Chapter Text
It was a rare phenomenon, like a splash of green light flashing over the sea for a spectacular second as the sun sank below the horizon, or a dazzling display of lightning with the crack of thunder in the middle of a snow storm. It was often fleeting, a heat of the moment kind of occurrence that later could be disregarded as a trick of the eye either due to shock or the sheer incredibility of the action.
But it did happen and it surprised Napoleon Solo every time it did. To see the same man who had once tore the back off of his escaping vehicle and then toss it with ease, be so gentle. To see the same hands that could render a man powerless and gasping for breath on the ground with a simple punch to the throat, be so careful. It was like bearing witness to one of Mother Nature’s most beautiful and awe-inspiring spectacles.
Napoleon wouldn’t have believed the severe Russian, more akin to the great Iron Curtain than to a human made of flesh and bone, capable of such feats of genuine care if he had not seen them first-hand. He was unsure why he was granted witness to the viewing and the direct involvement in such feats of compassion, considered common in your typical person but always appeared difficult for the Red Peril.
Perhaps it was their closeness, under direct orders of course, but still, after a while, “partner” can become to mean more than someone you have to share a leash with. Perhaps it was their gained familiarity: Napoleon’s suaveness (a constant annoyance according to the Russian spy) to the Peril’s impassivity (to which Napoleon loved to test the limits of). Perhaps it was because, under all the stoic frowns and simmering glares, past the anger issues and tapping fingers that conveyed an insatiable rage due to psychotic tendencies, there actually was a human in the KGB agent who did feel sympathy and could exhibit kindness.
Personally, Napoleon had been privy to only a few instances in which the iron in Illya Kuryakin’s bones softened and the ice thawed in his veins – only a few mind you but the effect of merely observing them left Napoleon with a sense of incredulity and the incomprehensible desire to see more.
Napoleon was lucky to catch the first instance. He hadn’t exactly been completely cognizant at the time, what with being strapped to a metal chair, bare feet submerged in icy water, and an electrical current coursing through his convulsing body. It was a miracle he had been coherent at all to see Illya through the glass window at the door that kept him locked in Rudi’s pitiful state of a laboratory.
With the electricity blessedly turned off and Rudi cowering in the corner with a new dent in his throat, Illya made his way to Napoleon. The Russian’s eyes were cold and too bright; a tightness around the eyes that was a clear sign of the temper flaring just beneath the surface. Those eyes glanced at Napoleon’s face for a moment, just long enough to catch the American’s gaze and his drawling smile of greeting. Something flickered across Illya’s face when their eyes met, something like relief, before it was gone and his expression went hard again.
Illya gave Napoleon’s body a quick examination, and when he saw no immediate external injury, he reached out his hands and roughly tore the leather straps away from Napoleon’s left wrist.
Napoleon’s hand came free with a not-so-subtle jerked and he flinched, hard. The cry burst unwilling from his throat. He bit down on his tongue and the sound shifted to a strangled silence but left a cruel resonance hanging in the air. After granting himself a moment of weakness – eyes screwed shut and chest heaving with breaths that were meant to steady – Napoleon opened tired eyes and looked to Illya, ready to admonish the man for his brusque carelessness. The words died in his throat.
Illya was frozen where he stood, hands slightly extended towards the next strap, flakes of leather trapped between his fingers. His eyes were locked on the wrist he had just freed, trembling now against Napoleon’s chest, the bruises dark against paled skin. An evident burn marked where the node had pressed into the soft inside of Napoleon’s wrist.
“Peril?” Napoleon tried, wincing at the sound of his voice. He licked his lips in preparation to try and rouse his rescuer again, but Illya was already moving.
Gaze resolutely drawn downward to Napoleon’s right wrist, Illya lifted both hands to the leather straps. Napoleon gave an unconscious flinch, attempting to mentally prepare himself for further mistreatment and pain.
But when Illya touched the leather straps, fingertips brushing against the raw flesh of Napoleon’s wrist, the touch was surprisingly gentle. Rather than tearing the straps away, Illya snapped off the lock keeping them in place and then slowly, and with a care that left Napoleon wondering if Rudi hadn’t switched to a hallucinogenic, unwound the straps. Napoleon was conflicted about urging the man to hurry (who knew how long they had before someone found them) and admiring the restraint Illya was showing to ensure Napoleon endured no further unnecessary pain.
When the second wrist came free, Illya’s hands went up to the strap at Napoleon’s head and removed this with similar care. Napoleon allowed his head to dip forward, stretching the muscles rendered stiff from continuous electrical shocks. He massaged his wrists under Illya’s watchful stare; the heaviness of that stare almost tangible.
“Thanks for that, Peril,” Napoleon said, trying to use a relieved sigh to hide the wheeze still in his voice. “Might have had to resort to more lethal doses of charm if you hadn’t shown up.” He flashed Illya a smile with as much said charm as he could get into the taut muscles.
“Can you stand?” was all Illya said in reply.
“Yes, I’d say so,” Napoleon answered nonchalantly. He managed to maneuver his feet under him and stood with returning strength. Despite the assurance, Illya’s arm tentatively wrapped around his shoulders and didn’t let go until Napoleon was safely propped up against Rudi’s worktable.
With Napoleon steady and secured, there was a subtle shift in Illya’s shoulders, a tightening of the muscles, and then Rudi was all but thrown into the torture chair, straps hazardously wrapped around the smaller man’s wrists and head.
The second instance was after reclaiming Gaby back from Alexander Vinciguerra.
After having lifted and thrown the remains of a smoldering motorcycle that had previously had him pinned to the ground, and after going toe-to-toe with Alexander with only his strength and a small knife, Illya staggered to the fallen woman. Still recovering from a tire iron to the face, Napoleon could only watch from his un-becoming position in the mud as Illya dropped to his knees beside Gaby and lift her shaking form ever so delicately into his arms.
His hands did not tremble, his eyes did not blaze in their cold fury. His fingers brushed mud and hair from Gaby’s face as she smiled up at him. And, to Napoleon’s astonishment, the great bear of a man smiled back down at Gaby. It was not a vicious show of teeth nor was it a coy smirk associated with one of the many easy smiles kept in Napoleon’s arsenal. This was a real smile: all relief and sincerity.
Clearly KGB’s best agent was going soft, to smile like that. And whose fault was that, Napoleon thought to himself with his own smug smile.
A helicopter was soon descending upon them led by none other than Waverly. The three watched the helicopter land, Napoleon holding up a hand to block the sudden onslaught of wind and Illya curling protectively over Gaby.
With the vehicle landed and field medics jumping out to run towards the three, Illya stiffly rose to his feet to make room for them to crowd around Gaby. She murmured some assurance with a wave of her hand, trying to sit up on her own. Perhaps the medics had been warned by Waverly or had some experience with this British agent already because they let her do it. Illya hovered – or rather loomed, good god, that man was tall – over the fuss, eyes fastened to Gaby until the medics cleared her and started to help her rise to her feet.
Napoleon, fitfully covered from head to foot in dirt, was starting to rise as well, having had quite enough of sitting in the mud that was currently ruining his pants. As he was placing his hands on the ground to push himself up, a large hand extended in front of his face, palm up and fingers spread.
Napoleon looked up at Illya, at the mud-caked cuts on his face, the black burns on his shirts and pants which likely hid seared flesh, and the way Illya’s other arm was positioned stiffly at his chest. Napoleon knew he wasn’t much of a pretty sight either with his hair slicked back with muddy water and his bloodied bruises from getting beat with a tire iron. But, despite his ruffled appearance, Napoleon had actually been a lot luckier in the injury department. Yet the Red Peril was holding out his hand to the American expectantly, soft smile still not quite gone from his lips.
“Up and at ‘em, Cowboy,” Illya said, the saying rather amusing in the man’s thick accent.
Napoleon returned the smile, an oddly genuine one of his own. He took the offered hand and tried not to let Illya take all his weight as he was lifted to feet, only the smallest grimace of pain registering on the larger man’s face.
“And where are we off to, Peril?” Napoleon asked, releasing Illya’s hand. He took a step forward to follow where the medics were guiding Gaby to a makeshift first-aid station beside the helicopter. When he stumbled, a firm hand caught his elbow and Illya was at his side. “Perhaps back to that lovely hotel in Rome? They had a fine selection of wines I would quite like to celebrate our victory with.”
“Drinking now would not be best plan,” Illya responded matter-of-factly. Gaby was seated and had a blanket wrapped around her. Waverly was trading words with her quietly, his back to them as the medics hurried back to lead Illya and Napoleon to the helicopter.
“Pardon me, my friend, but drinking is always a good plan.”
“Not when you are bleeding.”
“Numbs the pain.”
“Makes you bleed more. I’d say you’ve lost enough already, yes?”
The medics had surrounded them and were examining and prodding the two as they took their positions on either side of Gaby. Waverly ambled away, a communication device to his ear. Gaby smiled up at both of them as they received fast aid and their own blankets.
“Then what would your plan be?” Napoleon asked, tossing the blanket aside and picking up a white cloth to wipe at his face.
“Recover,” Illya answered.
Napoleon let out a scoff and looked up at Illya, only lifting a brow to show his surprise at again seeing the great Red Peril exhibiting proof of tenderness. Illya was close to Gaby, smiling down at her again as she shifted the blanket around her. One hand was caressing her shoulder.
“Always the life of the party, aren’t you?” He looked away to watch Waverly come up to them, apologetic smile on the older man’s face.
It was with great disappoint that, after everything, they weren’t done yet and Victoria was currently making her getaway with the real bomb. There was even some disappoint that, after everything, Napoleon Solo still wasn’t free of his obligations to the state and that he was now officially, permanently, paired up with Illya Kuryakin. But that disappoint was short-lived at the prospect of still being able to work with Illya and Gaby. With this new information came Napoleon’s self-appointed challenge to catch every rare display of tenderness the Red Peril had to offer. Every display that dissolved the iron mask on the Russian face to leave in its wake something so incredibly and wonderfully human.