Parallax

By Wendie Z

The mission had been simple and straight-forward: infiltrate the THRUSH satrapy in upstate Vermont, find the prototype of a new hand weapon, and deliver it into the capable hands of UNCLE's Section Eight for analysis. Solo and Kuryakin, however, had been on enough missions just like this one to know that nothing was ever straight-forward or simple—

Part 1:

Hurt: Illya

Comfort: Napoleon

Antagonist: Angelique

The situation culminated in a stand-off between Illya and LaCroix, the gun's inventor, each pointing their lethal weapon at the other. Napoleon arrived after putting the finishing touches on the incendiary charges that would level the building, and peeked in the doorway just behind his partner's adversary.

Illya caught his partner's signal, "There's nowhere to go, LaCroix," he informed the inventor. "Are you so willing to die for that metal toy?"

"Are you, Mr. Kuryakin? If the bullet from this gun hits you, your body will explode into so many pieces, there won't be enough left of you to bury."

Illya did not change expression, except for a slight widening of his blue eyes. Then he smiled. "And you will never know if it does, because you'll already be dead." A flash of movement behind Solo caught the Russian's attention. "Napoleon!" he called out, "behind you!"

Napoleon turned, ready to fire his own gun, but stopped short when he saw who had, very successfully, crept up behind him without a sound. He opened his mouth to acknowledge the presence but the sound of Illya's Special and the prototype firing nearly simultaneously cut him off. "Illya—" he breathed, and bounded into the room, expecting some kind of calamity.

LaCroix lay spread-eagle on the floor, a bullet hole in his forehead like a bloody third eye between the other two, which stared vacantly at the ceiling. Solo gave him a cursory glance as he rushed to where his partner lay, gasping in pain. The whole left shoulder of Kuryakin's black turtleneck shirt reflected the overhead light in the blood that covered it.

Napoleon pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and after laying it in his partner's right hand, guided it to the shoulder. "Don't take this the wrong way, but why aren't you in tiny pieces all over the room?"

Illya grimaced. "Don't ask me—I'm rather happy with the outcome, more or less."

The intruder and catalyst for the situation approached the two UNCLE agents. Solo looked up. "Got any ideas?" he asked the woman sporting an expensive black mink coat.

The platinum blonde shrugged. "How would I know? I just came up here for the skiing."

Kuryakin growled, partly from the pain, but mostly because of the identity of the intruder.

Angelique LaChein smiled smugly down at the fallen Russian. "Feeling a little under the weather, Illya, dear?"

Napoleon glanced at his watch. "You know, sweet, I'd love to sit and chat, but in about ten minutes, this building is going to become rather unstable. You think you can walk, Illya?"

"Considering the alternatives, I'm quite ambulatory." He rolled over onto his good shoulder and grabbing his gun, he struggled to his knees. "Get the prototype, would you, Napoleon? It would be a shame to have shed all this blood and have nothing to show for it."

"You two are being terribly cavalier about the fact that one of you has an armed explosive round buried in their shoulder!" Angelique pointed out tersely.

Solo picked up the prototype gun. "Yeah, well, we like to deal with one explosion at a time. Are you coming, or are you staying for the fireworks?"

"Do you realize it's the middle of winter and we're in Vermont?"

"I think she means she's staying," Illya said with a small moan. "At least I hope that's what she means. I could use a little help here."

Napoleon went to his friend and bolstered him from the right side. "Let's go." To Angelique, he smiled. "You coming? The more the merrier."

"Speak for yourself, Napoleon," Illya grumbled.

"She could be useful," Napoleon replied sotto voce.

"As what? A pain is the ass?"

"Watch your tongue, Illya dear," Angelique warned. "I didn't get where I am on my good looks."

Illya would have laughed out loud at her remark if he didn't hurt so much. Instead, he grasped at the fabric of Solo's jacket as the pair hurried to where they had deposited their winter gear. Kuryakin let Solo pull the good arm though the sleeve and bundle the rest of his body snugly in the wool coat, but it was obvious that the Russian was unable to carry any gear.

Solo tossed Illya's pack at Angelique. "Here."

She glared back at Solo. "Don't be ridiculous."

"It's your fault my partner's in this condition. Put on the backpack or I'll shoot you in the knee and leave you here to welcome the holocaust."

With a huff of disgust, she bent down and picked up the backpack.

"See, Illya? I told you she'd be useful."

"Reserving judgment," the blond agent murmured.

Napoleon looked down at his friend with concern. "Come one, Illya, let's see if we can find that guard house. It'll be a good place to wait for the bus." He hoisted the leaning body a little higher and pulled Kuryakin with him down the road. Disgruntled, the blonde THRUSH followed.

The guard house was a two storey bunker with one level above ground and one below. The underground level was twice the square footage of the above ground level implying that the structure was designed to be somewhat independent of the facility with the off-duty shifts living below, similar to professional firehouses. Napoleon helped his wounded partner down the stairs and to the nearest cot, easing him down as gently as he could.

Kuryakin laid back on the mattress, eyes closed; his hand on his shoulder, his forehead furrowed against the pain. "I'm going to check out our accommodations and find out when we can expect a pick up," Solo said quietly.

Angelique threw the backpack she carried on a nearby cot. "What am I supposed to do?"

Napoleon looked up and smiled charmingly. "I could use come coffee, if you don't mind." When she curled her lip in distaste, he added, "Just keep an eye on Illya."

"I'd rather keep an eye on you," she countered seductively.

"I don't think my chaperone would approve."

"I vote you handcuff her to a cot," Illya suggested.

"We'll compromise. Angelique, sit down on a cot and think about the secrets you'll be able to share with me later. I can guarantee you an attentive audience." He headed for the stairs. "Be back in a jiffy. Try not to kill each other."

As Napoleon moved out of earshot, the platinum blonde looked over at the nearly inanimate figure of Kuryakin on the cot. "In any other instance, being stuck in a remote outpost with two delicious men for an indefinite period would be quite exciting. You certainly know how to ruin a good opportunity, Illya, dear."

"Glad to be of service," the Russian countered, the pain evident in his voice. He hated being in this vulnerable state with an agent of Angelique's caliber nearby. Fortunately, Napoleon returned quickly as if anticipating his partner's discomfiture.

"Well, it looks like we have provisions for a lengthy stay, if necessary."

"Define lengthy," Illya managed.

"On that point, I've got good news and bad news."

This time the answer was more of a growl. "Napoleon, I'm not in the mood!"

Solo looked up at Angelique, who crossed her arms belligerently. "Don't look at me, darling. I keep trying to tell you your friend's much too gloomy."

Napoleon looked down at his friend and smiled. "She has you there. But, in your defense, you aren't at your lovable best right now. So I'll overlook the surliness."

"Napoleon—" Illya said, his voice threatening.

"Relax. The good news is I contacted Boston and they're sending out a chopper for us."

"And the bad news—?"

"There's a cold front moving in and they're expecting it to bring in a major snowstorm. They gave me an ETA of at least 48 hours."

"In that case, Napoleon, I've got some good news and bad news for you as well."

Solo looked at him with concern. "Illya?"

"The good news is I think the bleeding has either stopped or abated significantly."

"And the bad news—?"

Kuryakin shifted his weight slightly, grimacing as he did. "I can't move my arm."

Napoleon sat down on the edge of the cot. "Not at all?" He began to pull fabric away from the wound to examine it. "Do you have any feeling in it?"

Illya moaned from the jostling. "Yes, I've got feeling—radiating down the whole blasted arm! The round must be pressing against a nerve." He looked intently at the man sitting beside him. "Do you feel confident enough to try and remove it? Forty-eight hours and I'll be working on a well-established infection."

"Not to mention possible nerve damage," Solo mused.

Angelique got up from her cot and walked over to the pair. "Are you crazy? That's a live explosive in his shoulder! All you're going to manage to do is give me the chance to tell Central that I witnessed both Solo's and Kuryakin's demise! While that would put me in an enviable as well as desirable position, I'm not sure I'm ready to watch you blow yourselves up, at least, not you, Napoleon."

"Your concern is touching, sweetheart," Napoleon answered as he continued to access his friend's wound. "But I'll base my decision on what's best for my partner and the mission." He looked down at Illya and their eyes met. "I'm on the fence about this," the dark-haired agent said quietly. "And I think you know why."

"Aside from the fact that if this thing blows up when you try to remove it, the mission's a failure, our careers are at a glorious end, and Angelique gets to keep the weapon, what could be holding you back?"

"That's a pretty big if, my friend. Friendship aside, I'd like to keep on living a while longer."

"If you don't want to chance it, I understand. I might feel the same way if the roles were reversed. I'm just wondering why the round didn't detonate, at all."

"Are you thinking that the gun doesn't work?"

"Well, the gun obviously does work, but perhaps the explosive rounds are the problem."

"You may be right, but I'd rather not risk both our lives on that assumption. We don't have any proof."

"I said, I understand. If we're going to go with that option, I would greatly appreciate it if you checked the provisions for some first aid supplies, namely antibiotics and some morphine. I don't mind admitting that I'm in a considerable amount of pain."

Napoleon smiled. "Thanks for understanding."

"My understanding comes at a price. A request; actually several."

"Name them."

"If I am destined to die because of this, I want to die as a whole man and wide awake. If the infection goes to gangrene, I do not want to live as a useless, dissected being. When the bullet comes out, I want a local. I don't want to wake up from the anesthesia and find out I died from the explosion."

"Don't you think you're being just a little melodramatic about this?"

The Russian smiled weakly. "Noble tragedy always is, my friend."

Across the room, Angelique called to them. "Are the two of you finished with the last wills and testaments? I'm getting hungry."

Napoleon and Illya exchanged amused and exasperated expressions. "Let me," Illya said quietly, then raised his voice as much as the pain would allow. "Go spin a web somewhere; I'm sure you'll catch something."

"The pantry is full of cans, my dear. I'll be up in a little while." Napoleon waited until her footsteps disappeared then gave his partner a pair of raised eyebrows. "Must you always antagonize her like that? Someday you may need her help and it would pay to keep her at least a little willing." He pulled a blanket up to Kuryakin's chest. "Do you think you could eat something?"

"Soup, maybe. Definitely water. I probably won't feel like eating tomorrow."

Solo stood. "I'll see what I can do."

While a can of stew for Angelique and himself heated on the hotplate in the tiny kitchen upstairs, Napoleon carried a tray for his partner down the stairs. "Which do you want first, food or drugs?"

"Drugs," the blond Russian replied throatily.

"Thought so. They had a small stock of morphine and antibiotics, both in powder form. I didn't see any syringes, so I'm assuming they're for topical use. I found something else that might be useful."

"What's that?"

"Honey. I thought I'd mix the powder into the honey and drizzle it into the shaft of the wound."

"When did you learn about folk remedies? That was one of my grandmother's favorite ointments."

Napoleon smiled. "Smart American. I'll have to see if I can pull out some of the clot first. This is going to hurt."

"It already hurts. Just get on with it."

Illya grasped the blanket with is right hand while Napoleon peeled away the blood-soaked handkerchief and cut away the shirt. "It's still bleeding a little," he reported.

"That's probably not a bad thing. The blood cleanses the wound somewhat. Clean out as much of the clotted blood as you can."

Napoleon carefully cleaned the dried blood from the wound site. To his surprise, the wound was not in the shoulder as he thought, but closer to the neck, just above the collarbone. The blood had formed a shallow pool in the indentation. "I can see why the round is pressing on the nerve. I thought it was closer to your shoulder. You're lucky it wasn't a couple of inches to the right; he would have gotten you in the carotid or the jugular."

"Only you could see the luck in getting shot," Kuryakin half-moaned and his face contorted. "Do you think you could proceed with a little more alacrity? I'm getting very close to verbalizing some very crude remarks."

"Do you think I care if you cry out in pain? Don't be such a stoic."

"I wasn't thinking of you."

"You think she's going to think less of you? Hell, she doesn't think much of you now."

Illya groaned. "Your comments are so consoling—" The phrase ended in a genuine cry of pain. "Hurry—please —"

Solo stirred the honey, antibiotic and the morphine together and drizzled it into the wound until no more would go into the shaft. He smeared the remaining mixture across the area and applied a dressing, which he secured with a cloth bandage. "That should help somewhat. I'm going to mix another packet of morphine in some water and have you drink it."

"Ah," Illya mumbled. "Sweet narcotic oblivion. I should eat first, however."

"It'll be better on your stomach. I put the soup in a mug. Do you think you can handle it if I sit you up?"

"I'll try. The shoulder feels better, thank you."

Napoleon gently elevated his partner's shoulders and stuffed several pillows behind them so Illya was able to sit up. "My pleasure. I'm going to see how the stew is coming along."

"You mean you left Angelique upstairs alone with food you're planning to eat?"

"Not to worry, my over-solicitous friend. She and I have a truce." When Illya raised his eyebrows in disbelief, he added, "I told her if she co-operates, I would allow her to escape when the chopper comes for us."

"And she bought that?"

"I was very sincere and I will keep my word. She knows that."

"You didn't promise that I would let her escape, though, did you?"

"We're going to let her go, Illya."

"Napoleon—"

"She's not important. The gun and you are. Besides, she'll owe me one and you know I always collect." Solo ended the discussion with one of his winning smiles. "Eat your soup. I'll be back in a few minutes."

Napoleon left his friend to his soup and went back upstairs to eat whatever stew Angelique had decided to leave for him. "I didn't hear any shrieks of agony," the blonde said from the small round table in the corner.

Solo spooned the rest of the stew into a bowl. "Were you expecting any?"

"That has to be a painful wound."

"He's in a lot of pain, yes. Is there a point you're trying to make?" When the THRUSH beauty said nothing, Napoleon added: "For some reason he thinks he needs to demonstrate his stoicism to you."

"Whatever on earth for?"

"I told him you don't think much of him, but I think he still feels he needs to win some kind of respect from you."

"Well, he already does have some kind of respect from me."

"Oh, really?" Napoleon said, as he lowered his bowl and spoon in genuine interest. "To tell you the truth, I thought you hated him."

"Darling, there's certainly no love lost between us, but that doesn't mean I can't admire certain traits."

"Such as?"

"His single-minded devotion to his cause, pitiful as it may be. He really buys into that protecting the innocent nonsense."

"But so do I, my dear Angelique."

"I'm doing my best to change your mind about that."

"What else about my friend to you admire?"

"His loyalty to you. I've seen dogs with less."

"We're brothers-in-arms. That necessitates loyalty."

"He doesn't seem to like women very much, though."

Napoleon snorted a chuckle. "Here we go again. I wish I could tell you from how many different quarters I hear that Illya and I are more than just 'brothers-in-arms'. Illya's interest in women is just less—"

"—intense," Angelique finished.

Solo nodded. "Okay, intense, as mine is. But he's no monk, and definitely not into men, not by a long shot. He's just," and Napoleon smiled broadly as he said it, "single-mindedly devoted to his cause."

"And as loyal as a St. Bernard."

"Wolfhound," Napoleon corrected, but then thought of a better analogy. "Correction: a Siberian wolf—and just as deadly. But don't tell him I ever compared him to a canine."

"I would think he'd be flattered."

"It implies ownership. Illya loathes the concept."

"I've seen Siberian wolves in the wild, Napoleon. Nobody own them, no one would dare. The analogy is appropriate."

"It sounds like another trait you admire."

Angelique stood up and laid her bowl in the sink. "Perhaps I do. But, please darling, don't go and ruin it all by telling him."

Solo added his bowl to hers. "Your secret's safe with me. I'm going to go and see how he's doing."

With the aid of the ingested morphine powder, Illya was able to sleep for several hours. He awoke in the middle of the night with a more pressing need. After calling Napoleon's name and getting no response, he tried to sit up on the cot. The movement only accentuated the pain in his shoulder; that and the blood loss set his equilibrium in a full tilt. With a half groan/half cry of alarm, he flipped over the edge of the mattress onto the floor.

Almost immediately, Solo was beside him with Angelique not far behind. "Illya, what happened—?"

Kuryakin began to explain somewhat breathlessly until he saw Angelique within hearing distance. "Send her away—" he said severely.

"What is it?"

"Now!" the word came out like a cough. Napoleon looked up at the THRUSH.

"Fine," she said abruptly and went upstairs.

"She's gone. What's the matter?"

"I called you—"

"I'm sorry, I was upstairs."

"With her."

"Yes, with her." Despite his friend's pain and distress, he was slightly miffed. "Look, Illya, we weren't doing anything. We were just talking. What do you need and why did she have to leave?"

"I—have to relieve myself and I didn't want—"

"Understood, my friend. Let's get you back on the bed and I'll find you a bottle. You're not strong enough for the trek to the bathroom."

When Illya had finished, Napoleon sat down on the edge of the cot again. "The storm is moving more slowly than anticipated. They don't know when they'll be able to get to us. If it doesn't stop snowing by morning, I'll see if I can get the bullet out of your shoulder."

"No, it's not worth the risk. Make some ice packs with snow and pack them around my shoulder. It'll help with the pain and might slow down the infection."

"All right. Do you need some more morphine to hold you over?"

The Russian smiled weakly. "Yes, but will you still respect me in the morning?"

By the time the helicopter arrived the morning of the third day, Illya had a substantial fever, and the wound was generating its own warmth despite the application of the ice packs. He was, however, still alert and conscious, a good sign. He was unable to walk to the chopper, even when aided; evidenced when he took two steps while leaning heavily on Solo and passed out. Napoleon lifted his friend and hosted him into a fireman's carry, carefully maneuvering both himself and his burden up the stairs to the waiting transport.

The prototype gun was carefully placed in a metal lock box for transport. Solo climbed into the helicopter beside his unconscious partner and pulled the limp body sideways so the head and shoulders ended up cradled in his arms. After the chopper lifted off, Napoleon looked down and saw a black-mink-coated figure emerge from the structure. He smiled.

Napoleon stuck his head into his partner's hospital room. "So, you were right after all," he said to the occupant of the bed resting comfortably courtesy of a post-operative dose of pain-killers. "The rounds weren't explosive, after all."

"And that makes the prototype just another gun."

"Well, not exactly. Research thinks the inventor fully intended to make the explosive rounds, but hadn't been able to produce a reliably workable version."

"It still doesn't explain why Angelique was there."

Napoleon chuckled. "It turns out she was telling the truth; she was in Vermont to go skiing, but had orders to check on the progress of the gun before taking her vacation."

"So, where is she now?"

"All of a sudden you're interested in the lady's whereabouts? To what do we owe this little change in attitude?"

"I just want to know where I need to stay away from. I will never understand your interest in her, Napoleon."

"That's quite all right, Illya. It's one of the qualities I admire most in you."

Illya looked at his partner incredulously. "I have absolutely no idea what you mean by that."

"Well, you just sleep on that little puzzle for a while, okay? I've got a plane to catch, so I'll see you in a few days."

"Another assignment already?"

Napoleon smiled. "No, actually, I hear the skiing in Vermont is incredible this year. I thought I'd check it out." He lifted his hand in a wave and each finger curled under in succession. "Have a good rest, tovarichsch."

He was gone before the pillow had sailed across the room and slapped against the door jamb.