Redefining Friendship
By Selyndae
Takes place near the end of Fourth Season
In their hurried escape as they destroyed the Thrush Satrap, there was no time to search for coats and boots. Stranded now, they had to find shelter soon. If not...
Napoleon, teeth chattering, stammered slowly, "I-I'm sorry, I-Illya." His eyes strained trying to see something—anything through the blizzard's madly swirling snow.
"Must—keep going." Illya tugged on Napoleon's cold, wet arm.
"C-can't." sighed Napoleon regretfully as he stumbled and dropped slowly to his knees.
Illya, pulled weakly, trying to get Napoleon back onto his feet. After several aborted attempts, he sank down next to his friend, too tired to fight off the inevitable. Holding Napoleon tightly he whispered, "Together then, my friend."
It was silent except for the tiny clinks of sleet against their shivering bodies.
Illya could feel himself drifting off when something forced itself into his lethargy. A sound...
Suddenly awake he shook Napoleon insistently saying hoarsely, "Did—did you hear that? Bells…I hear bells!" as he strained to hear across the desolate landscape.
Off in the distance bells tinkled faintly...
Several hours earlier…
"Why didn't you just go when I told you to?" demanded Solo hoarsely. You had the explosive—hell, you had the mobility!"
Illya just looked at him blankly. In their rather painful capture a lucky shot had caught Illya across the back. Fortunately just a graze, but still very painful. The dried blood itched fiercely. Still feeling somewhat dazed from the rough handling he'd received—almost detached—he struggled to focus on Napoleon's words.
Realizing Solo was waiting for a reply, Kuryakin rolled his eyes in a 'catch-all' answer. Too worried about his partner to trust his voice, he mentally ran through their options instead. Napoleon had taken a bullet to the shoulder and was in bad shape. He'd already applied a rough bandage over an hour ago using Napoleon's torn undershirt, but was unable to stop the bleeding completely. Blood still oozing; Napoleon desperately needed a hospital.
They did have one advantage though—the explosive. When capture was imminent, Illya had hastily hidden the plastique. So far Thrush hadn't found the cache, so if… no, when they got out, it was only a matter of grabbing the stuff, setting the bombs and leaving.
Ignoring a testy Napoleon, Illya was still turning possibilities around in his head when he realized they were no longer alone. He looked up into the malevolent eyes of the guard—a stolid little man, slightly taller than Illya in height but built like an Atlas bodybuilder. The guard gave a malicious smirk.
Extending a muscular arm, he slapped Kuryakin harshly across the stone floor as easily as a doll. Illya scrambled to his feet and started his counterattack when he heard a sharp moan of pain from Napoleon. Hesitating he saw his partner hauled up roughly, injured arm twisted behind his back.
The guard's grin widened as he growled menacingly, "That's right, Kuryakin. I've got your partner, Solo, just where I want him." Giving Solo a shake for emphasis, he added, "You make any kind of move against me and Solo dies—here and now, get me?"
Illya swallowed hard before nodding, his expression revealing nothing.
"Over here Kuryakin. By the wall," ordered the sadistic guard as he roughly dragged Solo across the floor. When Illya, hands carefully extended, moved closer, the man dropped Solo abruptly, giving him a hard kick in the ribs with a thick boot. Spinning his prize around, he roughly pulled Kuryakin's arms sharply upward, harsh enough to almost dislocate the shoulders, eliciting a sharp hiss of pain. Swiftly shackling the now incapacitated agent, he sadistically gave Kuryakin a roundhouse punch in the stomach. Unable to protect himself, Illya gasped soundlessly in pain, held up by the shackles. Pleased, the guard turned his attention back to Solo laying in a heap on the damp floor of the dungeon.
Bending down to grip Solo by the collar, he was suddenly pushed sharply against the wall as Solo's legs rose up and gave a powerful kick, catching the burly guard in the face. Blood spurted from his broken nose as he gave a howl of pain.
Solo rolled himself over and quickly stood up. Channeling his adrenaline, ignoring his intense pain, he grasped his hands together to bludgeon the bent-over guard in the face. As the guard sagged, Solo threw a karate chop across the neck watching the guard finally collapse. Bending over, uninjured hand on his knee for support, he dragged in a ragged breath before glancing up at his partner who'd watched the entire scene. "You okay?" he panted fighting to recover his breath.
"Yes," Illya said faintly, still burning from the stomach punch. He rattled his chains meaningfully.
Napoleon squinted back up at his partner as he muttered, "Yeah, right," before kneeling down to search the guard for keys. Finding them, he struggled up and unlocked the manacles.
Rubbing his wrists Illya looked closely at his partner. "Are you alright?" he asked with concern.
Still breathing hard, Napoleon ordered, "Let's get out of here. The explosives have to be set and the longer we stay in here the more likely we'll run into more Thrush." He watched as Illya frisked the fallen guard for weapons, taking his pistol and stuffing it into his waistband. He looked a question when Illya took the man's watch.
Illya seeing the look gave a small ghost grin as he held up the watch in question, "Detonator."
"Ah," nodded Napoleon sagely before giving a pointed look at his looting partner, "Do you think we can go now?"
Illya scrambled up stuffing the watch into his pocket.
It became immediately obvious that Napoleon wasn't going anywhere quickly. Now that the rush of adrenaline had passed the pain from his injuries and the fight were overwhelming. He trembled, barely able to stand on his own.
"You'll have to set the explosives without me," said Napoleon quickly.
Kuryakin scowled at his partner. Shaking his head, he pushed his good shoulder under Solo's, offering support. "Let's go," he said firmly.
"Illya, there's no time," protested Napoleon.
Illya shot him a look from underneath sweaty bangs as he disagreed firmly, "This is not up for debate. We are doing this together."
"Fine!" Napoleon gritted as he painfully moved along with Illya's help. After a moment he said, "Wait!"
"Now what?" demanded Illya with a touch of asperity.
"The gun," gasped Napoleon, "I can at least keep us covered since you insist on doing this the hard way."
Illya pulled the confiscated gun out of his waistband and handed it to Solo, butt-end out, in a smooth, one-handed movement.
Napoleon gripping it nodded as they began to move again.
The next ten minutes were spent dodging Thrush personnel, all while setting the recovered soft explosive into place. By the time the last of it was rigged using the Thrush watch which would ultimately set off the others, Illya could see Napoleon was barely hanging on to consciousness.
"Just a few more minutes," Illya murmured reassuringly.
They began working their way out. The jury-rigged timer pieced together from the watch parts was somewhat problematic, so the window for escape was purposely short.
Napoleon was shaking with effort from trying to remain conscious as blood loss and pain was finally sending him into shock.
Chyort!
Still dodging Thrush personnel, Illya spotted some paint cans, trays, a small ladder and Thank God, a small drop cloth. Momentarily propping Napoleon up against the wall, he took back the gun and checked the corridor before snatching up the cloth. Hastily, he wrapped it around Napoleon.
Time was running out! With a burst of speed Illya half-carrying Napoleon, reached the outside. Eyes darting all around, he sped toward some parked cars. The first car, a late-model four-door Impala, was unlocked. No keys, but no time for further checking. Cramming Napoleon onto the back seat, he dove into the driver's side and yanked down the wires. In seconds the car started. Slamming it into gear, Illya sped onto the gravel road, stones flying as he headed for the gate. Gritting his teeth, he floored the gas pedal, ducking down as he hit the filigreed barrier. A broken shard crashed through the windshield showering broken pellets of safety glass onto the front seat. Amid the hale of gunfire several shots managed to hit the back window, finally shattering it. Illya, fired a couple of bursts, but had to concentrate more on evading the pursuit.
"I'll cover," said Napoleon, weakly, causing Illya to swing around to stare briefly.
"Here," answered Illya shortly, thumbing on the safety and practically tossing back the gun, his attention focused on keeping the wilding careening car under control.
The strong smell of gasoline suddenly assailed their nostrils. A lucky shot must have hit the gas tank!
Determined to put as much distance as possible between themselves and their pursuers, Illya increased his speed even more. A promising outcropping of rocks was his goal. If memory served correctly, there was a regular rabbit warren of roads available. The thick snow was hindering visibility for them, and hopefully hindering the bad guys as well...
They had almost reached their goal when the engine sputtered and died. A quick glance at the gas gauge confirmed his fears—the tank was empty!
They were still moving forward, Illya automatically depressing the clutch pedal at the first miss of the engine. Loss of engine power also meant loss of power steering. Between his struggle of the near white-out conditions, the slippery terrain and the non-responsive steering, Illya was fortunate to only scrape the passenger side against a sharp boulder in their wildly careening ride. Then the car slammed to a sudden stop as the Impala's back axle caught on a half-buried rock. The front fender on the passenger side sheered off from a jagged rock which scored a knife-crease down the entire side of the car.
Illya sat dazed from the impact. Shaking his head carefully, he coughed as he inhaled the sharp tang of battery acid. Sniffing cautiously, he caught a whiff of smoke. Blinking, he could see wisps of smoke curling up through the sides of the hood. The car was on fire!
Out of gas—and on fire. Chyort!
Tugging on Napoleon, he pulled him uphill through the driver's door out of the car and over to a jutting rock. The snow-covered ground was slick, uneven and treacherous in the growing darkness. The now freely-burning car was sending out very welcome warmth, but...
We have to get out of here and fast. Thrush will easily track us since we seem to be sending out a signal flare!
"Napoleon, we've got to go," urged Illya as he helped support the larger agent's limp weight.
Napoleon opened his eyes and stared blankly at the burning car, wrinkling his nose as the unpleasant tang of burning wires, oil and upholstery assailed him.
"Go... go where?" he asked haltingly.
"Away from here," answered Illya firmly, "Now, let's go."
It seemed like hours had passed.
There were only a few close calls. Each time, Illya's sharp hearing picked up the sounds of pursuit and they were able to duck down out of sight. It had been some time since their last encounter and Illya desperately seeking shelter for the night.
The snowy landscape disguised the uneven, slippery ground. In their hurried escape, they hadn't searched for boots and coats, leaving them in thin shirts which, while a nice camouflaging touch in the raging blizzard, were completely inadequate against the bone-chilling cold. The drop cloth was far too thin to be of any real use.
Napoleon, teeth chattering, stammered slowly, "I-I'm sorry, I-Illya." His eyes strained trying to see something—anything through the blizzard's madly swirling snow.
"Must—keep going." Illya tugged Napoleon's cold, wet arm.
"C-can't." sighed Napoleon regretfully as he stumbled and dropped to his knees.
Illya, unable to support both of them any longer, let go as he struggled to stay upright. Looking around in one last desperate attempt, Illya could see nothing except an unbroken landscape of sleet and snow.
Hopeless.
Illya, pulled weakly, trying to get Napoleon back onto his feet. After several aborted attempts, he sank down next to his friend, too tired to fight off the inevitable. Holding Napoleon tightly he whispered, "Together then, my friend."
It was silent except for the tiny clinks of sleet against their shivering bodies.
As he held Napoleon close to him, survival instincts and training were trying to keep them both alive as long as possible; Illya spared a rueful thought for their ultimate ending.
The rumors will certainly fly... when our bodies are eventually found. Maybe sometime in the spring…
Hands and feet numb, legs rapidly losing all feeling, Illya knew it wouldn't be much longer. He could feel the sleepiness begin to draw him downward. Clutching Napoleon even closer he whispered, "I-I'm s-sorry we d-didn't m-make it, N-napoleon."
He could feel a slight movement from Napoleon. In an almost inaudible whisper, Napoleon stammered weakly, "H-hey… don't a-apologize—" There was silence for a moment, then with another effort he added, "Its b-been a g-good run."
"Da… it was." Illya gave his partner another squeeze and settled down with him.
One good thing about freezing to death—it's relatively painless—once the numbness sets in anyway.
Going to go to sleep...
That's all... just sleep...
Illya could feel himself drifting off, even starting to feel warmer, when something forced itself into his lethargy. A sound...
Suddenly awake he shook Napoleon insistently saying hoarsely, "Did-did you hear that? Bells…I hear bells!" as he strained to hear across the desolate landscape.
Off in the distance bells tinkled faintly...
Following the sound of the melodic bells, Illya struggled to keep a virtually unconscious Napoleon upright. If they didn't manage to reach the source of those bells—and soon—they were finished.
And what if it's nothing, perhaps a trick of the wind, or a-a cow-bell or something?
Stamping down those negative thoughts, Illya trudged ahead, stumbling over the rough ground, but somehow managing not to fall. Illya didn't think he could get back up again if they fell...
A trick of the wind shifted the snow and suddenly looming in front of them was a dark shape—a very old house!
Now that shelter was finally within reach, Illya readjusted Napoleon's weight with a shake and plowed on.
Nearing the looming structure, Illya could see it had been long deserted, an old two-story farmhouse set out in a kind of an L-shape with a large, dilapidated front porch. He idly noted the style as being Folk-Victorian, prevalent throughout the Midwest from almost a hundred years ago. Even in the rapidly-falling darkness, Illya could see shingles missing from the roof and nearly all the windows were broken. Hanging from the porch was a weathered melodic, copper set of ancient wind chimes.
Better than being outside.
Bundling Napoleon in through the battered (but surprisingly intact) front door, Illya noted the heavy dust and neglect of the empty house. Gusts of swirling snow followed them inside until Illya shut the door with his hip. Eerily, the house was still furnished. Peeling wallpaper and the skittering of mice attested to how long it had been deserted. A large, old-fashioned fireplace was in one corner of the front room but Illya suspected the chimney's integrity would be compromised. He sat Napoleon down on a storage trunk, bracing him against the wall while he quickly checked the other downstairs rooms.
The kitchen had a large, old-fashioned wood stove. This far out in the country, Illya wasn't too surprised. Spying a small stack of wood, his hopes rose slightly. After checking the unit over, he carefully started a small fire. It seemed to be drawing properly and Illya added some more wood.
It wasn't long before welcome warmth spread into the room. Settling Napoleon near the stove, Illya carefully explored the old house more thoroughly. Their luck held out when a quick rummaging produced a stack of old bedding.
"Napoleon, I don't know if I can remove the bullet. It's in pretty deep."
Napoleon's eyes had been closed during Illya's prodding of the wound, but now opened to look up at his partner. "Do whatever you have to," he said firmly.
"You really need a hospital," stated Illya flatly.
Napoleon's dark eyes flicked briefly over the empty room. He took a deep breath, "Well, we can't get to a hospital so…" he looked at his friend before adding firmly, "Dr. Kuryakin, I guess it's time for you to put your title to use."
Illya grimaced. "You know perfectly well my doctorate is in quantum mechanics," his eyes narrowed threateningly, "However, I suppose I could apply some of the more esoteric theories to—"
Napoleon grinned weakly, "Okay, okay, I get it." His grin only barely fading he said, "Just do it, Illya, I trust you."
Illya shook his head ruefully as he stood up to prepare for the makeshift surgery. There wasn't much he could do—boil some clean snow, disinfect the knife he'd discovered and sharpened, rinse out torn sheet strips. Sighing, he glanced at his friend, knowing he was going to hurt him badly and already regretting it. Shrugging mentally he put his misgivings aside as he remembered one small piece of advice he'd read someplace; don't bleed for the patient—let him do his own bleeding. Solo was counting on him.
The surgery completed, Kuryakin allowed himself to relax. He'd extracted the recalcitrant bullet while damaging the shoulder less than expected. Fortunately for both of them, Solo had blessedly passed out only moments into the surgery. He glanced at his partner who appeared to be sleeping comfortably.
Standing up, Kuryakin stretched out the kinks from the stressful surgery and decided to make a check of the perimeter. Suddenly uneasy, he stood in the shadow of an intact window in what he supposed was the parlor when he caught a slight movement outside from the corner of his eye.
There! Off in the shadows… something. Chyort! A couple of men—he'd lay odds they weren't friendly neighbors checking out an abandoned house. Another look justified his suspicions—they were definitely Thrush!
Fading back into the shadows, Kuryakin stealthily and rapidly made his way back to the kitchen. No point in putting out the fire since they'd already been spotted. There wasn't time for the stove to cool down anyway. Far more critical to get into a defensible position. There were just the two intruders—at least for now. Anything he did had to be silent and covert in case there were other Thrushies about.
There weren't many options. Placing a hand on Napoleon's good shoulder he gave a cautious shake even as he whispered urgently, "Napoleon, Thrush outside."
Napoleon woke up with a start, instantly recognizing the threat. "How many?" he whispered weakly.
"Two," answered Illya shortly, "We have to move." Pushing under Napoleon's shoulder he helped his partner to his feet.
When the Thrush agents cautiously entered the house they separated silently. One headed into the parlor, the other to the kitchen. They had both seen the floor's dust disturbed by footprints—solid evidence that it was occupied.
The agent entering the kitchen was silent, eyes darting around the apparently deserted room. Satisfied he moved over by the stove. Definitely the heat source and by the looks of it, very recent. Senses on the alert, he spun around. There! On the other side of the wood box was a barely visible scrap of cloth. Moving closer he could see a body on its side. Gun aimed firmly at the potential threat, the enemy agent moved within arms reach and nudged the unmoving figure with his foot. Nothing. He prodded again, harder this time. Just as his suspicions coalesced and he realized it wasn't a body he was kicking, but rather a bundle of clothing, he was overpowered. He was unable to make a sound—his throat sharply pulled back by a garrote. Frantically struggling against imminent death, one hand clutching at his throat, his other hand brought the gun up, waving vaguely backwards. Losing consciousness in a haze of red, he managed to squeeze off a shot before finally sagging to the floor—dead.
The shot reverberated loudly in the empty house.
Illya scooped up the unfamiliar gun from the fallen enemy as he bolted out of the kitchen toward the stairs. In the same movement, he shoved the man's body under the table, tweaking the rough bench into place to hide it.
Under the stairs, on the kitchen side, was a small recessed storage closet. The peculiar thing Illya had discovered earlier was a wall which cantilevered open and lead down narrow steps into the shallow fieldstone basement. There were regular bulkhead doors accessing the basement from the outside which were secured with a chain and old-fashioned padlock. Since the only apparent entrance to the basement had obviously not been entered in some time, this was an ideal hiding spot.
Napoleon would be safe for the time being.
Hearing the almost silent creak on the floorboards alerted Kuryakin to the other enemy agent somewhere in the back room on the other side of the stairs. Uncertain as to the exact location Illya debated which way to sneak around and neutralize the threat.
His hesitation allowed the enemy to get the drop on him.
Looking up just in time to see the triumphant sneer on the Thrush's face, Kuryakin desperately threw himself to one side just as the gun fired. He felt the hot lead slice across his thigh. As he fell he rolled frantically in the other direction.
Another shot was fired!
Vaguely surprised to find himself still alive he looked back up into the enemy's eyes just in time to see him collapse. Behind the falling body, supporting himself heavily against the wall was Napoleon, gun in hand.
"Nice shot, partner," commented Illya sincerely.
Napoleon made a show of blowing across the barrel, "Anytime." He paled suddenly and started to sag.
Illya hurriedly limped over just in time to catch his injured partner.
"Great pair aren't we, IK," grunted Napoleon weakly. He glanced at Illya's leg, "How bad?"
"A scratch," Discussion closed.
Sitting Napoleon down at the table, Illya set about securing the area. From what he could see, the two Thrush's had been alone; or at least any others were too far away to have heard the shots. Cautiously optimistic, Illya finally returned to the kitchen where Napoleon showed off his booty—one Thrush gun, one Thrush rifle, one extra clip of ammunition for the gun, one Swiss army knife, and best of all, one Thrush radio which he held up with an air of triumph.
"Ah, we have a communicator."
"I'm sure you can modify it to the U.N.C.L.E. frequency."
Illya gave a quick grin as he set to work.
They'd been sitting in the now comfortable room for some time. Illya had just finished changing the dressing on Napoleon's arm. It didn't appear infected and now that communications had been reestablished, they had every hope of being rescued in the morning. Earlier they had dragged the Thrush bodies outside and covered them with snow until a team arrived to do the cleanup. Finally satisfied that he'd done all he could as to Napoleon's comfort, Illya limped over to check the stove. More rummaging around had produced some canned vegetables which he was cooking into a kind of soup. As he stirred, he felt Napoleon's eyes watching him.
Turning around, he was startled at the suppressed anger he read in Napoleon's eyes. "What?" he asked turning back to the stove as he continued stirring, "Food will be ready shortly."
"It's not the food I want to talk about." Steeling himself he finally exploded, "Illya, I don't want you sacrificing yourself for me! Why can't you understand that you—you pigheaded Russian?" Then, in a whisper, "I would have a hard time handling that, Tovarisch."
Illya turned around. "Infuriating American," he countered automatically. After a long pause adding seriously, "As would I my friend."
They both looked away and stared into the room as they struggled to bring their emotions back under control.
"We both know the mission comes first," said Napoleon almost to himself, "But…" his voice trailed off uncertainly.
Illya gave a short nod of agreement before moving away, ostensibly doing another security check of their surroundings.
Napoleon sighed heavily and opened his mouth to speak when Illya facing the window, muttered fiercely, the words almost torn from him, "I won't let you die Napoleon!" Steeling himself he added, "You are Number One, Section Two. It is my job to keep you safe and alive."
Napoleon was already shaking his head, "Illya, Illya, Illya, it's our job to complete the mission. Keeping eachothersafe and alive is more of a…a trust."
Illya turned sharply and started to speak but was forestalled by Napoleon's raised hand.
"Now, hear me out. We both know we're U.N.C.L.E.'s top team. We achieved this through skill, sheer guts, and yes, brains. But most of all, trust in each other." He paused, "Illya, if we hadn't developed the kind of rapport that can only come from that kind of complete trust and very real friendship, we wouldn't be here now." He looked into Illya's eyes as he searched for the right words. "We've both gone back time and time again to rescue each other," he gave a small grin, "sometimes over Waverly's objections—"
Illya snorted at that.
"—but successfully! And the ultimate edge we have, the one thing that keeps us at the top of the game is—our friendship." And love, were the unspoken words. Suddenly exhausted, Napoleon leaned back.
Illya, concerned, moved over and tucked the quilts around his friend more securely. "You need to rest," he said quietly, "I'll take the first watch." He moved back to sit in the shadows by the window.
Napoleon stared blankly for a moment before scrunching up his face as he pled his case, "Look, can't you at least promise me that you won't take any really stupid chances?"
Illya glared for a full minute before finally softening and allowing a tiny grin to appear, "I will if you will," he promised.
Napoleon grinned back, "Fair enough." He settled more comfortably in his makeshift bed, unexpected warmth from their pact flowing through him.
In the morning they would be rescued. They would probably never speak of this again. To outsiders they would appear as cold, ruthless, unemotional agents with no ties to anyone or anything—except their sworn oath to the Command. But their connection with each other would always be there as an invisible bond of loyalty, fierce friendship and even love. No matter what the world expected or saw—as long as they lived, they would have each other. Not a small flicker of close brotherhood in an uncertain world of espionage… but rather a strong flame that wouldn't go out—even to the end.
9