch. He’d hear through the grapevine if anything interesting happened during the lesson.

And with that, Napoleon made himself scarce.

Chapter Text

Napoleon had been in this business long enough to know that something with a name like the Harmony Institute was either utterly inconsequential or completely nefarious. Right now, standing in their marble-paneled, gold-accented lobby, looking into a display of slowly-rotating crystals, Napoleon was inclined to suspect the latter. Nobody truly dedicated to love and peace would spend so much money on showing off. All the hippies he knew would call this sort of thing gauche, stupid, and totally uncool. 

It could still be some millionaire's harmless pet project, but those could attract trouble quickly. Especially when certain feathered deviants were pecking around. 

A few tropical fish swam lazily in a large fishtank set into one white wall. 

“I wonder what benefit the fish serve,” Illya mused.

“You have to admit,” Napoleon said, marveling up at the glass panels and the watery world behind, “it is a very nice aquarium.”

A silvery fish with black spots along its side drifted towards Napoleon, almost as if it was studying him. He leaned in to get a better look and the creature darted away into the safety of a thatch of dark seaweed.

Illya, meanwhile, had moved on to studying the crystals hanging from the ceiling like a lightless chandelier, or a baby’s mobile.

The secretary had left her counter and wandered towards them. She appeared to be unarmed, but the agents knew better than to let their guard down. They were ready for anything from experimental weapons to mind control to airborne poison.

But so far, all they’d suffered was a pretentious design sensibility.

“Is there a purpose to this arrangement?” Illya asked.

The girl smiled, clearly delighted to be asked. “The crystals purify the energy in the environment," she chirped. “They focus the wavelengths and remove the negative vibrations that can cause illness and depression.”

Illya was less than impressed. He replied, maybe a little too snidely, “The only cosmic energy I’m aware of is radiation. Which would have rather more unfortunate consequences. Unless the trance you're seeking is death."

Napoleon elbowed him. “What my companion means to say is we’d be delighted to take a tour of your facility.”

“Of course!” The young woman led them through a white door and down a white hallway, talking all the while about astral balance and ancient wisdom.

Illya looked distinctly displeased, and then downright outraged. Napoleon had to make sure this mission wouldn’t end before it had even begun.

“Being a hippie isn’t a crime,” he muttered in Illya’s ear. “And neither is being an unscientific idiot,” he added, before Illya could. 

Begrudgingly, his partner followed.

Somewhere in the depths of this building, they would find something suspicious. Napoleon, listening to the assistant drone on and on about cosmic harmony, just hoped they would find it soon.

Chapter Text

Napoleon’s foot landed on a patch of wet leaves. He stumbled forward, barely managing to catch himself against the trunk of a rotting tree before he fell bodily into the mud. Not that it mattered. His suit was filthy enough already that this hardly made a difference.

Ahead, Illya clambered effortlessly over the mossy rocks and fallen trees, never putting a foot wrong. 

“This way!” he called back, either oblivious to Napoleon’s struggle or willfully ignoring it. “I see smoke in the distance. I believe it’s coming from the van.”

The van that THRUSH engineers had modified until it was stuffed to the gills with weapons. The one he and Illya had almost managed to track down and destroy before their cover was blown and they had to run. 

They’d been left with only one gun left between them, and maybe three bullets if they dug through all their pockets. Napoleon wasn’t even sure the gun would fire after the bag carrying it had been dunked in the river. 

They would have to be smart about this. They’d faced worse before.

As long as THRUSH didn’t know they’d survived being thrown out of the van, they had an advantage. And any vehicle would be much less mobile in the pouring rain than a man. They just had to wait for the right moment.

He shivered. Of course THRUSH had decided to pick the day after a tremendous rainstorm to launch their plot. When they got home, he was going to take a long, hot shower, and then he was going to put on his best smile and try to sweet-talk Amy in Requisitions into expensing his replacement suit. He let that thought drive him onward through the forest.

His shoe caught again, this time on a root, and sank deep into the mud. The shoe stayed on, thank god, but he felt the filth creep under his pants leg into his sock. At this rate, the shower wasn’t going to be enough.

Something buzzed by his ear. He reached up to slap it away and succeeded mainly in splattering mud all over his neck. Mosquitos. He was going to be itchy and red all over by the time this was over. He just hoped his partner was suffering the same. He’d need someone to commiserate with. Preferably over some doctored coffee and warm soup.  

They finally stumbled out of the mud and onto soggy grass, and then a damp dirt trail scattered with gravel. The path followed a ridge that ran above the road. If they were careful, they should be able to stay out of sight. 

Several hours later, two very wet, very dirty, and rather itchy UNCLE agents arrived back at the tailor shop, where del Florio greeted them with barely-concealed horror before finally, very reluctantly, letting them in. 

Chapter Text

”Don’t tell me,” Napoleon said as the rental car passed through the gate and turned down the tree-lined avenue leading to Dr. Fisher’s estate. “Too bourgeois for your taste.”

”I don’t believe any of this appeals to your sense of taste either,” Illya replied, nodding towards where the evening light glinted off a fountain that featured a large-chested mermaid spouting water from her nipples. As much as Napoleon undoubtedly appreciated the female form, his preferences ran towards classier exhibitions of beauty rather than these gauche Playboy stylings.

Napoleon caught sight of the statue and made a face. “I believe I’ll take that as a compliment.”

”You should,” Illya said, and yawned. 

“Tired?”

He didn’t need to sound so smug about it. “Four hours of sleep in the past three days, Napoleon, is it any surprise I’m a bit worn out?” Illya rested his head back against the seat and closed his eyes, making an effort to look as pathetic as possible. He could manage a few more hours if he had to, but he wasn’t above exaggerating an infirmity when it was only Napoleon around.

”Well, you can take a nap when we arrive. I’m sure our gracious host won’t mind.”

”If you’d read the file Waverly gave us,” Illya said, “you would have seen that our friend Dr. Fisher is something of a night owl. Fond of late dinners and midnight parties.”

”Then we’ll just tell him you’re not feeling well.” Napoleon drummed his fingers on the steering wheel in thought. “How about this, you suffered a concussion when the office cat knocked a paperweight off a shelf onto your head. Or you have chronic intestinal issues that require privacy to deal with. Or maybe the issue is that you suffer from carsickness…”

He was enjoying this entirely too much. Illya cut him off. ”Thank you, Napoleon, but I believe I can manage without your help.” He made a mental note to check the office shelves when they returned to New York and make certain there was nothing that might be too tempting to a certain mischievous feline on the prowl for new playthings. 

When they finally reached the mansion, they were greeted by a member of Fisher’s staff.

The man waved a valet to take their car away and led them to their room, making vague, insincere apologies along the way for his master’s absence. It felt less like a scene taking place in a noble European house and more like a bad period piece, or maybe that was just the terrible accents.

“I guess Fisher is sleeping off his last party,” Napoleon said, as soon as the butler was out of earshot.

“I wish I was,” Illya muttered. “Sleeping, not partying.”

He surveyed the room. The windows were shaded by thick drapes on bronze rods, and an antique desk waited patiently against one wall. But Illya had eyes only for the plush curtained bed in the middle.

He threw himself onto the bed and kicked off his shoes. The mattress sank under him with a groan.

”Don’t get too comfortable,” Napoleon warned. “I still need your help with this case.”

”Mmpfff,” Illya said into the pillows.

Napoleon cleared his throat and said, in imitation of the butler’s affected tones: “Shall I inform Dr. Fisher that you will not be joining us for dinner?”

Illya snorted. “Surely we are not needed right now?”

“Not yet, my friend. Get some sleep, and I’ll wake you in time to get dressed.”

Illya, already deep in slumber, did not reply. 

Chapter Text

“While you and I, Mr. Solo, are enjoying ourselves here,” Lancaster said, looking into the fine liquid gold of his glass of wine, “the summit will fall into chaos. It will only be a few small things at first. Secretaries falling ill, papers going missing.” He gave a feral smile and settled back into his luxurious armchair. “But soon it will be much more than that. So much more, and so much better.” He took another sip, savoring it alongside his nefarious plans.

As far as hostage situations went, this was somewhat nicer than many others Napoleon had had the misfortune of being a part of over the years. Lancaster was free with the wine, and the chains binding Napoleon's feet to the iron ring under his chair weren’t cutting into his skin. But that was about all the credit he would give the man. He thought longingly of Illya, monitoring the summit from within, and hoped his partner would put his mission above rescuing him. He could last in Lancaster’s clutches a little longer. 

“It’s a fine plan, I’ll admit,” Napoleon said lightly, when it became apparent that Lancaster wanted an answer. “You’ve done good work. It must have taken years to plot this. So many things needed to fall into place.”

A harsh laugh. “Mere months,” Lancaster corrected, sweaty head glowing with pride. “I have many, shall we say, friends in useful places. It was not difficult to coordinate, not at all.” He leaned back in his armchair and gestured for a servant to come over to pour more wine from the fat bottle on the side table. “No, the hard part was convincing them all not to chatter about it. But I managed it. A bribe here, a threat there… civil servants are so easy to play, wouldn’t you agree?”

“Oh, yes,” Napoleon said, letting Lancaster eat up the attention. “It must get tiring, staring at ledgers and laws for years on end. I’m sure there are many of them who wish to escape that life. They won’t be sorry to watch it burn.” 

“It’s not for their sake,” Lancaster sighed. “We are the lucky ones, you see. We are above the bureaucracy that the clumsy, scatter-brained common man must rely on to do even the simplest of tasks.”

Napoleon certainly did everything he could to avoid paperwork. But that didn’t mean he’d forgotten that it was the paperwork that kept everything running. Lancaster clearly did not care for that, or anything that was not a chance to use and show his power. How little he knew of the dozens of his staff who managed his records and kept this grand villa from falling into ruin. If they stopped their work for even a week, well, he would find that chaos could bloom much closer to home.

Napoleon sipped the wine and thought. It was a good vintage, and not poisoned. Lancaster would never spoil a good bottle like that. He still thought he could talk Napoleon over to his side, or at least talk him into despair. He couldn’t, but it didn’t matter. What mattered was the time he took trying. Time that, hopefully, Illya was using to his advantage. He would find the thread and pull until all this fell apart. And not in the way that Lancaster and his cronies wanted it to. Little did they know, boring summits had a way of holding themselves together in the end. All those little scurrying secretaries and papers and ledgers and telegrams had a purpose. 

The antique grandfather clock in the hall rang out the hour. Lancaster looked up and sighed in satisfaction. “I believe it’s about time for the grand session,” he said. “Delegates from fifteen governments and organizations, all gathering in one hall. Or they would, if they hadn’t been sent in fifteen different directions.”

He was so very pleased with himself. Napoleon was almost sorry that he’d have to burst his bubble soon enough. He’d have to do more than confuse a few diplomats if he really wanted to take down world governments. 

Heaven help them if THRUSH ever started cooking up evil plots that weren’t bogged down by their own absurdity. 

“I’m sure they’re going to be very confused,” Napoleon said.

”Confused, alarmed, humiliated,” Lancaster said with a nasty, glinting smile. “All appropriate emotions for time-wasters like them.” He sighed heavily and reached for the bottle of wine. “Only a matter of time before their wretched interference is gone for good, and we can get on with the real business of the world.”

Napoleon just wished he could be there to watch when Mr. Edward Lancaster realized exactly how much business was involved, and how little of it he would enjoy doing himself. That was, at least, until he learned that Illya had already rendered it all moot. Lancaster’s powers would never extend beyond this hotel.

He heard the whir of Illya’s drill against the door, and allowed himself the slightest of smiles.