ï»¿Napoleon was uneasy as they merged into traffic. He didn't like leaving an innocent behind. Tammie Dorvell, he assured himself, was a natural actress. Having seen his share of unknowing Thrush mistresses so horribly mangle the roles that were, previous to their bite of the UNCLE apple, their actual lives, he was encouraged by Miss Dorvell's ability to feign the saving ignorance that had henceforth been her natural state. And having a couple of escaped UNCLE agents lurking around could only blow her cover.
Still, he didn't like it. And Illya's silence seemed more laden than usual as he maneuvered them to the rendezvous point.
Agents Kuryakin and Solo were to meet the other UNCLE team at the new discotheque downtown at 18:30 to debrief and await word that Miss Dorvell had retrieved the files on the new Thrush plot in Eastern Europe, at which time Solo would remotely detonate the explosives planted hurriedly on the premises during the agents' recent escape.
Why this particular discotheque had been chosen as the rendezvous, other than its convenient location, was immediately obvious. On entering the men made about acclimating themselves to the lighting, which was unnecessarily low, and the noise, which was unnecessarily loud. At such a venue Illya's suit would have looked out of place on another man but the Russian's inherent moodiness and his accent lent him a status in places like this which vanquished any question of his attire. And although Solo's enthusiastic-tourist persona always got the job done, he was grateful for his leather jacket.
They had not yet made visual contact with their colleagues, a couple of young agents from the London office, when Solo's communicator began to twill.
"Solo." he told it as he followed Illya to a tiny table in the back corner, surreptitiously scanning the place and pulling his jacket off as he walked.
"Ah Mr. Solo, you've survived," came Waverly's voice "I've just had word: That explosive device you gentlemen placed has malfunctioned… or was perhaps not treated with due caution… "
As Illya was taking a seat at the diminutive table, Napoleon, wary --you've survived-- draped his jacket over the other chairback and sat. Seeing his partner's communicator open Illya moved in closer to hear Waverly's message.
"…It has detonated ahead of schedule, I'm afraid. Our London men were passing on their way to you when it went off. Miss Dorvell is a confirmed casualty and it appears that the information we were after has also been lost."
The song coming from the motley group across the dance floor grew more aggressive, and yet more distant, as Waverly's words settled around Solo's mind like a fog.
He hadn't quite formed his question when the UNCLE chief's recrimination issued again through the communicator, "Of course you gentlemen know what this means."
"Sir, I thought detonation was only possible--" began Solo,
"You and Mr. Kuryakin are off this affair effective immediately. And I expect to see you both in my office first thing tomorrow morning." Waverly concluded.
Napoleon looked to Illya as he replaced the communicator trepedatiously back into his breast pocket. For an instant Illya looked shaken and then Illya settled back into his chair and looked toward the band.
Failing at an assignment was one thing. Being responsible for the death of an innocent quite another. Then to be taken off the case when all he wanted to do was rush back to rectify, albeit inadequately, their errors made Napoleon feel unprecedentedly powerless. Yet he knew that he could conjure the appropriate mood-lightening remark to reassure them both --if Illya would only look at him. After several minutes of insufferable noise, watching Kuryakin for a sign that they occupied the same planet, Napoleon, unaccustomed to tensions he could not defuse, began to feel positively dizzy. He rose to clear his head and made for the restrooms.
The facilities consisted of four private toilets with signs on the doors that may have been meant to indicate gender assignment, but which were by and large ignored by semi-inebriated patrons who, driven more by biological need than propriety, knew all the rooms to be equal. Thus the queue was short and quick-moving and presently Napoleon found himself alone in a small cell, no larger than a broom closet, where the music he'd so quickly grown oblivious to was unsteadyingly muted. He unnecessarily relieved himself then splashed some water on his face, noticing the lidless jar of Vaseline by the faucet. "Another upstanding New York nightspot, I see," he mumbled to the mirror.
Solo ran back over the day's events. Illya, who was frequently assigned to the lab, had consulted with his fellows on the new UNCLE explosive. Illya should have known that it was more volatile than anticipated. Illya had looked away from him as the communicator went dead and the gravity in the dancehall had undulated mutinously. Despite Napoleon's reflection presenting its most unflappable countenance in the mirror, Napoleon still felt a bit wobbly about the legs and lightheaded.
He remained a moment more to comb his hair back into place, his reflection admitting nothing but suave confidence, and then opened the door. Half-way through, one hand still on the knob, assailed by the onslaught of "music" once more, he was arrested by the icy blue glower of Illya immoveable and intense. Napoleon made to step forward but the glare bearing down upon him, every bit as threatening as the barrel of a Thrush rifle, sharpened and would not let him pass.
Illya advanced menacingly, backing Napoleon back into the tiny washroom. Illya's ferocity was nearly paralyzing and Napoleon found his back against the wall as Illya, without shifting that accusing blue scowl, was sliding the lock on the door behind him. The vision of Miss Dorvell's complicit parting smile and that of how her remains would have presented themselves to the London agents invaded Solo's senses as his brain reiterated that Illya could have prevented this, that Illya, with his unbearably maligning glare, should have prevented this.
And still the blond's silent murderous indictment continued impossibly to chill the air.
Napoleon did not notice Kuryakin make to speak. Nor did he register, until his forehead, suddenly facing the other way, was pressed against the wall and his arm yanked painfully upward behind him, that he had thrown a punch at his partner which had evidently been met with a proficient counter-attack.
While he had never questioned the other man's strength, Napoleon had never been on the business end of Kuryakin's formidable wrath. Out of the line of those enraged blue eyes, Napoleon was about to voice the absurdity of this entanglement, when a light flared before his eyes—the result of his right wrist being wrenched higher between his shoulder blades and Illya's other hand groped for Napoleon's belt buckle.
At the sensation of open air Napoleon's erection firmed with conviction while his mind, three steps behind, was deaf to the faint metal jangle and clank of glass on porcelain behind him. And then his accuser was upon him. Was within him.
The rush of pain, hot and sharp, was utter. And blinding. And absolution. Each thrust, in punishing succession, flooded Solo's perceptions until the violence eventually wrought upon him such agonizing pleasure as the most virulent addictions are made of.
The vengeful pace uninterrupted, Illya released Solo's wrist to grip his hips. Napoleon felt his abandoned and throbbing arm, heavy like a burden, move forward to help brace him against the wall as his pelvis was arched sharply back. The last thing on Solo's mind was to use this new freedom to fight.
As if in retribution for Solo's lack of resistance, Illya loosed a gouging grip from one of Napoleon's hipbones to let his hand slide around his waist where it began to work furiously at Napoleon's cock in tempo with the rough and frantic pounding his ass was receiving. This new assault induced a breath-stealing shock as the sheer unexpected abuse of Illya's touch brought Solo to orgasm virtually at once.
As the wave of muscle contraction involuntarily tore through Solo's body and the silky warmth of the fluid seeped through Illya's calloused fingers to reach nerve endings, the hand tightened dangerously, then loosened and slowed as the convulsion, a seemingly unanticipated outcome, rippled from Solo into Kuryakin, who gasped sharply and presently grew still, his concrete arms now slack wrapping Napoleon's waist in an accidental shuddering embrace.
The thrumming of the distant music again present, Solo reached down to his ankles to find the waistband of his pants, careful not to dislodge his partner's weary arms. As he started to pull his trousers up he felt the cool absence that was Illya's body removing itself from his partner to perform the same redressing operation. Buckling his belt, Solo turned to face Kuryakin.
"Napoleon," ventured Illya, looking down as he secured his own belt.
And the sound of Illya's voice was so familiar that it was strange. Like coming out of a dream. "I should have known that the chemical compound would prove unstable given…"
The surreality of Illya's self-doubt brought Napoleon back to himself.
"Nonsense. You wouldn't have let us bring it into the field if you hadn't triple checked it. No one could have known this would happen."
Humbly, Illya met Napoleon's eyes and kept the gaze raising a skeptical eyebrow.
"Illya," The comfortable smile rose without realization to Solo's face. "We're going to be ok."
"No thanks to your clumsy right hook." came the retort as Kuryakin turned to unlock the door. And Napoleon, though he couldn't see it, knew the smirk that played about the Russian's lips.