The 'Til Death Do I Trust Affair
by: RAC
Rated R
Part 4
The call came while Waverly was in the infirmary. He was informed that someone was on the phone asking to speak with Illya Kuryakin in regard to Napoleon Solo. After a moment's consideration, Waverly arranged for the call to be transferred into Illya's room over the speaker. The room was soundproof so no one would hear except for the technician taping and trying to trace the call.
Waverly let himself into Illya's room. Illya was standing by the window. He acknowledged his boss with a quick glance.
Waverly didn't waste any time. "They're transferring a call in. I suspect it is from whoever has your partner."
That got a reaction at least. Nothing else had up to this point. "Who is it?"
Even Waverly felt a shiver at the deadly menace in the Russian's voice. He almost felt a moment's pity for this particular perpetrator. It was clear that whoever it was would get none from Illya.
A voice came over the speaker. "I'm putting the call through now."
Waverly gestured toward the wall where the speaker hung. "We'll find out now."
A different woman's voice spoke. "Am I speaking with Illya Kuryakin?"
Illya growled. "Who the hell is this?"
"I'm crushed you don't recognize my voice."
Waverly watched as Illya ran the voice through his internal files. He knew the second Illya figured it out. The Russian spit the name out. "Gervaise Ravel."
"Oh, you do recognize my voice. I'm so pleased."
"Where is Napoleon?" The question was filled with venom.
"Now, why should you care? After all, you gave him to me. Like some useless knick-knack at a garage sale."
Illya's face grew pale and Waverly watched as his hands clenched into tight fists. He felt a momentary pride in the Russian agent as he found the inner resources to keep his struggle out of his voice. "What do you want?"
"I already have what I want."
"Then why are you calling?"
"Because I wanted you to know why I was doing this. It's no fun if you don't know."
"Then tell me why."
"Haven't you guessed already?"
Waverly could see the anger growing in Illya's eyes. "No, I haven't. Tell me." Waverly glanced at his watch. They needed more time to trace the call. He made a circling motion with his finger to let Illya know he should keep the conversation going. Illya nodded, his face pinched and drawn.
"I want you to guess."
Illya's jaw clenched. "You are obviously doing this to prove a point. What will it take to have you consider it proven and return Napoleon?"
"Oh, I'm not going to return Mr. Solo. I'm going to have him tortured until he dies. Or should I say that I'm going to have him tortured more." She let out a dainty laugh.
Illya took a step toward the speaker as if he might rip it from the wall. "If you're trying to get back at me, why didn't you take me?" Waverly had no doubt that if Illya could arrange it, he'd trade places with Napoleon in a second.
"Because this way I get two for one. Besides, you were the one who killed Harold."
"This is all to get back at me for killing Harold Buffington? If that is the case, again I ask, why not kill me?"
"That wouldn't be a fair exchange. You'd hardly suffer enough if I just killed you. No, it's only fair it be Mr. Solo. After all, you killed my lover, so I'm killing yours."
Illya shot a startled look at Waverly. He shook his head. "Napoleon and I aren't…"
Gervaise interrupted with a laugh. "I knew it. I knew you'd be a coward and deny it. It doesn't matter. I know better. How does it feel to have condemned your lover to death, Mr. Kuryakin? How does it feel to know that he's being beaten right now as we have this little chat?"
Waverly actually took a step back at the look in the Russian's eyes. He was rabid with rage. "What do you want? If it's me you want to punish, then come and get me."
"No, I like it this way better. Oh, by the way, not that it should come as a surprise, but he hates you now." She laughed again.
Illya punched the wall. "I will find you and I will kill you."
"I don't think so. And if you're trying to trace this call, don't bother. You won't be able to." There was a satisfied sigh. "Oh, I almost forgot. I'm having a few pictures of Napoleon taken while he enjoys his stay with us. I thought I'd send them on to you so you can see what you've done to him. Ta now." There was a sound of a phone hanging up and then a dial tone.
Illya went crazy for a minute. Waverly watched as he threw a wooden folding chair against the wall. When that wasn't enough to satisfy his rage, it made a second trip toward the window. Waverly made himself a mental note to send a letter of commendation to whoever designed the window. Never once did it even occur to him to fear for his own safety.
When the chair bounced off the window, Illya snapped it into several pieces. Then he sank down to the floor, and sat there, his face in his hands.
Waverly searched his pockets for a pouch of tobacco. He took a few minutes filling his pipe and lighting it, giving his agent a chance to pull himself together.
Finally Illya looked up. "I will kill her for this."
"I've no doubt you will." Waverly sincerely hoped the agent's thirst for vengeance would give him a sense of purpose if Gervaise had her way. He'd need something to cling to.
Illya closed his eyes. "What she said, about me and Napoleon…it isn't true."
"Come now, Mr. Kuryakin. I'm hardly a young school girl to blush at unconventional relationships."
Illya stared up at him with astonished eyes. "You mean you think that Napoleon and I…?"
Waverly relit his pipe.
Illya knew his boss wasn't convinced. "We're not."
Waverly wasn't surprised that Illya was denying it. The world at large was still depressingly close-minded. He also had no need to push Illya into a confession. "Be that as it may, it is apparently what Gervaise Ravel believes, and she is using the alleged situation to strike back at you."
Illya ran a weary hand through his hair. "I don't understand why she would think that." He lifted tortured eyes to his boss. "Was it something I said? The way I act around him?"
Waverly pursed his lips. This was another diabolical angle of this affair. The woman was fiendishly clever and had taken the time to get to know the Russian well. Now he would be tormenting himself for somehow betraying his feelings for his partner, resulting in Gervaise setting her sights on him for her revenge.
Waverly needed to keep him distracted. "I'm going to send an interrogator in here to ask you questions about Miss Ravel. Perhaps you might reveal some information we can use to apprehend her."
Illya nodded. "Anything." He looked over at Waverly. "I'll do anything."
Waverly nodded. "I know." He walked across the room, skirting the remains of the chair to place a warm hand on Illya's shoulder. "We'll get him back." He sincerely hoped it was true. Waverly glanced down at the wooden shards and harrumphed. "I'll have them bring a new chair as well."
That got a shadow of a smile from Illya. "Perhaps something in metal."
*****
Napoleon was tired, but he didn't let it show in his face; he took a fierce delight in seeing frustration cross Gervaise's face.
She stomped her foot. "No, no, it's all wrong. How can I take a picture of him looking like that? He looks so…defiant."
Napoleon was pleased. Let her take her pictures; let her show them to Illya. He would see Napoleon's eyes. He would see that his partner was fine despite the bruises all over his body. Napoleon longed to reassure Illya. He knew that Illya's reaction to his supposed betrayal would be eating him alive.
Gervaise paced the length of the cell. She tried a different tack. "I spoke with your partner today."
Napoleon raised a brow. "And how is the old boy?"
"I told him you hated him."
Napoleon kept the hurt he felt for Illya off his face.
She was just getting started. "He, of course, believed it."
Napoleon was sure that he did. He wished with all his heart that Gervaise would walk within reach. He'd rip her tongue out.
He was in back in chains. They'd taken him down twice, allowed him a few minutes respite, something to drink, a chance to relieve himself, and then they'd chained him again. The men knew what they were doing. He could last for days, even weeks, this way. Today had already felt like forever, and it wasn't over yet.
Napoleon wondered worriedly who it was Gervaise had on the inside. If they had access to Illya, they still controlled him. They could make him kill someone else, or, as Gervaise had threatened, have him kill himself. Although Napoleon wasn't sure he'd need any help for that.
Napoleon couldn't imagine what Illya was going through, being locked up, knowing he'd been used, his imprisonment denying him the opportunity to atone for his sins. Napoleon knew that's how Illya would see it. As a sin. An unforgivable sin. Especially after that Partridge affair. It had taken Napoleon weeks to convince his partner that there were no hard feelings, that he didn't blame Illya for what had happened. Of course, Illya had missed that time. And other than a few blows being exchanged, neither of them had been hurt.
Napoleon pushed away the memory of his partner just standing there. He hadn't missed this time. Even if Napoleon knew now, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that Illya would never betray him, for those last few seconds when they were dragging him away, Napoleon had thought he had, and those few seconds had felt like the worst kind of hell.
His head rang as a hand slapped him across the face. He shook his head to clear the ringing and saw Gervaise standing in front of him.
She pouted at him. "You're not paying attention to me, Napoleon."
Napoleon found the energy to give her a rueful grin. "How unforgivable of me."
Gervaise made a moue as she considered him. Then she shook her head. "This is just not working for me." She turned to one of her helpers. "Knock him out, then I'll take a few pictures. Oh, and make him bleed a little more, would you?"
Napoleon instinctively tried to guard against what he knew was coming, but there was nowhere for him to go. He saw the fist, and felt the pain, and then all he knew was darkness.
*****
Illya had been interrogated all evening and had no idea if anything he'd said about Gervaise would be useful. It was making him insane to sit here and do nothing. Just like he'd done nothing when Napoleon was attacked. Illya couldn't get the pictures out of his head; they played over and over in his mind, Napoleon crying out for him, the pleading look in his eyes, the fingers dragging, bleeding as they hopelessly fought for traction. He closed his eyes against the memories, but they were there behind his eyelids as well. They were always there, even when he slept.
The door to his room opened. He glanced up to see it was Sarah, the only nurse he could tolerate. Illya gave her a brief nod. He was relieved it was she. He liked it when Sarah took care of him when he was hurt. Because of his too frequent visits, he knew the medical staff more intimately than he wished. But, for some reason, he always felt relaxed after Sarah took care of him.
She pulled a syringe out of her pocket.
Illya scowled. "What's that for?"
Sarah smiled softly at him. "Doctor's orders, Illya. Just something to relax you so we can assess if the conditioning has worn off."
Illya held out his arm. Let it be gone, he prayed, to a god he didn't believe in, let it please be gone.
Part 5
Waverly appeared the next morning, holding a large manila envelope. He held it out to Illya who took it, giving it a close scrutiny. It was addressed to him, with no return address, or postage. He glanced up at his boss. "Someone must have dropped it off. Did anyone see who left it?"
The older man nodded. "It was brought by a young boy who said he was given money to deliver it. He gave us a description of the man who gave him the money, but it was too vague to be of much use." He gestured at the package. "It's been x-rayed for any explosives. It's clean."
Illya nodded. He was reluctant to open the envelope, knowing what he'd find. Pictures of Napoleon being tortured, possibly killed, because of his betrayal. But he had no choice. There might be clues that would provide a lead to his partner's location.
Holding the package gingerly, he worked his fingers under the flap, prying apart the adhesive. Illya cautiously looked inside. Seeing that there didn't seem to be anything inside but the expected pictures, Illya reached in and pulled out the stack. The photos were paper clipped into two sets. Illya read the note attached to the top set out loud. "Dear Illya, as promised, here are some pictures for your scrapbook. Having a wonderful time, wish you were here. Gervaise."
He glanced up at Waverly and saw a flash of anger in his eyes. The older man didn't appreciate this woman's tactics anymore than Illya did. His chair having been replaced, Illya sat at the small table and taking off the clip, spread the first set of photos out.
Napoleon was chained to the floor and ceiling, head sagging as if unconscious or dangerously close. He still had his pants on, but his chest was bare and it was a technicolor explosion of bruises. Where there weren't bruises, there was blood. Illya could see multiple slashes, and his lip was split and swollen.
The memory of Napoleon being hit while he stood watching flashed through his mind. He could see the drops of blood flying from his partner's mouth. Illya had to close his eyes for a moment to regain control.
He looked again at the pictures, and the analytical part of his mind informed him that while Napoleon looked bad, that he'd often looked worse after many torture sessions and had managed to survive. But he found no solace in the thought. He was responsible. He had sold out his partner, and every blow, every cut, was because of him. And Gervaise had only had him for a day.
Illya knew there'd be pictures delivered daily, all part of Gervaise's revenge, and every day Napoleon would be that much closer to death. He stared at the pictures, hoping that there would be something in them that might indicate where Napoleon was being held. But it was a plain cell, similar to countless cells that he and Napoleon had been incarcerated. There was nothing on the walls, no window showing a conveniently recognizable landmark outside, nothing.
Illya glanced up as Mr. Waverly cleared his throat. "Are they more of the same?"
Illya followed his eyes and saw the second stack of photos. He pulled them free from under the others and read the attached note. "Dear Illya, I wanted you to have something to remind you of your dead lover. Every time you look at these, you can remember that I took it away, just like you took it away from me. Gervaise."
Illya's brow furrowed as he pulled the clip off and laid these out as well. Expecting to see photo manipulations of him and Napoleon in bed, he was shocked at what lay before him.
They were real. Every one of them. Pictures of him and Napoleon taken over the last few months. Illya was appalled that he'd had no idea someone was following them and taking photographs. Despite the cruel application, Illya felt a moment's admiration for the stealth, and talent, of the photographer.
There were eight of them. Photos of the two of them at lunch, at dinner, walking down the street, sitting on a park bench, standing at a bar, walking into Napoleon's apartment.
Illya was dumbfounded. It was as if someone had reached inside to the deepest part of himself and laid it out for display. Foolishly proud of his austere facade, never would he have guessed he gave so much away, exposed so much of his heart, his need, in every look and gesture. And never would he have guessed that this was what his heart was saying.
He couldn't stop looking at them. The evidence was unmistakable, and Illya could understand why Gervaise had mistakenly assumed they were lovers, or had at least drawn the conclusion that Illya was in love with Napoleon. It was written all over his face, in the way he leaned toward his partner, the way he touched his hand, or arm. It was in his expression, in the way he smiled, the rapt attention as Napoleon spoke, the light in his eyes as he looked at his partner, the teasing flirtatious way he held his head, quirked his lips.
He reached out a shaky finger and touched his hand in one of the photos, where it lay on Napoleon's shoulder. Illya remembered that instant, remembered the feel of Napoleon's strong body under his hand, how right it felt to be touching him, how perfect that moment had seemed. "I didn't know." He glanced up at Waverly, lost. "How could I not have known?" It seemed so clear to him now. Now that it had been shown to him, and taken from him.
He saw a flash of surprise in the old man's eyes. Waverly sat down across from him, finally believing him. "Do you mean that you aren't involved in a relationship with Mr. Solo?"
Illya shook his head. "I didn't know." Illya ran his finger across another picture, one where Napoleon was dragging him into his apartment. His body seemed reluctant, but the expression on his face told a completely different story. His eyes were latched on his partner's, and alight with pleasure.
He remembered that moment too. Napoleon's fingers around his arm, his devil-may-care grin, his teasing eyes. Illya could recall giving way to Napoleon, something within his psyche interpreting his partner's actions as seduction, followed by his willing capitulation. The two of them had sat up all night, drinking, talking, sitting shoulder to shoulder in front of the couch, watching a fire, the burning logs crackling in harmony to their soft laughs and silly toasts.
Illya covered his face with his hands, his elbows resting on the table. Every picture told the same tale. He, Illya Kuryakin, was in love with his partner. And he hadn't known. And he desperately wished he still lived in ignorance. Because now that he did know, the guilt, which had been churning a hole in his gut, began to eat him alive. His fear for Napoleon suddenly doubled, tripled. And it was all underscored by a longing that made his chest hurt, and his soul feel as if it had lost its reason for living. He loved Napoleon, and because of it, Napoleon would die. If he could have ripped his heart out, he would have.
He glanced up at Waverly, knowing it was all in his eyes, his ability to hide his feelings compromised by the seething cauldron of emotions twisting inside of him. "I have to find him."
The eyes that met his were compassionate but stern. "Every agent that can be spared is looking for him."
That wasn't what Illya meant. "I have to find him. You have to let me go."
Waverly shook his head. "That's impossible. Dr. Wilson's tests are quite clear. Your mind isn't free of the conditioning."
Illya felt a moment of acute frustration. Under hypnosis, in ordinary circumstances, his mental reflexes were fairly predictable. When asked certain questions, he responded with certain answers. Yes, no, left, right, before, after, seemingly benign questions and answers, but they established a baseline of his normally functioning brain.
Without the specifics, Illya knew that right now, under hypnosis, he was saying right when he should be saying left, or not answering at all, when he would normally say yes. Small differences in one way, but they proved that his mind had been tampered with and was still not recovered. With enough probing, the path of the conditioning would be discovered, and with the right series of questions, it could be broken. But, this time, they remained unsuccessful.
Illya stood and moved to the window, looking out at the inner courtyard of UNCLE headquarters. It seemed especially unkind that it looked to be a spectacular day, the sun shining, a few wispy clouds breaking up a brilliant blue sky. And somewhere, his partner was most likely being beaten again, knowing that he couldn't rely on Illya to come and rescue him, as it was because of him that Napoleon was in enemy hands.
Illya punched the wall. He heard something in his hand crack. The physical pain didn't make a dent in his emotional pain.
*****
At some point during the night he'd been unchained and taken back to his room. Napoleon had been mercifully unconscious, but he was grateful for the respite. He fully expected another day of torture.
The thought of it sapped his strength. He was able to undergo a tremendous amount of torture, due to his training, and his own natural resilience, and although yesterday had been bad, he'd been through worse. But, always before, he'd either been with Illya, or knew that, if he could wait it out, Illya would come and rescue him.
Neither was true in this case. He believed Gervaise when she said that she had someone on the inside and that he or she would keep Illya from coming for him. And although Napoleon respected his other fellow agents, no one was good as Illya. As clever as Gervaise was being, it was unlikely he'd be found by anyone else.
Napoleon knew that the overall point of this exercise was for him to die, and for it to be rubbed in his partner's face. He knew, sick at heart, that Illya was looking at the pictures from yesterday's session right now.
Napoleon wished he could talk to him, reassure him, touch him, make him smile. Anything that would take away the haunted, bleak look he knew would be in Illya's eyes right now.
His eyes scanned the room and saw that a meal had been left for him. A subtle reminder that this stay of his was meant to last. He pulled himself up, letting out a loud groan as every muscle protested, and made his way to the counter where it had been left. There was no silverware, but then there hadn't been with his other meals, either. They were taking no chances.
Napoleon was hungry enough to not stand on ceremony. Wiping his hands off the best he could on his pants, even though he knew they were filthy, he began to eat, making his way through a dried chicken breast and some overcooked vegetables. There was water in a steel pitcher, and he drank it thirstily.
When he was done, he made a circuit of his room slowly, his muscles aching, but found nothing that he could use to escape or that told him where he was. He was certain that the two goons Gervaise had working for her would not make a mistake that might allow him to escape. He had to grudgingly admit that they were consummate professionals. Not that he wouldn't look for an opportunity, but he wasn't holding his breath.
After another circuit, he lay down, deciding what he needed more than anything was sleep, but it was difficult to get comfortable when he hurt everywhere. Napoleon kept shifting position, and the second he found one where he thought he might be able to drift to sleep, he heard keys in the door.
He closed his eyes, trying to muster some strength, determined to not appear weak in front of his captor. As he heard the door open, Napoleon sat up, hoping to avoid being painfully yanked up. It was Gervaise, flanked by her thugs.
Napoleon gave her a mocking smile, ignoring the sting of his lip where it was split. "Gervaise, that suit looks stunning on you. By the way, as much as I've enjoyed your hospitality, I think I'm ready to check out. I'm already running late for some appointments."
Gervaise couldn't help preening, ignoring everything but the compliment. She was dressed in a gray ensemble today. "You really like it?" Then she frowned at Napoleon and then frowned at her boys. "He seems in remarkably good condition. Are you sure you did a thorough job on him yesterday?"
They just looked at her.
She shrugged and then gave Napoleon a smug smile. "It doesn't matter. After all, I want you to last. That is the point, isn't it?" Gervaise gestured at the men at her sides to get to work. She threw out a last comment as she headed for the door. "By the way, I had the first set of pictures delivered to your partner this morning. I've been told he broke several bones in his hand punching the wall. I do hope it wasn't his gun hand."
Napoleon clenched his fists, wishing he could get his hands on her and wipe that smile off her face. But he could see the men watching him closely, and he knew he wouldn't get anywhere near her.
He struggled as the men grabbed him and dragged him to his torture chamber and put him back in chains. Napoleon was gratified to get in a couple of punches, even though he knew he'd pay for them.
Napoleon barely kept a grimace off his face when one of the men picked up a riding crop. As the lashes began to rain upon his body, he grit his teeth, and thought of slowly killing Gervaise.
Part 6
The days were becoming routine. Painful, but routine. Every morning Waverly dropped off the envelope. Together they scoured the pictures of Napoleon being tortured trying to find any clues to his whereabouts.
Then Waverly left to take those pictures to the lab for further investigation, and, Illya was sure, to give him some privacy to look at the other pictures. They came every day as well. The pictures of the two of them. Illya had today's still unseen pictures clutched in his hand as he stood by the window.
The rest of each day had a predictable pattern as well. There was lunch to choke down. Dr. Wilson came in every afternoon to check on his conditioning. Another meal, and then every evening Sarah came in to do more testing. Hours of restless sleep and then the day started again.
Five days of it, and Illya was going slowly insane. Five days of waiting while Napoleon was killed by inches. Five days of feeling more helpless than he'd ever felt in his life. Five days of his love for Napoleon growing like the laying of weft and warp threads to create a tightly woven fabric.
As the love grew, the pain grew. The helplessness and hopelessness grew, the guilt grew, the anger grew, until now, he was a walking time bomb. His life was inextricably linked to Napoleon's. When the news came of Napoleon's death, his life would be over too.
The pictures today had been the worst so far. Of course, that had been true every day. But Napoleon was starting to lose the battle. He'd been stripped naked, hanging helpless, blood oozing from countless knife cuts and strap marks. The fingers of one hand were obviously broken, and based on the swelling on Napoleon's chest, Illya was sure he had some broken ribs. Four of the pictures included two men, dressed in black, hooded to prevent identification, using the tools of the trade to leech the life out of Napoleon.
Two pictures bothered Illya the most. The first had one of the men holding Napoleon's head, making him stare at the camera as his picture was taken. It bothered Illya because Napoleon's eyes were blank. There was no spark, no defiance, just a bone deep weariness.
Anything would be better than the blankness in those dark eyes. Even if the spark of anger or defiance in Napoleon's eyes had been directed at him, as in fact he would expect it to be, it would be preferable to the emptiness that stared at him now.
The other picture had been taken after he'd been unchained. He was still naked, and curled up into a ball, his back and buttocks to the camera. Completely vulnerable. Completely alone. Illya had fought back tears at that picture.
For the first time in his life he had understood the emotion behind the word crave. As if an outside force was taking over his body, Illya craved to reach into that photograph and take Napoleon in his arms, cradling him against his chest. Knowing that he didn't have the right, that he was the cause of this, that Napoleon would never trust him again, created a heartbreaking dissonance within his soul.
Illya glanced up to see that his lunch was being brought in. He had stopped eating at first, having no appetite, but the doctor had threatened to put him on intravenous feedings so he'd been forcing himself to eat, at least enough to keep any further threats away.
It was also something to do. It was a way to pass the few minutes it took to carry his fork from his plate to his mouth, one bite after another, until a sufficient amount of the food had been consumed. Because once the meal was over, he was left with nothing but his thoughts.
He sat down, picking up his fork. Illya laid the pictures he'd been clutching down beside the tray. He smoothed the crinkled edges with his fingers. With his first bite of food he looked at the first photo.
It was him and Napoleon having dinner at a small Greek restaurant that Illya liked. They had finished their main meal and were relaxing with tea and dessert. Illya remembered the meal. He remembered every moment the pictures displayed, for all that they were mundane moments, just seconds out of hundreds of days. Each of these moments felt important, and Illya knew it was because he had been with Napoleon. As if his life was measured by the time he spent with his partner.
In this picture they'd been talking about favorite vacation spots. Napoleon had had a hundred to discuss, he, only a few. But it had been an enjoyable conversation and they had even made some tentative plans to go on one together. This moment was when he laid his hand on Napoleon's forearm, and teasingly suggested Russia.
It had been in jest. Russia was not a place Illya went to cavalierly, despite it being his home. The politics were too unstable, and even when Illya went there on missions a part of him was concerned that he might not get out.
But, even though it had been in jest, a part of him had wanted to show Napoleon his home, show him where he'd grown up, what had shaped him, and in doing so, give something of himself to his partner that he'd never given to anyone else. Napoleon couldn't know that, of course, and he'd laughed, and they'd moved on, discussing warmer climes, ocean resorts, miles of sandy beaches filled with beautiful women in tiny bikinis.
Illya flipped the photo to reveal the one underneath. They were walking out of the United Nations. They had reached the sidewalk when a young man on a bicycle seemed to come out of nowhere. Napoleon had stumbled out of the way and had unintentionally shoved Illya. To keep Napoleon from falling any further, Illya had wrapped a tight arm around his waist, using his other arm to grab the nearest flagpole. Then Napoleon, balance restored had laughed and grabbed Illya's shoulder in a show of thanks for the quick save.
That was when the picture had been taken. It looked as if they were embracing on a public street. Napoleon was grinning down at him, and he was smiling up at Napoleon. In this picture, in this depicted world where one man could openly touch another man, it would only follow that Napoleon would have leaned down and kissed him.
Illya felt a thrill of desire shoot threw him, knowing that even back then, when he'd been so uninformed of his feelings for Napoleon, if Napoleon had lost all sense of reason, and had leaned down to kiss him, he would have kissed him back. He might have hesitated for a moment, but then he'd have surrendered, parted his lips, and welcomed the soft, wet, and strong tongue into his mouth.
Illya flipped the picture over, his desire making him uncomfortable, knowing he was under surveillance. If he were smart, he would stop looking at the pictures, but they tugged at him, showing him an alternate universe that was based on love, and not filled with pain and loss and loneliness. And even knowing it would never be his, he ached for it.
The next picture was taken the same day, just a few minutes later. They were walking down the street, Napoleon talking, gesticulating wildly to make some point, and Illya was staring at him, a soft smile on his face, captivated.
Illya rested his fork on his plate and ran his hand over his face in the photo. Every bit of his attention was focused on his partner, as if he were imparting words of paramount importance. But the story had been a silly one, from Napoleon's youth, a school visit to the United Nations gone a tad awry due to his insatiable curiosity and the inevitable wandering down the wrong hall.
Illya could remember how he felt at the time. As if he were being given a sacred trust to hear this story from Napoleon's youth, to be gifted with this vision of Napoleon as a child, displaying traits that would become part of who he was as an adult, as Illya's partner, and best friend.
It had been a good day, that day. They had completed the one chore given them for the day at the UN. Neither of them was nursing injuries, nor did they have anywhere they needed to be. By unspoken consent, they ended up spending the day together. Napoleon had been in an expansive mood, chatting at length about his childhood, drawing Illya out as well. They'd had lunch, and then later dinner. Illya didn't think he'd ever talked as much as he talked that day.
Illya could remember wondering why Napoleon wasn't taking advantage of the free time to find a woman for company, but he hadn't brought it up. He had just enjoyed the day for what it was, knowing that at some point, he'd have to give Napoleon back, either to the job, or to the long line of women who were constantly jockeying for position to be at his side.
He flipped the picture. A short laugh escaped Illya. They were at the zoo. An uncommon venue for either of them, but chasing down a THRUSH agent had led them inside, and once the agent had been apprehended and taken away, they had roamed for a while.
Napoleon was standing in front of a cage where a black panther was pacing. Illya glanced at the panther in the photograph. He was a thing of beauty - sleek, dark, and dangerous. His golden eyes spoke of far away places as he walked the measure of his cage, turned and walked it again. In the photo, Napoleon's eyes were on the panther.
Illya looked at himself. Oblivious to the magnificent cat parading in front of him, his eyes were on Napoleon. His thoughts of that moment came back to him. Comparing, contrasting, seeing what traits his partner shared with the giant cat. That he was also sleek, dark and dangerous. Since that day, whenever Napoleon paced, either due to nervousness, or as he worked through a problem, Illya thought of that day at the zoo, seeing the panther in his mind's eye.
Illya was staggered that he hadn't understood what was going on inside of him. Staggered that he'd been so blind, that even with his scientific background, and skill of putting clues together to create a coherent whole, he'd failed to put these pieces together. Failed miserably.
Illya thought of Napoleon now. Locked away, caged in a small cell, all possibility of freedom removed. It made him sick to his stomach and he pushed his lunch tray away, appetite gone.
He flipped to the next picture. Napoleon was helping him out of the car. It was after a grueling mission, and Illya had been shot in the leg. He'd insisted on being released from Medical before he was in any shape to be mobile, and Napoleon had, as they always did for each other, offered his assistance.
He'd gotten his car door open and Napoleon had moved around the car, ready to help him get out. The picture showed Illya reaching up for Napoleon, his face trusting, expectant. Waiting for the feel of strong arms around him, holding him, supporting him. And that's what happened. His hands on Napoleon's shoulders, Napoleon's hands on his waist as, in tandem, they manipulated him out of the car.
Then Napoleon had stayed close, his arm still around his waist, as he helped Illya make his way upstairs. Napoleon had wanted to stay but Illya wouldn't hear of it. Napoleon had a date, and Illya had no intention of interfering.
With a frown on his face, Napoleon had gotten him settled in bed, brought in a few magazines, a pitcher of water, and a sandwich for when Illya got hungry, and then had reluctantly left.
Now, in retrospect, Illya couldn't understand why he'd let Napoleon go. Napoleon had wanted to stay, and Illya had wanted it too. After he'd left, the apartment had seemed excruciatingly lonely, and rather than comfortably resting, as he would have done if Napoleon were there, he lay in bed, bothered by ghosts he couldn't name, or refused to name.
Illya could name them now. Or name her. Melissa. It had been Melissa that night who had enjoyed his partner's company, and stories, and touch. But later that night, Napoleon had called, and they'd spoken on the phone for some time, long enough to let Illya know that Melissa wasn't there, that Napoleon wasn't spending the night with her. Finally, phone still clutched in hand, the sound of Napoleon's voice having thoroughly relaxed him, he'd fallen asleep. And Napoleon had been there first thing in the morning with freshly brewed coffee and bagels.
Stupid. He'd been so stupid. Illya decided he couldn't bear to look at any more pictures. He moved back to the window, and spent the rest of the afternoon staring out at sunny blue skies.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~