The Knife's Blade

by Alobear

Category: Slash

Pairing: Illya Kuryakin/Napoleon Solo

Notes:

A sequel to The Knife's Edge was requested, so a sequel was produced! I knew I wouldn't be able to keep these guys out of my head for long - I just wish they'd stop turning up at 4am...

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The black beast of Illya's rage was the part of him that awoke first. It sensed confinement and allowed his conscious mind to exert control in order to take stock of the situation. He was handcuffed to a chair in a small room with damp walls. A guard stood against one wall, while another man stood in the corner, wearing a pale linen suit and expensive shoes. He was talking to someone, and the beast snarled in Illya's mind when he realised it was Napoleon. The American was strung up from a hook in the ceiling, his feet only just touching the floor, and the man was threatening him with a knife.

Rage took over. Illya rose to his feet as far as he could, then threw himself backwards with tremendous force, shattering the wooden chair beneath his considerable weight. He came up with a splintered chair leg in his hand, leaping for the guard before he could even react. He plunged the sharp wood into the guard's neck, experiencing a fierce joy as blood spurted over his hands. The guard choked and gasped, sliding to the floor, but Illya was already on the other side of the room. He grabbed the spare ring of each pair of handcuffs in his hands and used them like knuckle dusters on the man with the knife.

There was little resistance, and then there was no resistance. But, by this time, a red haze had descended over Illya's vision and he couldn't stop. It was Napoleon's voice that eventually brought him back to himself, calling his name. Priorities suddenly snapped back into the forefront of his brain and he stood, breathing heavily. Turning to face Napoleon, he saw features pinched with pain and fatigue, and his focus sharpened further.

"Hey, damsel," he said. "Is okay if I rescue you now?"

"Yes, yes," Napoleon replied testily, but the exasperation brought a spark of life back into his eyes. "Just get on with it already."

Illya threw him a predator's grin, then grabbed Napoleon around the waist and lifted him bodily until the rope between his hands came free of the hook. He set him back on his feet, but Napoleon sagged against him, his legs buckling.

"You okay to get out of here?" Illya asked in concern.

Napoleon clutched at his jacket, then nodded, his eyes tight shut. "Just give me a minute," he breathed.

Illya propped him up against the wall, then bent to retrieve the knife from their very dead captor. Two quick steps brought him to the fallen guard, and he collected a rifle as well. Crossing back to Napoleon, he handed him the gun, keeping the knife for himself. Napoleon accepted the weapon grimly, then set his shoulders and pushed himself away from the wall to stand under his own power.

"Okay," he said, only a little unsteadily. "Let's go."

The red haze quickly descended again, as they fought their way out. Their escape flashed by in a series of cut throats and stabbed guts, the sharp report of Napoleon's gun regularly punctuating Illya's own brand of more vicious violence.

When Illya became fully aware again, he discovered they were back at their safe house. The rage slowly dissipated, leaving him shaking with reaction. He glanced at Napoleon to see that he was trembling, too, and a surge of different emotion took him. He closed the distance between them and kissed Napoleon, crushing him to him.

When they broke apart, Napoleon gave a shaky laugh.

"Careful, Peril," he said, breathlessly. "You just might break me today."

Illya drew him into a fierce hug. "Can't lose you, Cowboy," he murmured into Napoleon's neck.

He felt arms coming up around him in an answering embrace.

"I know," was the soft reply. "Don't worry – I'm not going anywhere."

Deep down, Illya knew Napoleon couldn't promise that but, just for tonight, he allowed himself to believe it was true.

THE END