Work Text:
Illya had always assumed he would die in action. He hadn’t even thought about it, it was just something that seemed obvious to him. The fewest agents of the KGB died of old age, let alone of natural causes. If you didn’t manage to climb up ranks and secure yourself a safe spot in Moscow, you would probably die far away from home, in pain, alone.
With his history and baggage, Illya had never spared any thought to a career that included an office. But he hadn’t spared any thought to an organization like UNCLE either, so there was that.
But despite all, Illya was the first one of their little team who had to consider a different way for his career. It happened two years after Gaby came back from her forced leave due to her pregnancy, and it wasn’t voluntarily at all.
They were searching a warehouse in Amsterdam, looking for some rather dangerous explosives that were said to be stored there, dodging guards and melting into the shadows. But it wasn’t enough, something was triggered, some sort of failsafe probably, and the whole building went up in flames.
Yet, they were rather lucky. Solo was at the back, at the docks and as soon as the shock wave of the explosion reached him, he made a leap for the relative safety of the water. Gaby was inspecting a hatch at the outskirts of the property and was able to hide behind some sort of shed, that withstood the explosion’s force.
Only Illya was in immediate reach. The shock wave threw him off his feet and his shoulder painfully made contact with the ground. He saw stars dancing in his vision and every other noise was drowned out by a deafening screeching in his ears. Illya covered his head with his arms, tried to crawl into safety to protect himself from the falling debris. His body moved mechanically forward, just forward.
He must have blacked out at some point, the next thing he noticed were the frantic hands flattering over his body, patting his chest, checking his pulse. They were gentle and soft, so Illya risked opening his eyes, only to regret it a second later. The fire was too bright, it stung in his eyes and made his head throb. Now, that he took notice of that, the ringing in his ears returned full force, every other noise was dull, blurred, there was somebody talking to him, but Illya couldn’t make out what was said, his head was aching, and it felt like somebody was drilling into his skull through his ears.
The hands on him changed, his face was cupped by two large and foremost cold hands, the blurred noise of talking became more insistent and Illya forced himself to open his eyes.
Napoleon was kneeling in front of him, blocking the heat and the light from the fire. It created a golden halo around Napoleon’s head, tenderly cupped his wet curls and Illya stared at it, completely captured by the sight.
“ILLYA!”
His eyes snapped to Napoleon’s face, to his mouth, he desperately tried to understand what his partner was saying, but there was this ringing in his ears that just wouldn’t stop.
Napoleon slipped his arms under Illya’s shoulders and heaved him upwards, first into a sitting position, then, with some difficulty, to his feet, only for Illya to sink back onto his knees as soon as he was upright. The world was swaying and tilting, all that motion was making him feel sick.
“Come on, Peril, we have to get out of here”, Napoleon’s voice was at his right ear and finally, Illya was able to make out the words.
“So dizzy”, he muttered but tried his best to set one foot in front of the other and to take at least some of his own weight.
“That doesn’t surprise me, you caught quite a hit.”
Somehow, in the aftermath Illya can’t explain how they made it to the car, but they did. Gaby drove through the narrow streets of Amsterdam, Napoleon sat with Illya in the back, asking him questions and checking him for further injuries.
At the hotel, Gaby and Napoleon bribed a physician on holiday into examining Illya, but he could only confirm what Napoleon thought all along. A concussion and possible damage the inner ear, which explained the deafness and the trouble with his balance.
While resting in the comfortable hotel bed, Illya waited for the ringing to recede. It did, eventually, but his hearing remained muted, most of the time Gaby, Napoleon and he were communicating over a notepad.
They got back to base per boat, even with the flight to London being a short one, Napoleon didn’t want to risk Illya’s hearing with the pressure changes any further.
The doctors at the UNCLE headquarter weren’t able to tell them more than the bribed one. Illya would have to wait, at least six weeks, before a final diagnosis could be made.
During those six weeks, Illya was chained to his desks by his colleagues. The first two weeks were the utter horror. Illya felt useless, he thought he failed both Gaby and Napoleon, his mother and the whole Soviet Union. Which capable agent managed to lose his hearing like some rookie who holds a gun for the first time?
But, much to his own surprise, he grew accustomed to it. Waverly slowly changed his tasks from writing reports to organizing missions and acting as handler for both Gaby and Napoleon. Both of them refrained from straying too far during their missions, did only smaller jobs, which needed a week at most. On the one hand, Illya felt bad letting them go out alone, but on the other, he still had control, he still was able to save them when they managed to get themselves in danger.
As the six weeks were up, the doctors told him he would probably never regain his hearing on his left ear. Safe for that he was cleared to go on missions again, his balance was back, and his right ear worked as it was supposed to.
Illya stayed at the headquarters for five more months, working as a handler and training tirelessly in his free time to get back outside. He always had one of his partners with him, who completed him, smoothed out his disability. And it worked. The three of them fit together like the gears of Illya’s watch and despite his fears, that their dynamic would
change, that he would slow them down, that he would pose as a liability, they remained the same. They were still the Red Peril, the Chop Shop Girl and the Cowboy.
They went on missions like that for another few years, until the inevitable did happen. Napoleon on his left side missed the quiet ‘pop’ of a silenced gun while cracking open a safe and bullet tore through Illya’s knee.
The Russian crumpled to the ground like a discarded ragdoll, not able to hold himself up anymore. Gaby, their little Chop Shop Girl who had evolved into an apex agent during her years with Napoleon and Illya, chased after the shooter mercilessly.
“Illya!”, Napoleon knelt by his side, hands hovering unsure over the bloody mess what was once a knee. Illya had his eyes squeezed shut and sucked in sharp breaths.
“Just open the safe and get the documents, Cowboy”, he ordered through clenched teeth, pulling himself up to lean against the wall where he had a clear look on the exit. He drew his gun in case there were more people motivated to shoot them.
Solo made quick work of the safe, stored the documents in his pockets and slung Illya’s arm over his shoulder, just like he did in Amsterdam and steered them out of the office building. On their way, they came across some dead or unconscious bodies, all curtesy of Gaby, who waited for them at the back door.
Wordlessly, she slipped underneath Illya’s under shoulder and balanced his shaky steps. He wouldn’t remember much of their escape or their ride to the hospital, it all blurred together, sometimes he felt Napoleon’s hands on him, sometimes he saw Gaby’s face.
His first clear memories after being shot were of the too white, sterile hospital room, his partners waiting by his side and Waverly standing at the foot of his bed. Gaby and Napoleon looked tired, especially Napoleon. His hair was a mess, the lack of the usual product let his curls range freely, there was dark stubble coating his cheeks and purplish shadows under his eyes stood out against the pale skin.
“Ah, Kuryakin, how considerate of you to join us”, Waverly smiled, his face crinkled more than it did the time they met, his hair, still full and carefully styled, was of striking silver.
Illya blinked owlishly and rubbed his face to chase away the fog still lingering in his head.
“What’s the verdict?”, he asked.
They all looked expectantly at Waverly, well, he and Gaby did, Napoleon was surprisingly silent and busied himself with the hem of his waistcoat.
“Ever the straight forward one”, his boss said and clasped his hands together, “I need to be honest with you, Kuryakin, you won’t return to actively carrying out missions. Our surgeons did the best they could, you will regain your ability to walk, but I am afraid it won’t be much more than that.”
Illya let it sink in a few seconds.
“So, I’ll return to Russia.”
It was the logic consequence, he wasn’t able to work as an agent anymore, he had lost his value to KGB and they surely would drag him back behind the Iron Curtain.
Gaby’s and Napoleon’s heads whipped around to face Waverly, faces contorted with utter horror.
“Well, if that’s your wish, Kuryakin, I can hardly say anything against it, but it would make all my hard work with your superiors quite needless.”
“You mean, Illya can stay?”, Gaby asked tentatively.
“He can stay and work as a handler exclusively under contract with UNCLE.”
Gaby’s hands flew to his cheeks and she beamed at him.
“Did you hear that?! You can stay!”
Illya nodded breathlessly. He would’ve been okay with returning to Russia, it was his home after all, even with all the years he hadn’t been back, but as he thought of those he would leave behind, and he felt relief. No matter how much he missed his home, the family he had built himself here had managed it to secure itself a place in Illya’s heart.
Waverly left after explaining some details and telling him to rest, Gaby followed shortly after, having to look after her son, promising him to be back soon. Which left Illya alone with Napoleon, who had yet to say a single word.
“Cowboy.”
After over ten years of working together, they had reached the point where they could call each other by their first names, but sometimes using their stupid little nicknames cut some of the tension and made it easier to actually talk.
“Cowboy, this isn’t your fault.”
Finally, Napoleon met his eyes. Illya exactly knew, what troubled his partner.
“You didn’t fail me, it was bound to happen.”
There was a pained look in his steel blue eyes. Suddenly, Illya noticed all the new lines that had edged themselves into Napoleon’s skin during the last years. They weren’t as young as they used to anymore, Napoleon got out of his contract with the CIA years ago, but still stayed with UNCLE after that. He hadn’t wanted to talk about it, had made it look like any other thing, but Illya and Gaby had known how much it had actually meant, to them and to Napoleon.
“I haven’t lost anything, Napoleon.”
“You… haven’t?”
“No”, Illya smiled, “I’m tired of running and jumping and shooting, of sleeping in cold safe houses. Warm office is much better.”
“Who are you and what did you do with Peril?”, Napoleon asked incredulously, his eyes round as tennis balls, but with a crooked grin.
“What can I say, I’m getting old.”
Now, Napoleon scoffed. “What am I supposed to say then?”
“It’s miracle you’re not sitting in a wheelchair already.”
“Ha. And an own office, really Peril? You truly are one bad communist.”
Illya grimaced and shook his head. His apartment still had a spartan touch to it, he still insisted on not wasting any food or clothes or whatever, but it was more human decency than practiced communism. He had gained some distance from what had been drilled into him during his childhood and training. He couldn’t condone the actions of the Russian government, but he hadn’t changed sides either.
The Soviet Union and the United Stated were toying with lives, innocent lives, as they tried to outdo each other with their weapons. Sure, Illya knew first hand that communism and capitalism didn’t work too well together, but if he and Napoleon, two epitomes of their respective systems, could compromise, surely two governments could at least try to do so.
Illya sighed quietly, glad that his agency worked for the sake of the people and not to prove which government had the greater influence.
Napoleon’s retirement came as a surprise. Sure, with over fifty years he was one of the older agents in the field, but he still could pull off all his charm, his tricks, his unique techniques.
He worked primarily alone these days. A few years back, Waverly had decided to cut his workload and made Gaby co-director of UNCLE. And with Illya managing communications and development, Napoleon hadn’t had any other choice.
But he was okay with it. Being a spy, an agent, had never been something on his bucket list, sure, but so hadn’t fighting in a war and being an international art thief. He just worked with what he was given. Spying had been a torture under the CIA, his superiors had never failed to make him feel like some piece of dirt that should rot in prison, they had enjoyed reminding him how far above him they were, and that Napoleon was at their mercy.
Being with UNCLE was different, not just because Illya and Gaby. Waverly had always treated him like a person, not as a tool. He could give his input, make suggestions and his ideas and he finally felt that what he did was good.
So, it hadn’t really been an issue if he should stay with UNCLE after his sentence was fulfilled. For one, there wasn’t really another place he could go. Sure, he had his safe houses, friends to visit, but then what? Back to stealing art and risking getting caught again?
Secondly, he had managed to build himself somewhat of a family. A slightly dysfunctional one, but then again, who’s perfect?
Napoleon never thought he would be able to, but he loved Illya and Gaby with all his heart. And maybe even Waverly. The old brit had his own way with his obscure smiles and winks, but he had grown to be somewhat of a mentor to him.
Therefore, it hadn’t been much of a question to him if he should stay with UNCLE, even though Gaby and Illya had made it look like something world changing. Some tiny part of Napoleon had questioned if he should be worried about a lack of trust, but he knew he had proven himself when he had told them he’d stay.
On his last active mission, Napoleon worked with one of the younger agents. She was French, fierce and very talented. And Waverly’s niece or grand-niece or something like that, both of them didn’t like to dwell on it, keeping their relationship strictly professional, not wanting to raise suspicions of favoritism.
Sadly, unlike her uncle, she had a temper matching Illya’s when Napoleon first met him.
Gaby sent them to Nicaragua to undermine and take down an international smuggling ring embezzling funds of the new Sandinista government. They managed to do just that, but their plan didn’t really work out flawlessly.
Illya found his old colleague at the infirmary, after a rescue team had managed to extract them after nearly one week of capture and brought them back home. The mission had been a success, but Illya’s stomach twisted when he saw the consequences.
Napoleon had aged gracefully, the grey temples and silver streaks through his dark hair suited him, his physique wasn’t any less imposing than it had been nearly 20 years ago, and his smile still wooed all the ladies.
It was only now, in the sterile hospital room with the harsh, unforgiving light, that Illya fully realized that time had truly left its traces. Now, he could see the dark shadows and the bags underneath Napoleon’s eyes, the deep lines on his forehead, around his mouth and at his eyes. The purple bruising on his face didn’t do him any favors either.
But despite all that, Illya smiled when he saw Napoleon. There were papers scattered across his lap, a pen lay on the floor and his reading glasses had slipped down his nose, when the American had fallen asleep. Fondly, Illya remembered the nearly endless persuasion it had needed to convince Napoleon that him needing reading glasses didn’t make him old.
Careful not to disturb him, Illya collected everything and sat it down on the nightstand before taking a seat on the uncomfortable plastic chair beside Napoleon’s bed.
A movement at the door tore Illya’s gaze from Napoleon to the glass panel. Outside, on the hallway, stood Napoleon’s partner, Catherine. Her face was as discolored as Napoleon’s, but she hid it with her hair and huge aviator glasses. Illya could see the guilt washing over her face, drawing her lips into a tight line.
He gave her a curt nod as she met his gaze, assuring her that, yes, Napoleon was okay, and that he would sit with him. Illya saw her shoulders moved as she let out an inaudible sigh and then excused herself with a wave with her written report. No doubt she would go and see her uncle in favor of getting a nice, long telling-off and he felt a little sorry for her, since he knew exactly how your temper could get the better of you.
“Peril? Getting to the lower levels and visiting the common people? You must be feeling most gracious today.”
Napoleon’s voice was hoarse, raw, but Illya could hear the grin in it.
“As far as I’m informed, you’re more of a knight in shining armor than common people. Since you came to rescue the lady in distress”, that jab at Catherine didn’t go unnoticed.
Napoleon grimaced. “The distress part was more of a team effort. She actually wanted to get me out of trouble, but her French fury kind of blew our cover.”
Catherine had been outraged when she saw the perps had Napoleon cornered and were threatening him. They both put up a good fight, but their opponents called for reinforcement and were able to overpower them. After their scuffle, Napoleon’s and Catherine’s covers as some low government officials didn’t really work out anymore.
“How is she holding up?”
Illya shrugged. “A cracked nose, a slight concussion and a sprained ankle, nothing that is not fixed at the end of next week. How are you feeling?”
Napoleon grimaced again. “Gotta say, I’ve been better. The shoulder hurts.”
Illya pressed his lips together. Napoleon rarely admitted to not feeling well, never to being in pain. A week’s worth of capture had clearly taken its toll on him, beside the dislocated shoulder, the bruises, the cracked ribs and the dehydration. He seemed tired, worn out, even more so than usually after a long mission.
Illya opened his mouth to continue their conversation, but the door opened and interrupted them. Catherine strolled in, tail tugged between her legs, figuratively speaking.
Napoleon lit up when he saw her.
“Did Waverly chew you out?”
“You bet”, she scoffed, “I thought ‘e was going to rip my ‘ead off, but ‘is secretary luckily saved me with an important phone call.”
Despite being old enough to be retired, Waverly hadn’t lost any of his slyness, he still could make any agent feel bad without even raising his voice and he loved to play the ‘I-am-not-mad-but-disappointed’-card.
“He’ll come around again”, Napoleon assured her.
“I wanted to apologize”, Catherine said after a few seconds of silence, “I didn’t want this to ‘appen. I’m sorry you got ‘urt because of me.”
Napoleon chuckled. “It’s alright. It’s been a long time since something this exciting happened, and I was becoming quite bored. And-“, he raised his hand to stop Illya from whatever he wanted to say, “we’re all alive and well. I think you learned your lesson.”
Catherine smiled and squeezed Napoleon’s hand which was not hooked on the IV.
“Merci, Napoléon.”
She gave them both a nod and limped out of the room.
“Ahhh”, Napoleon said and settled deeper into the cushions, “I love how she says my name. Napoléon. You should say it like that too, Peril.”
Illya chuckled. “Are you in love, Cowboy?”
“Other than the protectiveness a teacher feels for his student, I don’t have any feelings of that kind for her. Christ, I’m old enough to be her father”, Napoleon looked scandalized.
Illya grinned and companionable silence settled into the room. The Russian knew he couldn’t put off the reason he was actually here, other than looking after his friend, any longer.
Napoleon already eyed him up expectantly, sensing the uneasiness that made his friend tense.
“Spill it, Peril, before I tackle you and grab the papers out of your hand. You know how I hate to assault elderly people.”
“I could take you in that bathroom in Berlin, I can take you now”, Illya deadpanned. “But you’re right, I’ll talk. I had a conversation with Gaby and Waverly and we’ve come to a result influenced by the outcome of this last mission.”
Illya pulled a stack of paper out of the brown envelope in his lap and handed them over to Napoleon.
“Oh, how I hate it when you talk over my head”, he muttered, slipped on his glasses to look at the papers.
“Please keep in mind, we only want the best for you, I know-“
“Wait a second, you’re benching me?!”, Napoleon interrupted Illya’s rambling.
“We’re giving you an out. You don’t have to get through anything like this again, you’ll be safe.” Quietly, he added: “You know how hard it is for us to send you out alone.”
The American snorted. “I wasn’t alone, Illya, I had my partner with me. And in case you don’t remember, we messed up much worse, when we still went out together!”
They stared at each other, Napoleon’s steel blue eyes hard and angry. He didn’t like it, the decision Illya, Gaby and Waverly made over his head, without even asking what he wanted. It was like the CIA all over again.
Of course, Napoleon knew that they only wanted the best and, sure, the week they had been held hostage hadn’t been comfortable and he’d definitely need longer to get up again than he’d need 10 years ago, but, damn, he wasn’t some toy you could get rid off when it didn’t fit anymore.
He wouldn’t let the job get the better of him.
“Napoleon-“
“Just go, Illya.” Napoleon looked to the window, avoiding Illya’s eyes. The Russian sighed, deeply and full of sorrow, but Napoleon didn’t move. He grabbed his walking stick and left the room.
“And take these damn papers with you!!”
A bunch of sheets sailed through the air, barely missing Illya.
An hour later, after a nurse had brought him his dinner, there was a soft knock and Gaby greeted him with a hesitant smile.
“How are you feeling?”
“Not bad enough for you to make such a big deal out of it”, Napoleon spit.
Gaby sighed and rubbed her eyes. “So Illya gave you the papers. I was wondering why he locked himself in his office, but now it’s obvious.”
“I won’t give in just because he’s being a diva about it.”
Gaby let out a dry laugh. “Wer ist hier bitte die Diva?”
“You do realize I speak German, right?”
She rolled her eyes and sat down on the chair beside Napoleon’s bed.
“You do realize, we only want the best for you, do you, Napoleon?”, she began, but didn’t wait for an answer, “And during this week, when you were missing, we, Illya and I, we just..”, she made a vague gesture.
Napoleon knew exactly what she meant, he too had to worry about Gaby and Illya when they did fell off the radar years ago, and he would never want them to feel how he felt, the helplessness and the despair gnawing on your mind, but this was not it. This wasn’t what he was angry about.
“I know”, he said quietly.
“And do you know that we want to end it not just for our sakes, but for you? That we want to spare you the violence, the lying, the hospitals?”
“How very generous of you”, Napoleon bit out.
Gaby scoffed, anger clouded her eyes. “Napoleon, stop being so petty for a second and try to understand-“
“No, you try to understand! Try to understand that, if I hadn’t been there, Catherine would be dead! Try to understand only experience can make an agent good. Your new recruits, you send them out there with what? Protocols, theoretic knowledge, but all this doesn’t help if they’re cornered and have to retain their covers. They need somebody to guide them, to show them the ropes! They’re just kids, for God’s sake!”, Napoleon was panting, staring at Gaby, who averted her eyes and studied the blanket.
“I was forced into this job, Gaby. I don’t wanna be forced out of it.”
Finally, Gaby met his eyes. They were staring at each other for a few seconds, before she gave in.
“I understand. Illya and me, we were so focused on your well-being, we lost the bigger picture. But you’re right. We can’t go on like this.”
“Thank you.” For some time, the room was silent. Gaby’s warm fingers were intertwined with Napoleon’s cold ones.
“I know, I have to stop. That I can’t continue much longer without being seriously injured. I need longer to recuperate, I don’t react as fast as I used to, I know all that. But I can’t just quit like that, I can’t just go and leave agents like Catherine, Rogers, Alvarez or Kaminski hanging like that. They all have potential, they will make good agents one day, but not yet. They don’t have any idea what they got themselves into.”
Gaby smiled, this protective, caring, almost fatherly side to Napoleon wasn’t entirely new to her, she had caught glimpses of it whenever he interacted with her son, but it warmed her heart to see him care so much for his younger colleagues. Even if caring was a spy’s downfall.
“Well, you wouldn’t be gone for good, I mean, not unless you want too.”
He raised his eyebrows, inquiring. “Tell me more.”
“We thought about something like this, a special schooling for agents new to UNCLE, some sort of training. You’d be responsible for them, getting them ready for the field. We’re also thinking about recruiting more outsiders, like out of police or army forces. Most of the agencies don’t feel too good about us stealing their personnel.” Gaby chuckled.
“I think we can make a deal out of that.”
And now, suddenly, it is the 9th November 1989 and all three of them are standing at Checkpoint Charlie. It’s loud, people are laughing and crying at the same time, screaming out of joy, hugging strangers and celebrating.
“Did I ever tell you, Peril, that this is the very place I laid eyes on you and your ridiculous flat cap for the very first time?”, Napoleon asks, hands buried in the pockets of his dark coat and smiling. They celebrated his 60th birthday this year, his hair is silver now.
“Nyet, you only saw me, when I held beside you at the crossing.”
“Oh come on, you knew I would notice you, how else was the border guard able to place the bug in my suitcase?”
“Maybe it was my striking good looks”, Illya deadpans.
Gaby snorts inelegantly.
“What, do you think, happens now?”, she asks after some time watching the crowds. “Is this the end of UNCLE?”
“Of course not. With humans there is no peace. Especially not if they’re capitalists.”
“Oh, Peril, are you mad that the capitalism proved itself to be superior? Don’t be. Mother Russia is still clinging to its communism.”
“Won’t be for long”, Illya grumbles and shifts his weight, gripping his cane tighter. They are outside for more than an hour now, and the cold slowly creeps into his bones.
“Well, whatever. I’d say, with the Cold War being over, we deserve a nice long holiday. Cote d’Azur? Or the Italic Riviera? What do you feel like?”
“Don’t get cocky Solo, the real work starts only now, with all the new treaties that have to be set up, the meetings, other governments that will fall.”
“Don’t spoil the fun Gaby, let the young ones do the work, I mean, Catherine has place on the inside now anyways.”
“Are you still mad that she married the politician, Cowboy? I thought, you weren’t in love with her.”
“As I said, those are only feelings of protectiveness. Politicians are even more treacherous than spies, and that means something.”
...
But after all, they’re happy.