Napoleon looked down at the tin plate of food and scowled. He swirled his fork through the unappetizing morass of greyish substance and his scowl deepened. He turned and looked on in exasperation as Illya shovelled the food into his mouth, his face impassive and calm.
Belaying the inner turmoil, he seemed to be totally at ease as he perched on the side of a fallen log, his blond hair dishevelled about his fine features.
Napoleon cursed under his breath.“"Are you enjoying that?” Napoleon asked, disgustedly pointing at the plate of rapidly congealing food.
Startled by the American’s voice, Illya turned towards his partner and shrugged. “I’ve had worse,” he finally offered at length, his voice soft and distant, as though replaying some dark memory. Napoleon frowned. It was a voice he had heard too often of late, one that shut him out completely and Illya into battle the demons alone.
“Where?” His tone dipped into the curious range, relieved tohhave something safe to talk about at last.
“Hmm?” Illya murmured between mouthfuls.
“You, ah, said you’ve had worse.I was wondering where?”
Illya rolled his eyes and shrugged. “You get bored too easily, Napoleon. It doesn’t matter,” he said, continuing to shovel food into his mouth.
“Yes, it does, I would hate to have to pay for something worse than this, besides you could warn me which restaurant to avoid.”
Studiously avoiding the question Illya stood and walked towards the barrel of water near the campfire, washed his plate, and stowed it back in his kit.
Napoleon watched with interest. Illya had of course been correct about his being bored. Eleven days camped out in the middle of nowhere had sorely tested his patience, eating tinned food from tinned plates, with poor to no sanitation and a tent which leaked. Eleven days of watching a small army of terrorists sit by their own campfire and play cards. The arms shipment had not materialised, nor had their enigmatic leader.
Napoleon turned his attention back to his partner and watched.
“You’re avoiding answering the question, tovarisch.” He took a reluctant mouthful of the swill and choked it down.
Illya heaved a sigh and sat back down on the log, his blue eyes boring into the ground before him.
Napoleon realized belatedly that his partner looked tired and that his nerves were also frayed from the inaction.
“You would never go there, Napoleon. And what you are eating now would have been a feast for me at one time, so I have become inured to such bad food,as you call it.” Still he would not meet his friend's gaze and therefore did not see the stricken look on Napoleon's face.
“Where, Illya?” he asked softly. The American accent was filled with concern and dread and finally Illya looked up and smiled sadly.
“It was a long time ago and I was a child. As I said, it doesn’t matter, Napoleon.”
The American’s hand caught at the hunched shoulder and drew the smaller man around to look him directly in the eye. Regret showed clearly as Napoleon squeezed gently. “I’m sorry. Labor camp?”
“Yes.” Illya pulled away, the contact causing some discomfort for him and he shrugged the hand away. “It was, as I said, a long time ago Napoleon.” And then the wall came up again - the cool, almost cold exterior, the penetrating blue eyes which brooked no argument, the firm set of the jaw and the squaring of the shoulders. All this Napoleon watched and moved away, keenly aware of the tension in the compact frame.
Illya stood and entered into a brief conversation with one of the field agents. He smiled, a rare sight on Illya Kuraykin of late, and went into the tent, emerging a few moments later with his kit. Napoleon still sat on the log and watched.
“Are you going somewhere?” Solo frowned slightly.
“Mission is over, Napoleon. If you were to take a little more interest in current affairs you would know this.”
Solo winced inwardly, then turned his most blazing smile on his partner and looked up. “You want a lift back to civilization?”
“If you're sure you're not too busy.”
Solo, fully aware of the sour note, busied himself packing. Colonel Johnston appeared a few moments later briefing the senior agent. Eleven days of sitting in the mud, sleeping on stones and eating bad food, only to have the shipment be picked up by customs and the whole little army caught in a matter of moments. It took less than 15 minutes no shots were fired, as 20 armed men stormed the tiny compound. Disarming and arresting the amateur soldiers as they ate their dinner.
Solo shifted his clothes and possessions into the trunk of his car and smiled warmly as Illya got in.
The drive back to Montreal would take over four hours and by the end of the first hour Solo had finished his very one-sided repertoire of anecdotes and stories.
Illya had shrugged when asked a direct question and answered in monosyllables. By the end of the second hour Napoleon was driven to fiddling with the radio. Illya's face was turned to the window, staring out at the damp landscape. The Russians brooding silence offered no company.
Napoleon abruptly swerved the car to the side of the road, and stopped the motor. Illya turned, looked at his partner, frustrated he sighed, frowned and returned the gaze, keeping his silence.
“Okay, old friend, I overstepped the mark. I have been a royal pain for the past ten days, I pried where I shouldn’t have... whatever it is I have done, Illya, I am sorry. But at least tell me what I'm condemned for.”
Illya sighed and narrowed his eyes. “Do you feel better now?” he asked, his tone icy.
“Damn you,” Solo seethed, “What have I done now to make you mad?"
Illya rolled his eyes and took a deep breath. He spoke slowly and very precisely, as if talking to an idiot child. “You have no idea. For the past nine days I have put up with you being bored and indulging in one of your favourite pastimes. ”
Solo shook his head totally at a loss.
Again the Russian sighed as he turned in his seat to look at the American.
“Illya-baiting,” the Russian answered sternly.
“What?” Solo reacted with astonishment at the suggestion. A look of denial spread across his features.
"You get bored and I become, God forbid, your entire source of entertainment. Everything I do, everything I say you seize upon, pushing me for answers I myself cannot often give. You start asking questions, digging, needing to know my past. Who I sleep with. DO I screw as you so elegantly have called it. Napoleon, it gets wearing in private but I have learned to put up with it over the years. In public it is reprehensible.”
“Illya, I….” Solo stammered. His apology seemed more than inadequate as the guilt of his actions seeped into his consciousness.
“You have a near-pathological urge to uncover all there is to know about me. Why, I don’t know. All your curiosity can be met by reading my file at UNCLE. It would be simpler and a lot less embarrassing all around.”
“I would never read your UNCLE file, Illya. You know that.”
“But you bait me until you get an answer, and now you do it in public so that I can be laughed at by all and sundry. Tell me which is worse?” Illya’s voice had dropped and his exhaustion was evident as he sagged against the seat and stared out the window.
Solo was chagrined as he started the car engine. He sneaked a look at his cool Russian friend and reached a hand over towards the slumped shoulder. With caution, he laid his hand gently on the tense flesh and was relieved when he was not thrown from the car.
“What can I do, tovarisch? I am sorry.” His voice was quiet.
Illya turned and looked sternly at the American. The downcast eyes and frown made for aslightly comical expression on the handsome face.
“Promise not to compromise me in public again,” Illya snapped.
“You have my word. But it's not enough. Please, Illya, let me make it up to you.”
Illya smiled finally and Solo, sure he had been forgiven for his callous action smiled back.
“You can start by driving me back to the motel, Napoleon. Right now I want nothing more than a hot shower and a warm soft bed.”
Solo sniffed fastidiously as he looked down at his khaki clothes and a small smile turned his mobile lips. “Yes Illya.”
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To Proceed to Part Two
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