Notes: this is a fic I wrote on the occasion of Vincent Price's 111th birthday today; in one of his books, he lamented never having guest-starred in M*A*S*H*, and since I'd already melded that timeline with my MFU timeline, I decided to make it happen in a fic.
Illya was not pleased. He had been waiting at the Purple Unicorn to meet with Napoleon for lunch, upon completion of his latest mission briefing, which he'd started earlier that morning. Illya had gone to the restaurant to whet his appetite with some appetizers, and had been enjoying them until he noticed THRUSH executive Victor Marton walk in.
Marton ordered a drink at the bar, noticed Illya over his glass, and gave him a nod of acknowledgement.
Illya's response was a cold stare—his usual reaction whenever he had the misfortune of crossing paths with Marton,
Marton arched an eyebrow, as though contemplating whether or not it was worth the bother of speaking his mind when Illya wouldn't be in a receptive mood anyway. But after a minute's pondering, he walked over to Illya's table; Illya's expression only grew darker and angrier.
"Monsieur Kuryakin," Marton greeted.
He was once again met by stony silence.
"Ah, where are my manners?" Marton chided himself. "Shall I order you a drink, Monsieur?"
"I do not drink with the enemy," Illya replied, flatly.
But Marton wasn't thrown off in the slightest.
"Still the same, non?" he tutted. "It would almost appear that your dislike of me has grown somehow—despite the fact that our recent encounters together have had us, more or less, working together for a common goal."
"That does not mean that I have to like you," Illya retorted.
"Perhaps it does not," Marton admitted. "You know, Monsieur, in spite of your tendency to come across as mysterious and 'hard to read,' as they say in this country, it is very clear to me why you act this way. I know why you dislike me so."
"Do you now?" Illya scoffed.
"It is because of your Monsieur Solo, non?" Marton asked. "You look at me and see that he and I are not so different—we are men of the world, enjoying the finer things in life, and always keeping an eye out for life's treasures…" He trailed off with a knowing smirk as Illya paled. "Ah, there it is—you fear that if I could be tempted by riches and ambition to abandon my partner and head down this path, then your Monsieur Solo is also capable of falling to such a fate. You fear that he will be tempted to abandon you as I abandoned Alexander, and I am a reminder of that."
"You know nothing about Napoleon or myself!" Illya snarled. Marton had clearly hit a nerve.
"Well, I don't know you as well as I should like," Marton admitted. "But I know your Monsieur Solo better that you think. Perhaps I can put your mind at ease. Do you recall how Monsieur Solo joined U.N.C.L.E.?"
"Everyone knows that—he was drafted to Korea, contracted appendicitis, and while he was recuperating, he met Mark Slate, who recruited him to U.N.C.L.E. and got him a medical discharge, and that was all there was to it," Illya replied.
"Oh, there was more—and Monsieur Slate can corroborate it when I say that he was not the only one interested in recruiting Monsieur Solo," Marton replied. "I, too, had been there, on the lookout for potential THRUSH recruits. Like you, I saw the similarities between Monsieur Solo and myself almost immediately…"
Korea, 1952, 4077th-
Bluffing his way into the Mobile Army Surgical Hospital near Uijeongbu had been laughably easy for the then up-and-coming THRUSH agent, aside from that suspicious Company Clerk. Something about him seemed… off—but a chiding in French, presented with the air of someone who was pretending that he had every right to be there, had been enough to send the little fellow fleeing for cover.
Marton had only been with the Hierarchy for a few years at that point, having officially defected from U.N.C.L.E. after his former partner's promotion to head of the Northwest branch had been secured. Perhaps Marton had been accused of betraying Waverly, but, in a way, Waverly had betrayed him first. The bridge had already started burning; Marton had merely fed the flames.
He pushed the thought aside; he had his mission, after all. THRUSH knew that the wounded draftees were likely to be disgruntled and desperate enough to be coaxed or bribed into the Hierarchy—and if they could bring some military training or even intelligence with them, so much the better.
Marton made his way to the recovery tent, unobserved by those milling about, absorbed in their tasks, pausing at the entry of the tent as he observed a dark-haired doctor conversing with a woozy, young patient who must have just come around.
"I don't wanna go back to the front…" the young man mumbled. "I don't wanna be in this war!"
"You're preaching to the choir here, Buddy," the doctor quipped. "The good news is that with your appendix out, you'll be out of action for a bit, but you'll make a full recovery in time."
"Thanks, Dr.…"
"Pierce," the doctor finished. "You can just call me Hawkeye."
"What kinda name is that?" the patient replied, bemused.
"…Interesting question coming from someone named Napoleon Solo," Hawkeye snarked. "Look, I get that this is going to be an uncertain road for you and you've probably got a lot to talk about. I'll see to sending our chaplain over to talk to you; he's in conference right now with our CO and a visiting recruiter from some outfit called U.N.C.L.E.—"
Marton cursed under his breath, no longer listening to the doctor's words. Of course, Waverly would have had the same idea!
Never one for originality, that Alexander…
He withdrew from the tent entrance as Hawkeye departed and passed by; Marton waited for a moment before entering the tent, amused at the thought of snatching a recruit right out from under his ex-partner's messenger.
The other patients were asleep and resting aside from the young Mr. Solo, but he had already been vocal about wanting to get out—he would be the perfect candidate for recruitment.
"Bonjour, Monsieur Solo."
Napoleon looked up at him, confused.
"Somehow I don't think you're the chaplain…" he mumbled.
"Not by any stretch of the imagination," Marton agreed. "You will forgive my eavesdropping, but I could not help but notice that you seem a bit disgruntled with your current situation, non?"
"I never wanted to be in this war…" Napoleon lamented. "When I said I wanted to travel, I didn't mean like this—drafted against my will."
"Ah, you wish to travel?" Marton asked. "I do quite a bit of traveling in my line of work."
"Lucky you," Napoleon sighed. "But yeah, I wanna travel the world, just… not like this. I want to explore the sights and meet people, not be thrown into something I barely understand."
"Where are you from?"
"New York State—been to Manhattan a lot as a kid. That's where I wanna live someday—Manhattan is like a globe by itself, you know? So many parts of the world all in one place…"
"…Ah, then you would like to live comfortably, non?"
"Yeah, one of those penthouses…" Napoleon mused, a smile on his lips.
"With gourmet meals and snacks of champagne and caviar?" Marton asked.
"Mm-hmm," Napoleon nodded.
"I can introduce you to the people who will let you have that kind of life," Marton said. "You would get to travel as I do, and you would be rich, working for us."
"Yeah?" Napoleon asked. "Well, it sounds pretty good, but there's one other thing."
"What is that, Fiston?"
"I want to be able to make a difference," Napoleon mused.
"I can assure you that you will," Marton chuckled.
"I mean, really—to travel the world and help people, and prevent more wars like this, so people don't have to go through this kind of thing…" Napoleon sighed. "That's what I want."
The smile faded from Marton's face.
"And the money and the luxury—"
"Is nice to have, yeah, of course," Napoleon said. "I'd never say no to that! But to have all that and peace… that'd be perfect."
"…You are an idealist," Marton realized. He had been that way once, back when he had believed in his cause… back when Waverly had prioritized him over his own ambitions… before Marton had realized he was being left behind and had to find success and ambition on his own… before the goal had turned to wealth and power instead…
The young man's voice jolted him from his thoughts.
"I guess I am…" Napoleon admitted.
Marton put on a forced smile.
"Alas, I cannot give you what you seek, after all. But I expect there will be someone coming along who might be able to."
Napoleon responded with a "hmm" of gratitude, prompting Marton to step away, just as the Company Clerk now entered the recovery tent with a furious-looking nurse glaring daggers at him.
"That's the fella, Major…!" he managed to say.
"Get out," the nurse ordered Marton, in a hushed but furious tone.
"As you wish, Mademoiselle," Marton replied, politely.
He exited with the nurse and the clerk, much to the confusion of another doctor who had been preparing to enter the tent.
"Is this your doing, Winchester?" the nurse demanded.
"Credit me with a bit more discretion than that, Margaret," the doctor scoffed. "Pierce and Hunnicutt are the resident practical jokers—"
"Whatever it is, I didn't do it," Hawkeye interrupted, coming back with the chaplain and a man Marton recognized—and who recognized him.
"Victor Marton!"
"Ah, Monsieur Slate, I believe I have found the perfect new blood for Alexander's plucky little crew," Marton said, seemingly unbothered by having been found out. "You'll find him in there—a Monsieur Solo."
"Solo's my patient—what the hell were you doing with him!?" Hawkeye demanded.
"I was considering offering him a job, but I can see he is unfit for it—for the moment, for he is far too idealistic," Marton replied. He turned back to Mark. "You can have him for U.N.C.L.E.—either Alexander will end up jading him, as well, or Monsieur Solo will end up becoming an amusing thorn in my side. I will be interested in seeing which result occurs." He looked around. "Au revoir, Messieurs et Mademoiselle…"
"…I think not," Mark frowned. He turned to the officers. "Have him kept under guard; I'll be taking him with me when I go…"
Illya had listened to the story, unable to hide his interest in spite of his efforts to do so.
"As I said, Monsieur Slate can corroborate my story," Marton concluded.
"I will be sure to ask him," Illya warned.
"By all means, do so."
Illya rolled his eyes, but then smirked.
"It must have been a disappointment for you that Napoleon became a thorn in your side," Illya said.
"Perhaps, but I have you to thank for that," Marton replied.
"…Me?" Illya scoffed. "I never told Napoleon to go after you specifically; you ended up crossing our paths."
"I was not referring to that," Marton informed him. "I was referring to what I said earlier—that I know you see the similarities between Monsieur Solo and myself, and that you feared him becoming a turncoat as I had done."
"Are you saying that Napoleon didn't become a turncoat because of me?"
"Nothing that you did personally," Marton said. "As much as he enjoys wealth and glory, he has put you above even that."
"While you put wealth and glory above Mr. Waverly," Illya concluded.
Marton's eyes narrowed.
"Sometimes, Monsieur Kuryakin, a betrayal goes both ways. I do not claim to be an innocent party in what transpired between Alexander and myself. And if Alexander is an honest man, he will not, either. We both ended up putting our personal ambitions first, before each other. That makes you and Monsieur Solo quite different from us. You know Alexander is the 'End justifies the means' type of person, non? How many times has he ordered you or Monsieur Solo to abandon each other for the sake of the mission—and how many times have you disobeyed?"
Illya didn't respond, but the look on his face betrayed that he knew Marton had a point.
"And so I say to you again to put your mind at ease," Marton finished. He raised his glass. "Au revoir, Monsieur Kuryakin."
He withdrew back to the bar with his drink, leaving Illya pondering as Napoleon Solo himself strode in, all smiles as he sat down at Illya's table.
"Rejoice, Partner Mine!" Napoleon grinned.
"I take it the debriefing went well?" Illya said.
"Well? You and I are in for commendations after that last raid we pulled off on that satrap!" Napoleon boasted.
"It pleases me to hear that…" Illya began, but then he paused. "But, as I recall, you did most of the work on that last mission; I was merely backup."
"Merely? Do you know what a load off my mind it is to know that you're watching my back? And anyway, Illya, you know by now that if I'm going up, I'm taking you with me," Napoleon winked.
Illya glanced back at him with a newfound appreciation as Marton's story was still fresh in his mind.
"I appreciate it very much," he said, trying not to reveal his emotions. "And you know, of course, that applies to me, as well."
"Of course," Napoleon assured him. "Now, let's order something—you must be hungry."
"Starving."
Napoleon grinned and started the order off with two glasses of champagne.
"To the continuation of our successful partnership," Napoleon said, raising his glass.
"To our partnership," Illya echoed, meeting his glass with his.
And Victor Marton continued to watch them from the bar, idly wondering if things could have ever ended up that well between Alexander Waverly and himself.