Notes: the characters aren't mine, but the story is! This was inspired by a very angsty piece of fanart by hiruhirudo on tumblr and it pretty much wrote itself. This is meant to take place after the events of "The Neptune Affair" and "The Dove Affair" in season one; I tied Illya's absence in the latter to him being recalled to Russia in the former. Be warned, there are some descriptions of blood and injuries in this piece, but I promise it ends happily.
It was supposed to have been a simple mission—protect the host of an embassy ball. It was something Napoleon had done a dozen times before, and, this time, U.N.C.L.E.'s intelligence had insisted that the risk to the host was negligible—that their presence was more to allow Napoleon to have an easy mission after the events of the Dove Affair. Best of all, Illya had been due to return to New York that evening, as well, after being recalled to Russia during the Neptune Affair some weeks back; Napoleon had harbored some fears that red tape would have prevented his partner's return, but the long-distance phone call he had received from Illya in the middle of the night a few nights ago, excitedly exclaiming that he was coming back to New York later in the week, had been most welcome news. Napoleon had been planning to stay at the ball for a few hours, and then switch with another agent so that he could pick up Illya at the airport himself.
But things had gone wrong—and had only proceeded to get worse and worse. The agent who had been supposed to relieve him never showed up, prompting Napoleon to try to contact him—with no response. Napoleon then proceeded to stay close to the host, attempting to call U.N.C.L.E. for backup. An annoyed Illya, who was still waiting at LaGuardia well after his flight had landed, had attempted to contact Napoleon, as well, who had to give his apologies to his partner and instructed him to wait for him back at the apartment building. Illya had sensed the strain in Napoleon's voice and knew something was wrong. He signed off without another word, and Napoleon had given a fond smile at how, once again, Illya had understood the situation; his Russian partner often put up with a lot on his account, and though he often complained, he never held anything against Napoleon.
Again, Napoleon attempted to contact the agent who had supposed to have been his relief as he walked around the perimeter of the room. It was as he passed one of the ballroom windows that he froze—in the moonlight outside, he could see a tuxedo-clad body lying prone on the ground, a knife in its back. His relief had been murdered—and whoever had done it might have already breached external security.
"Negligible risk, they said," he muttered, running back to the host's side.
It took a ridiculously long amount of time to convince the host that his life was in danger and that he should retreat to a room with his personal security detail. And it was while they were on their way up the grand staircase leading away from ballroom that Napoleon noticed a figure in the crowd, raising a gun.
Napoleon vaulted over the railing of the grand staircase, landing a flying kick at the assailant's face, knocking him out cold. The crowd screamed and began to jostle away in an attempt to flee as the host and his detail fled up the stairs to safety. The American had been ready to congratulate himself on a job well done when four other men, instead of fleeing with the crowd, now approached Napoleon with various other weapons—a knife, a club, strangling wire, and a luger.
He reacted accordingly, drawing his U.N.C.L.E. Special and firing a sleeping dart at the man with the luger. Even as that man fell, Napoleon turned his weapon at the others as he did his best to dodge a blow from the club—he received a glancing blow instead, hissing in pain once, and then again as the man swung his fist at Napoleon's nose. The man with the club went down as Napoleon fired another sleeping dart at him, but as Napoleon turned his attention to the man with the knife, the man with the strangling wire attacked from behind; instinctively, Napoleon dropped his weapon, raising his hands to his throat to stop the strangulation. When that failed, he elbowed his assailant in the gut once, twice, and a third time until the man fell, winded.
But then, Napoleon's fabled luck ran out.
Napoleon didn't even have time to turn to the man with the knife as he lunged at him; he felt the movement approaching and stumbled back, but not quickly enough to escape the blade unscathed.
The edge of the knife got him across the neck, first nicking the bow tie of his tuxedo and then slicing the skin through his shirt collar. He raised a hand to his throat again instinctively, this time to try to stop the bleeding as he fell backwards. Time seemed to stop; he was still in midair, trying to determine whether or not his carotid artery had been nicked, when he suddenly became aware of an agonized cry coming from the doorway of the ballroom, frantically yelling his name.
"NAPOLEON!"
He knew that voice—he'd heard it so many times before. But he'd never heard that voice laden with such agony before.
A gunshot rang out, and the man with the knife hit the ground shortly after Napoleon did. And then time resumed; Napoleon gasped in pain as the blood seeped through his fingers with alarming force. But then, gentle arms were around him, raising him up slightly; he was now resting with his head on someone's lap. A hand moved his hand away from his neck; someone else was now pressing a cloth to the wound with as much pressure as he could without strangling him, trying to stop the bleeding.
Napoleon looked up now, gazing into the tear-filled eyes of his partner, who was still wearing the same clothes he'd been traveling in; Illya hadn't gone to the apartment after all, but had come here to help upon sensing the strain in Napoleon's voice. And, despite his own pain, the American couldn't help but smile upon seeing the Russian again for the first time in over a month.
"To…Tovarisch…" he murmured in relief, shutting his eyes. He was suddenly so tired. But the smile still remained on his face.
"Napoleon…" Illya whispered, a single tear escaping his eye. Internally, the Russian was calculating a countless number of "if only"s—if only he had gotten here literally five seconds sooner, if only he hadn't been stuck in his homeland all those weeks, if only he'd been here for his partner…
He pushed his thoughts aside, concerned as Napoleon continued to weaken as the blood loss continued in spite of his efforts.
"Napoleon!" he exclaimed. "Napoleon, backup will be coming very soon; you have to hold on until then! I did not…" He shuddered, prompting the American to open his eyes to look back at him. "I did not come back here to see you die!"
This was wrong—this was all wrong! Napoleon had always seemed invincible in Illya's eyes! This simply could not be how it ended—that Illya had only returned to end up saying goodbye! As if in defiance, Illya pressed down on the wound with slightly more force to stay the bleeding.
Weakly, Napoleon raised his left hand—the one not covered in his own blood—and gently placed it on one of Illya's arms. He was too weak to speak, but he hoped the gentle squeeze would be enough to convince Illya that he'd do his best to keep fighting.
The next several hours were a jumbled blur to Napoleon; the last thing he'd been aware of was the backup finally arriving, and Illya still trying to stop the bleeding, even after Medical insisted that they would handle it.
After that, the next thing Napoleon was aware of was the all-too-familiar smell of antiseptic and an equally all-too-familiar sound of a heart monitor. He battled with fatigue for a few moments to open his eyes, and the first thing in his line of vision was a bedraggled blond nearly falling out of his chair from exhaustion as the morning sun streamed through the windows.
Illya was still wearing the same clothes he had been traveling in—the shirt and pants still red with Napoleon's blood. Illya hadn't even gone home to change; he had stayed by Napoleon's side every second he had been allowed.
"Illya…?" he croaked. He winced; his throat hurt like all get-out; talking was decidedly a bad idea for now.
But Illya snapped to attention, and Napoleon could see from his eyes that the Russian had not slept at all.
"I see Lady Luck decided not to abandon you after all," he sighed, looking far more relieved and tired than he was letting on.
"Guess so," Napoleon mouthed. Gingerly, he felt his neck, and the sutures that were there.
"Don't play with those," Illya said, gently slapping his hand away. "You don't want those falling out."
"Yeah, they'll leave a mark as it is," Napoleon added, with a quiet sigh.
Illya's mouth twitched into the vestiges of a smile.
"If you're worried about your appearance, you can borrow one of my turtlenecks," he offered.
That did achieve a grin from Napoleon, but the American quickly sobered as he realized that Illya was once again turning to wry humor to cover up how worried and upset he had been all this time.
It was the way Illya was; he didn't wear his heart on his sleeve. He was stoic, almost always stoic—rarely showing much emotion at all, positive or negative; it had earned him the title of "Iceman" (among other things) around U.N.C.L.E., and true to the title, it didn't seem to bother Illya. The display of emotion last night was something very raw and very rare—and shown only when there was no one other than Napoleon able to see. It was as though Illya reveled in his reputation as cold and efficient, and yet, Illya thought enough of Napoleon and trusted him to show him his very real human side—not just the concern and empathy, but also those precious, lighthearted moments that peppered their otherwise busy and serious lives, where Illya would allow himself to grin and laugh along with Napoleon, however fleetingly. It was one of the things that made their partnership work so well—they each knew the other's real selves.
"Napoleon?"
Illya's voice jolted him from his thoughts.
"You should rest some more," the blond advised. Again, in the solitude of the recovery room, Illya's true nature was pushing through.
"Okay, but you go home and get yourself cleaned up," Napoleon mouthed. "I want to see you look presentable when I wake up." He'd match wry humor with wry humor—another one of the many reasons why their partnership worked.
Illya's lips twitched into a part-smile again.
"Da. My superior orders it, so I will obey." He stood up, his concern continuing to slip through the mask he always tried to wear. "You recover quickly, alright? I didn't come back to get partnered up with someone else while you lie here malingering, either."
Napoleon smiled now.
"Sure, sure. Oh, and Illya? Welcome back."
This time, a full smile broke through the Russian's mask, but it was ephemeral, lasting only a second.
"Thank you. Rest now; I shall return soon."
And he turned and left, departing the recovery room as the Iceman once again—a flawless transformation.
Napoleon sighed quietly again, lying back on his pillow. The man who had been pleading for him to live with tears in his eyes last night seemed like a completely different person than the stoic partner he was used to seeing. And though the American sometimes wished he could see more of that side of the Russian, he knew that keeping that side hidden was part of what made Illya Kuryakin who he was.
And, anyway, just knowing that this concerned, caring side of his partner existed was enough. Illya trusted him, both with his hidden side and with his life in general as they went on their missions.
That, of course, was what made their partnership work best out of all the reasons—that both he and Illya trusted each other and cared for each other genuinely and completely. And with Illya back in New York at last and with himself on the mend, it would only be a matter of time before the dream team of Section II was out giving THRUSH a run for their money once again.
That was all that Napoleon could ever ask for—and he knew Illya felt the same way.