Cold War
by Liss Webster
THRUSH builds a nuclear plant, hidden in the frozen northern wastes of Greenland. It's ridiculous, but really no more ridiculous than anything else THRUSH does; Napoleon and Illya have been part of Waverly's UNCLE project for nearly a year now, and they've both seen much worse. It's cold – miles of snow in every direction – and mostly dark. It is bitterly uncomfortable. Napoleon is loquacious in his resentment of their conditions; Illya is stoically silent.
Too silent, really, Napoleon thinks. They're camped out in an abandoned shelter, built by someone from a hardier time, and normally they would be having a perfectly civil conversation – which is to say, Napoleon would be having half of a perfectly civil conversation, and Illya would be alternately abrupt, poking fun and (as history indicates on missions such as these) pining over the absence of Gaby in a way he endearingly imagines is subtle. But not here. Not on this mission. Illya Kuryakin is silent.
It's cold, so cold, and the ground is hard as iron, and Napoleon Solo is not surprised in the least when he is roused from a drowsing state of near-sleep by a yell and a blow from a flailing hand. It's pitch dark and he can hear as Illya wakes, heavy breathing loud in the little space. He reaches out, ignoring his partner when Illya tries to flinch away, and holds onto his arm.
"It's all right," he says. "It's all right." Illya's breathing comes fast and frantic. Napoleon digs into a pocket with his other hand and retrieves a flask, pressing it into Illya's chest and holding it there till his hand comes up to take it. "Drink," he advises.
"I don't drink," says Illya.
"Yes, you do," says Napoleon. "Drink, my idiotic friend."
Eventually, he can feel Illya pull away and unfasten lid, then he senses movement and hears his partner swallow – once, twice. The wind outside seems even louder, and he can feel Illya settle beside him.
"Sometimes," says Illya. "Sometimes, I imagine…" he trails off. Napoleon knows enough of his history to fill in the blanks. He doesn't say anything. They sit in silence. The air is cold; the wind loud. Illya says, "My mother. She tried her best. It was difficult. So difficult a situation. You cannot understand."
"No," says Napoleon. "Probably not." Illya nods.
"She tried her very best," he says, and takes another drink from the flash before handing it back. "She would have liked you," he adds unexpectedly. "Very shiny, a little bit handsome."
"Extremely handsome," Napoleon corrects.
"Borderline delusional," Illya continues.
"You wound me," says Napoleon drily.
"I'll leave that to THRUSH," says Illya. They're back, now, back in their usual rhythm. Napoleon realises he can see Illya, dim in weak sunshine that creeps under the sorry excuse for a door. He checks his watch, and sees Illya do the same. "And speaking of THRUSH," Illya continues, "is time to present ourselves to their so tender mercies."
"A delightful prospect."
Illya pauses in his efforts to push aside the snow that has collected in front of the door, and grins at his partner. "Maybe they will like you too," he says. "Like I said, very shiny, a little bit handsome."
Napoleon raises an eyebrow. "Well, maybe they will, Peril. Maybe they will."
(They don't.)
FIN