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Illya thought he could survive anything they could do to him, if only it weren’t for the heat. The humiliating splayed position in which he’d been chained to the table. The vicious bite of barbed restraints into his exposed wrists and ankles. The rancid breath of the THRUSH interrogator who barged into the little room at irregular intervals to demand Illya tell him all he knew about the American research satellite and the spy cameras supposedly smuggled onboard. The stinging of the terrible chemical sprays he applied to Illya’s face. The renewed agony when, having learned nothing from his prisoner, the interrogator twisted the bonds ever tighter before storming from the room, leaving Illya alone for another interminable while with nothing but his own pain for company.
All that, he knew he could endure. He’d been trained to endure worse. Had endured worse, many times. But the moldy storage closet where they’d chained their prisoner shared a shabby wall with their massive computer banks. Calculating the positions of hundreds of THRUSH assets at every moment, day or night, consumed a massive amount of power, and with all the surety of Newton’s laws, the insomniac computers turned most of that to heat, which rose through the building before dispersing into the desert air outside. That heat signature was how he’d found the place, despite THRUSH’s best efforts to keep it secret. That was how he hoped Napoleon would find him. He knew that was how Napoleon would find him.
If he survived the heat.
Ears still ringing with his interrogator’s latest threats, Illya waited until the door slammed shut before allowing himself a deep, pathetic groan. His head spun, and he wasn’t entirely sure if it was the dehydration, or the chemical haze still burning in his eyes and nostrils, or the blood loss. He couldn’t turn his head to see the wreck that’d been made of his limbs, a position he was certain was intentional, but he could feel the slow trickle of blood from the two dozen spots of pain where metal dug into his flesh. It itched terribly. At the same time, sweat dripped down his face, mixing with the chemicals and his own instinctive tears to form a glue that stuck to his eyelids until he could see nothing but a dull haze.
A drop of something slithered over cracked lips and into his mouth, bitter, sour, and metallic. His throat burned and convulsed. He kept himself from vomiting only because he knew he would likely suffocate if he did. What a sight that would be for THRUSH to find, he thought with a shred of bitter, dizzy humor. There were no answers to get out of a corpse.
He’d given the man a few fragments of information, hard-earned and utterly useless, just enough to make THRUSH think they’d won something and become distracted in the attempt to make use of it. He’d hoped it might keep his interrogator away for at least a little while, but it had only seemed to whet his appetite for more.
He was so hot. The heat radiated from the walls, from the floor, gathering in the air and pressing down on him until he might as well have been in an oven. A sick headache pounded behind his eyes. He let himself groan again, the only indulgence he would allow. More than anything, he longed to let himself slip into unconsciousness, but he knew he couldn’t, no matter how tempting that idea that might be at the moment. Stubbornly, he clung to sense, and waited for the interrogator to return for another fruitless round of torture.
Absurdly, he wished they’d done what all the other THRUSH bases did and chained him in the corner of a freezing dungeon. At least then he could huddle into his own body heat as he waited for a chance to escape, or for his partner’s grinning face as he came to rescue him.
Napoleon. Napoleon would come for him.
Another drop of sweat ran down his arm, settling stinging into the cuts at his wrist. He focused on the pain, knowing he had to stay conscious at all costs.
He’d almost failed at that task when the door slammed opened again. The interrogator’s face leered over him. He should have affected some casual air, but he was too exhausted, too hot, and he hurt too much to care.
Something glinted in the interrogator’s hand. “Maybe this will finally convince you,” he said, readying the blade over Illya’s chest.
Illya glared up at the man through eyes blurry with dirt and sweat and braced himself for sharp metal against his skin. It never came. A cry of shock, the clanging of something hard against the floor, and the thump of a falling body.
He blinked away sweat to the sight of a familiar head of dark hair as Napoleon worked at the straps around his left wrist. He opened his mouth to warn Napoleon to be careful of the barbs and hissed in a breath as the binding came loose.
”Bastard,” Napoleon swore under his breath, glaring at the strap that dangled in his hand, glinting with Illya’s blood. “How are you holding up?”
Illya licked his lips and managed to get his aching throat around a handful of words. ”Better, now that he’s gone.” He coughed. “The others?”
It was then that he realized the hum of the computer banks had gone silent. Whatever terrible things those machines had been set to calculate, it would not be done today.
Napoleon freed the other arm and spared a moment to grace Illya with a self-satisfied smile. “All down. They’ll be out of it for hours. The lab boys did a good job with the new dart formula.” He got to work on Illya’s ankles. “How long did he have you here? It’s sweltering.”
”I thought it was rather nice,” Illya said, because at least it was a distraction from the sick way the inside of his head swam when he even thought about moving. But there was no choice. Napoleon had unfastened the last of his bonds. His wrists and ankles throbbed along with his head, but he could walk, and he would have to walk.
He hauled himself up from the table, swung his legs over the side - and immediately tripped over the body of the unconscious interrogator.
Napoleon reached for his arm. “Watch your step, IK. He’s already down, no need to kick him again. Even if he deserves it.”
As much as Illya appreciated the sentiment, all he wanted at the moment was to be somewhere else, somewhere cooler than this miniature hell, and he let Napoleon lead him.
Somewhere between the sweltering storage closet and wherever they were going, the world tilted, and Illya’s next steps dissolved into a sightless haze.
“Hey. Hey, stay with me.” Napoleon’s arm came around his back, holding him up. Somewhere in the depths of his foggy, unsteady mind, he hoped nobody was close enough to see.
“I haven’t gone anywhere,” Illya muttered, sounding vague even to his own ears.
They were in one of the main halls of the THRUSH building, far from the dormant computer banks. Scattered papers and pencils and rulers lay on the drafting tables that lined a walkway well-trodden by merciless overseers.
Something rattled behind him. An office chair.
”Sit,” Napoleon said, and without waiting for Illya to obey, pushed him into the chair, where he sat with a dizzy thump. “I’ll be back.” He pressed his gun into Illya’s hand and then he was gone, off down the hallway to who knew where.
Illya folded his hand around the weapon, checking it on pure battle-trained instinct. There were still several darts left in the cartridge. If any of the goons slumped in the corners of the hall somehow managed to wake up from their drugged slumber and come after him, he’d be able to defend himself.
None of them did. Napoleon returned a moment later with a bundle of things in his arms, which he set on the table behind Illya.
Something was held up to his lips. Illya cringed away, until he realized it was a paper cup, filled with water.
”Drink slowly,” Napoleon warned, as if Illya had the wherewithal to do anything quickly at the moment.
Illya obeyed. A wave of nausea passed over him as the water hit his stomach, but it passed a few moments later, and he took the cup and downed the rest with less hesitation.
He glanced down at the touch of something wet against his arm, thinking he’d spilled the water, to find Napoleon bearing a damp towel and a worried expression.
Gently, carefully, he dabbed the blood from Illya’s wounds. Had it been anyone else, even a trained nurse in Medical, Illya might have cringed away from the touch, but Napoleon knew this, had suffered similar things enough times to know exactly how much pressure to apply, how to clean the cuts without pulling them wider.
“You always seem to get the worst of it,” he said, sounding almost guilty. “If I’d gotten here sooner…” He caught Illya’s gaze with wide, earnest eyes.
”You did exactly what you had to do,” Illya reminded him. “It would be no use rescuing me only for us to get ambushed by some over-eager THRUSH henchman two minutes later as we tried to leave.” He ran the towel over his face, gratefully wiping away the crusty bits his sweat and the irritant spray had left behind.
“Rescuing you,” Napoleon said, smiling now. “Like some sort of Prince Charming?”
Illya made a noise in his throat. “Remember that the next time it’s me dragging you out of some stinking dungeon.”
”Gladly. You certainly have the looks for it.”
Something stirred in the corner of the room. Without hesitation, Illya raised the gun and fired. The figure collapsed back to the floor with a groan.
Napoleon grinned at Illya. “Good shot.”
And then they were both laughing, for no particular reason, and it was enough to make Illya forget his pain for a few brief moments. It didn’t last long, but it was enough to make the inevitable walk out of the building, lengthy ride back to their hotel, and endless debriefing seem almost survivable.
When backup swept in to secure the building and take custody of the captured enemy agents, Napoleon took the opportunity to sweep himself and Illya out. By this point Illya could more than stand by himself, which was good, because he wasn’t about to lean on Napoleon’s shoulder with so many people watching.
They stepped out into the chill of a desert night. By the time they reached the car, Illya was shivering, and far too tired to hide it. He felt grubby and sore and as if he’d been burned raw both inside and out.
Napoleon got into the driver’s seat and leaned over to smile at Illya. He wrinkled his nose. ”I’ll let you take the first shower?”
Illya grumbled something in agreement and let his head fall back against the seat. It would be so easy to fall into a light doze until they reached the hotel, and he planned on doing so. Until something occurred to him.
”You never told me how you managed to disable the computer banks,” he said, eyes still closed.
”Hm?” He could all but feel Napoleon glancing at him then back to the road. “I thought you were asleep.”
”The computer, Napoleon.”
”Ah, yes, that. If you have to know, I got into the back room and put explosive putty inside of the tapes they were using. When they went to switch them out, boom.”
Illya smiled. “Taking a leaf out of my book, I see.”
”Didn’t I teach you everything you know?”
“Far from it,” Illya murmured, and settled back down for the rest of the drive.
By the time they got to the hotel, Illya looked a little more alive than he had while lashed to that table in the storage closet, but not by much. Napoleon was almost sorry to wake him up. The tension had drained from his face and shoulders while he drowsed and now he looked less the strong suffering agent and more simply an exhausted and injured man who’d been put through monstrous tortures in an attempt to protect the unknowing innocents.
When he climbed out of the car, Napoleon caught a glimpse of dark stains on the bandages around his wrists where blood had seeped through. His legs were probably in the same state, if not worse. He hung close to Illya’s side as they made their way to the room Napoleon had booked earlier, not touching, because Illya would snap at him if he tried that in public, but close enough to catch him if he stumbled.
He didn’t stumble. The two of them got a few curious glances from other guests as they made their way to their room, but nobody was impolite enough to say anything.
They’d be headed home in the morning. The good part of being Section II was that they weren’t expected to hang around for the cleanup operation on the THRUSH lab. If they tried, they’d probably face a blistering call from Waverly about wasting valuable time.
“You wash all that off,” he said once the door was closed, waving a finger at Illya’s general condition, “and I’ll get started on the draft of the report.” A boring, unglamorous task, but a useful one. Getting the details down now meant they wouldn’t risk misremembering something days later when they were back in the office. And it signaled to Illya that there was no risk of Napoleon wandering off in search of a nighttime companion while Illya had his back turned. He’d learned that leaving his partner alone when he was in a condition like this was a surefire way of getting him kidnapped and probably tied to yet another evil contraption.
“Order some dinner while you’re at it,” Illya said.
Napoleon reached for the phone, shooing Illya into the bathroom as he dialed the front desk, pleased when Illya obeyed without further complaint. It was a little late for proper dinner service, but Napoleon managed to wheedle the kitchen into putting together a few turkey sandwiches. He resisted the temptation to add ketchup to both, and thought that Illya should be grateful for it.
As he listened to the shower run, Napoleon spared a moment to think longingly of all the things he could be doing instead of paperwork. Enjoying a drink, enjoying the aforementioned female company, enjoying what happened after. Somehow, the thought wasn’t as appealing tonight as it usually was. Napoleon shook his head and applied himself to the papers in front of him. The more he wrote down now, the less he’d have to do back in New York.
Illya emerged from his shower wrapped in a bathrobe and looking a good deal more clean and alive than he had before. Scrubbed of dirt and sweat, the burned patches on his neck and face where the irritant had run under his collar stood out all the more, raw and red and painful against pale skin.
Napoleon’s eyes caught on them as Illya moved across the room. “Does that hurt?” he asked.
”What do you think?” The words weren’t as bitter as they sounded. Illya reached up a hand to touch a patch of red at his throat, winced, and pulled it away again. “They will heal. We’ve both had far worse.”
No, that wasn’t going to do at all. “Sit down.”
He expected Illya to complain that he’d had more than enough of being fussed over for one day, but instead he simply sighed and perched on the bed, glancing longingly at the plate of sandwiches on the desk.
”Soon, my friend. First, we need to get these taken care of.” Napoleon reached into his suitcase and brandished a small foil tube of an UNCLE-issue anesthetic cream with its familiar green label.
Illya squinted at it. “That’s not standard issue.”
“Not yet. It will be starting next month if Dr. Clark has his way about it.”
He felt the thoughtful murmur of Illya’s throat as he gently dabbed the ointment onto the blistered skin.
”I believe I agree with Dr. Clark,” Illya said after a few minutes. “Despite his apparent efforts to drain me of my blood.”
”They’re keeping it for transfusions.”
”Are they? I was almost certain they were sending it to Count Zark.”
Hiding a smile, Napoleon smoothed a last bit of cream into a spot just below Illya’s ear and capped the tube. “There. You should last until the morning, at least.”
Illya eyed him. “A wonderful prognosis. Now may I eat?”
Without another word, Napoleon pushed the plate of food towards him and went back to his paperwork. Illya demolished two of the sandwiches without ceremony, after which he threw his robe aside and rummaged unselfconsciously in his suitcase for a new pair of boxers. Thus attired, and evidently eschewing pajamas for the night, he climbed into the room’s one large bed and threw the covers over his head.
“Do try and keep quiet,” he warned Napoleon. Not that it was needed. When Napoleon glanced up from his writing a few minutes later, his partner was deeply asleep.
Smiling, Napoleon finished the sentence he was writing and slipped the papers back into their folder. He cleaned up as quietly as he could, gave the locks a quick double-check, and slid into bed beside Illya.
Only a few hours later, he blinked away confused dreams to find his partner shifting restlessly in his sleep at his side. He was sweating too, feverish skin radiating sick heat. It was a position he’d seen Illya in many times before, and it would be best to deal with it now, hoever unpleasant that process would be.
“Illya.” Gently, without touching him, he shook Illya’s pillow and called his name until he woke.
Illya stilled, opening bleary eyes. If the light was on, Napoleon was sure he’d look green. He groaned and dragged himself out of bed and into the bathroom to face the inevitable.
The door closed, and Napoleon listened unhappily to the sounds of coughing and retching that followed. He thought about getting up, offering another cup of water and a damp towel, but he knew Illya would prefer to be left to suffer alone. He felt a rush of fondness towards the man. Illya always seemed to get worse treatment from their enemies, at least compared to Napoleon.
So Napoleon waited as the sounds grew fainter, and he heard the toilet flush and the sink running. When Illya finally stumbled back to bed, he was shivering, skin pale and hair damp with sweat.
Napoleon pulled the blankets down to offer Illya a space, and watched as he curled into a miserable, exhausted heap against the pillows.
Napoleon brushed a hand gently over Illya’s arm, above the bandages. “You’re all right?”
Illya nodded. “That skin irritant they used on me. I must have swallowed some of it.”
Napoleon frowned. ”Is that dangerous?”
“If it hasn’t killed me yet, it’s unlikely to do any more harm,” Illya said dryly. His throat sounded raw and painful, but that was hardly a surprise. Illya’s digestive system could cope with many things that Napoleon wouldn’t consider edible, but somehow THRUSH drugs Napoleon could shake off easily almost always left him weak and nauseated.
Napoleon instinctively rested a hand on his bare shoulder. No, the cold, clammy skin under his palm wasn’t something he was going to accept. Slowly, he rubbed warmth into Illya’s shoulder, running his hand along his back, careful to avoid the still-sore patches he’d treated earlier.
Illya shifted into the touch, allowing Napoleon to work at the knots in his neck still lingering from his imprisonment and its aftereffects. Slowly, they eased, and the shivering slowed.
”I should have done this earlier,” Napoleon muttered to himself.
”Don’t I get a choice?” Illya said, muffled and sleepy.
“As if you wouldn’t choose me every time.”
”Don’t get overconfident. It never looks good,” Illya replied, and yawned. “Move over.”
Napoleon did, allowing Illya to roll into the warm spot he left behind.
”Much better.” Illya let out a breath and settled down, letting Napoleon put a warm arm around him. A few moments later, he was asleep again, and Napoleon followed soon after.