Once upon a time, there lived a prince in a tower.
"Everyone thinks you're so honest, but what do they know?"
The office door slid shut unnoticed behind them as Napoleon stopped and turned to frown at his partner. "What are you talking about?"
"You, Napoleon Solo," Illya said as he jabbed Napoleon's chest with a sharp finger, "are a coward."
Napoleon blinked in surprise as the anger in his friend's voice registered. "Excuse me? Illya, what—"
"Of course," Illya continued, deliberately ignoring the interruption, "you don't even have the guts to admit to yourself what your feelings are most of the time, so expecting you to let me know what they are is probably pointless, yes? Never mind that our lives might depend upon my knowing your emotional state some day—no, you just continue to hide behind your incessant chatter and your faux bonhomie."
A sharp shove to his shoulder had Napoleon stumbling backwards in surprise as Illya advanced. "You never let anyone—least of all me—know when you're truly angry or even the least bit unhappy. It never makes it through your suave façade because you won't let it."
Illya continued forward until he was standing a foot from Napoleon. "And you've been doing that all your life, I think. A fact for which I pity you. You haven't the courage of your convictions to reach out and grab the life you truly want to experience."
Napoleon took a step forward. "I don't have to listen to—"
"No, you don't and you never do, do you? God forbid you should hear something about yourself you don't want to face. Oh no, Napoleon Solo is doing swell in his little tower all by himself, set apart from the rest of the world, safe from those nasty little emotional attachments to anyone who might hurt him. Not even a person who has shared your bed rates a consideration, I'm sure."
"Illya, that's enough!"
"No, I don't think it is. Did you leave Colin before or after he was injured?"
"What difference does it make to you?" Napoleon snarled.
Illya's eyebrow quirked in that haughty manner he often used when taunting the bad guys. Funny, but Napoleon couldn't remember Illya ever using it on him before. "A touch of masochistic curiosity, I suppose. I'd really like to know how little you let someone—someone you supposedly loved—affect you."
Napoleon couldn't believe what he was hearing. Illya thought—
"How soon after you left him did you hop into the first available bed?"
Napoleon turned abruptly away and began shuffling the papers on his desk. "It's none of your business."
Illya's strong hand grabbed his arm, gripping painfully tight, and tried to turn him. "Yes, it is! I need to know—"
"Damn it, that's enough, Illya!" He pulled his arm forward, trying to shake free so he could escape to somewhere else, so he could be anywhere but this strange alternative reality where his closest friend had been replaced by a doppelgänger. But Illya didn't let go so he twisted harder, flinging his bent arm back. He heard a sickening thud as flesh and bone met flesh, felt the impact as his tightly clenched fist met some part of his friend.
Illya grunted and quickly let go of his arm. Napoleon slowly turned around, dreading what he would see.
"Illya, I'm—"
"On second thought, perhaps it is enough." Illya dabbed at the blood trickling slowly from his lip. He glanced pointedly at the smears on the back of his hand before returning his gaze to Napoleon's shocked face. "Good luck, Napoleon. I wish you joy of your loneliness."
And then he was gone.
The prince had very few visitors to his tower, and he called no one "friend."
One year prior...
Illya entered Napoleon's office, file in hand, to find his partner busy on the phone. Napoleon glanced up briefly and waved him in, so he strode over to the couch behind the desk and stretched out, propping his feet upon the arm rest and burying his nose in the file he'd brought along.
He read for a few minutes, but soon found himself unable to completely tune out the rise and fall of Napoleon's voice, so he eventually gave up trying. Closing his eyes, he was content to just listen to the relaxing sound of Napoleon taking care of his business.
He loved to listen to Napoleon talk. Which was a good thing, since Napoleon talked a lot. Oh, not that he minded, he thought with a slight smile, but it had taken some getting used to at first. Being saddled with a preening peacock as a partner had been bad enough, let alone being stuck for hours at a time with someone who talked as much—and as annoyingly—as that Chatty Cathy doll Mr. Waverly's granddaughter had so proudly brought with her to the Christmas dinner they'd attended the first year they'd been partners.
He'd gotten used to it, of course. In fact, he'd come to depend upon Napoleon to fill up the quiet spaces during their missions—and he'd even learned to chatter upon occasion himself, while Napoleon had learned the value of companionable silences.
But in public Napoleon continued to resemble nothing so much as a songbird, constantly making noise, intent upon attracting a mate with his verbosity and brilliant plumage.
A mate.
Napoleon already had one, right in front of him—if he'd just figure it out, would just give some sort of sign that he realized that he cared more deeply than he thought or than was apparent to Illya at the moment.
He reluctantly dragged himself back from his musings to listen to Napoleon on the phone. Napoleon was taking care of routine administrative tasks: making sure team evaluations for the months ahead were arranged, checking to see how many affairs he'd have to review over the next few weeks—all the tasks that finished up Napoleon's week when they were at headquarters.
But a few non-routine sentences caught and held his attention, causing him to turn his head to get a good look at Napoleon's back.
"I'll be out of town tomorrow and all of next week, Mitzi. The only way you'll be able to reach me is by communicator." Napoleon paused, listening to a question. "No, no, just some personal business I need to attend to. I'll be back in time for our next mission. Thank you. Yes, that's all. I'll talk to you when I get back. Have a good weekend."
Napoleon hung up the phone and the quiet sounds of shuffling file folders on his desk filled the room as Illya continued to gaze at his partner's broad, wool-covered shoulders.
"Where are you going?"
"Hmm? Oh, just some things I need to take care of in London—I'll be back in time for us to leave for Egypt."
He'd forgotten that Napoleon never actually said anything while making all of that noise. And lately it seemed as if Napoleon wouldn't voluntarily tell him anything, but Illya was nothing if not tenacious.
"What do you need to do in London?"
"Just some...family things I need to do."
Illya allowed a few moments to elapse in silence, hoping Napoleon would understand his unspoken comments and see that he wasn't happy not knowing what was wrong but that he wouldn't push right now. "You know I'm here if you need any help."
"Yes, thank you."
"Good. Now we need to decide how we're going to approach security for the sultan's visit."
And so they moved back to comfortable ground, planning their maneuvers as carefully as always, falling back into the patterns that had served them so well for eight years.
But Illya couldn't help but wonder if something hadn't changed completely without his knowledge.
"Oh, Illya, what are we going to do?"
Napoleon could barely recognize his own voice, so harsh and despairing did his whisper sound. It was nearly overwhelmed by the gentle susurration of the automatic door to his office as it closed behind Illya.
Illya.
He'd hurt Illya.
He sank down to the floor, leaning against the front panel of his desk, and buried his face into his hands.
How could he ever find a way to tell Illya how terribly sorry he was?
Many years passed as the prince lived quietly on his own, rarely making contact with people on the outside and never letting anyone into his tower.
Why?
No matter how many hours Illya had spent thinking about it, he still wasn't any closer to an answer than when he'd started.
The machines beeped and whirred, talking quietly to each other, but not to him. The minute rise and fall of his partner's blanket-covered chest was hypnotic in its regularity, providing a constant reminder that Napoleon would live.
Napoleon would live.
In spite of himself.
Why?
Why were they in the hospital?
Why did Napoleon have to undergo surgery to repair the damage caused by a bullet nicking his lung?
Why hadn't Napoleon just pushed the man they were protecting to the side instead of putting himself in danger?
Why hadn't his partner been more careful?
Illya shot out of the hard plastic chair and began to pace the confines of the small room. His mind wouldn't stop going over and over the morning's incident—trying to decipher the reasons for events to have happened as they had. But no matter which way he turned the pieces, he still couldn't get them to fit the puzzle.
Why would his partner suddenly be so heedless of his own safety? They always took risks, but this had been excessive. Didn't he realize that it mattered to someone—that it mattered to Illya—that Napoleon returned home safely? Didn't he know that—
Illya heaved a sigh and looked back at the bed. No, Napoleon didn't know—and that was part of the problem, wasn't it?
But that was beside the point. What he really wanted to know was why. Why did Napoleon take a bullet when he could have gotten himself and the other man out of harm's way in time?
It was as if Napoleon didn't care any more.
Illya must have stood there for at least ten minutes as he tried to contain the rage that had flared at that realization.
How dare Napoleon not realize the impact his existence had upon the people who surrounded him.
How dare he dismiss his own worth so effortlessly, as if all he was and all he would be was of no value. How dare he think no one would miss him if he died.
What could possibly have caused such a radical shift in attitude? What had happened in London that it could so completely change a man's sense of self-worth?
He turned to glare at his motionless partner.
"You'd better get well soon, my friend. You have some explaining to do."
Napoleon lost track of how long he sat there in front of the desk, huddled in upon himself.
But the throbbing of his hand finally shook him out of his stupor and he looked down at it, turning it over several times, noting the tiny smear of blood on the knuckle where it had so violently met Illya's lip.
It never ceased to amaze him that something so fragile and made of so many tiny pieces could cause so much harm.
The prince was relatively content in the tower—mostly because he didn't realize what he was missing. But one day he spied a man riding through the nearby forest.
"Napoleon?"
"Hmmm?" Napoleon's voice was rough with the need for sleep, but Illya couldn't pass up this all-too-infrequent moment of quiet they had right now. The fact that they were both exhausted after a torturous day evading Thrush was beside the point. In two and a half months he hadn't been able to find the right time to ask Napoleon the question topmost in his mind, and he simply couldn't wait any longer to try to find a better time to ask.
"What the hell were you thinking?"
"I beg your pardon?"
"All you had to do was push the sultan out of the way and you would both have been fine, yet you chose to step in front of him and take an unnecessary bullet instead. Why?"
Moonlight from the partially open window shades glinted off of Napoleon's eyes and silence filled the room for nearly a minute before he deigned to answer in a bored voice. "Goodwill, of course. His Majesty the Sultan of Brunei Darussalm is now indebted to U.N.C.L.E. for life. Why else? Surely you got that memo?"
Illya propped himself up on a bent arm, trying to see more of Napoleon's shadowed face. "Don't be ridiculous, Napol—"
"Illya, I'm exhausted and we have to find that Thrush installation tomorrow. We don't have time for this, so go to sleep." Napoleon pointedly turned to his side so he faced away from Illya.
Illya was sure his mouth was hanging open. Napoleon never completely refused to talk about anything Illya brought up. Oh, he'd try to deflect Illya's attention elsewhere if it was a subject he didn't really want to discuss, but in the end he always gave in.
This was unprecedented.
For the first time in nearly ten years of partnership, Illya felt a chill. He had never been relegated to the status of "just a coworker" by his partner. Indeed, it had been Napoleon who made sure they were friends outside of work, coaxing his partner into this or that escapade in their off time.
It was also Napoleon who had made Illya open up about what he was thinking, never content with the brief answers Illya gave their fellow agents. It had become a habit for them to discuss topics with each other that neither would have shared with anyone else, and the bond of their friendship had been cemented by that very fact.
Never before had the gap between the hotel room's single beds seemed so wide.
to be continued...
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