A Light In The Window - The Expanding Stories Affair
So this one came out of a drabble from weeks back, and partly out of a failed attempt at writing for the previous What's My Line ("You're late. Again.") and basically, I think the problem is I started writing it and then started wondering whether instead of going forwards from the drabble I should have been going backwards. It's not finished, but I'd be interested to know in which direction(s) people would want to see it expanded. If any, I s'ppose.
Napoleon could hardly hear the pilot's words over the static on the radio. "I'm sorry Mr Solo. We're taking a lot of fire here. There's no way we're going to make it to both extraction points."
Illya had made it back to the landing site. Simons was still back at the river. They both had guerillas closing in on their positions. If they didn't make it out now, there would be no second chances.
Unforgivably safe back at headquarters thanks to a broken leg, it was on the tip of his tongue to demand the pilot try anyway. But they were operating in one of the places in the world where they were not supposed to be and he couldn't take that selfish chance.
Illya had more experience than Simons - he'd have a better chance of making his own escape. Wishful thinking. (He already knew Illya would never betray UNCLE under torture. He wished he didn't have to consider that.)
"Napoleon." Illya's voice was gentle. Expectant. Reminding him of the call he had to make.
"Go to the river," he instructed the pilot, voice steady. "Pick up Simons and get out."
If he saved Illya he would always know why.
"Thank you," Illya said. "I will destroy anything that can tie me to UNCLE so this will be my last communication." A pause. "I will see you when I get back to New York, my friend."
He closed his eyes at the uncharacteristic optimism. All to make him feel better. "You'd better," he said steadily. "It's your turn to buy dinner."
There was gunfire in the distance. The connection went dead.
*
It had been raining for six days straight now, turning the New York streets into a miserable sea of soggy grey, which matched Napoleon's mood perfectly. He turned his collar up as he headed home, ignoring the water dripping down his neck. Friday night. He should have a date. He didn't.
Illya had...gone...nine weeks ago and there had been no sign of him since. Napoleon had pored over every report coming out of the region, looking for anything - the slightest word he could take as hope - but there had been nothing but a steady downpour of bad news. The death toll of the massacre was reaching the hundreds of thousands. No one had outright political control of the area. The rebels had executed a Soviet spy.
His head told him that was probably Illya. His heart disagreed.
In truth, he couldn't bring himself to believe that Illya wasn't coming back. He'd gone to search himself, against orders and long before his leg was fully healed, but he'd found nothing and he'd been forced to leave long before he was ready to admit defeat. And now he was back trying to carry on as though nothing had happened, and instead he found himself buying two cups of coffee and leaving space for Illya's inevitable sarcastic remarks in briefings. Mr Waverly had given him a long look at that, as though he knew exactly what was going through his head.
Eventually he'd get through this, he knew. But right now he felt as though he was quietly falling apart.
He was soaked to the skin as he approached his apartment door, exhausted and numb enough that it took him a second to realise that his security system had been turned off.
Damn. All he'd wanted tonight was to go straight to bed and sleep. He wasn't in the mood for trouble.
That was odd though. The security system hadn't simply been broken or disconnected, it had actually been turned off. That wasn't supposed to be possible.
Drawing his gun, he pushed the door open quietly and quickly sprinted inside to the nearest bit of cover before looking around. There was no sign of anyone, but there was a trail of dirty footprints across his hardwood floor. Someone had certainly been here, and they hadn't exactly been going to great lengths to cover their tracks either. The footprints led straight to the bookshelves around the fireplace. The case hidden on the top shelf was open and empty. So the intruder had gone straight for his spare gun?
Frowning, he stealthily followed the trail further, into the kitchen, nearly falling over a pair of ruined shoes which had apparently been kicked off and abandoned. The freezer door was hanging open and there were ice cubes scattered across the floor.
“Make yourself at home, why don't you?” he murmured.
He didn't dare give voice to the hope in his heart. Not even when he looked inside the freezer and realised that the bottle of vodka he still kept there was missing.
Without any more footprints to guide him, he headed from room to room, hoping that - the intruder - was still here. He found a pile of rags that had probably once been a t-shirt lying in the hall outside his bathroom, unsettlingly stained with blood and dirt and who-knew-what.
Hardly daring to breathe, he pushed open the bathroom door. Illya was lying in the bath asleep, the bottle of vodka on one side of the tub, the gun on the other, a knife lying on the floor. He was so pale and so still that for one awful moment Napoleon thought he'd somehow managed to survive the unsurvivable, travel hundreds of miles to get home and then quietly die in Napoleon's bathroom. But then he saw the slow rise and fall of his chest and, relieved, he could breathe again.
He let the door close loudly behind him. “You're late,” he said calmly as Illya's eyes snapped open and he reached frantically for the gun. “Again.”
For a second Illya just stared at him. “Water got cold.”
“That'll happen,” he agreed, through a sense of unreality. “It's still no reason to point a gun at me.”
“Oh.” Illya blinked down at his hand as though he didn't remember picking the gun up. “Sorry. It's you,” he added, as if in sudden realisation.
Napoleon nodded. “It's my apartment,” he reminded him. “Are you hurt?” A stupid question, he had seen the blood and even now he could see hints of bruises and more across Illya's shoulders and chest. But he wanted to hear what Illya answered.
“Fine,” he said dismissively, which was really no answer at all.
“Did you call headquarters?” he pressed, already knowing the answer - if Illya had reported in, he would have been called ten seconds later. At the most.
“Nyet.” Illya shook his head. “Your place was closer.”
Somehow, he doubted the truth of that. “Okay, well, I'll call in and take you round to medical - “
“ - nyet! Pozhaluysta.” Illya's eyes were wide. Pleading.
He paused. “You're hurt,” he said gently. “And you've been missing for over two months. We thought you were dead.”
“As you can see, I am not,” Illya said and it might sound dismissive if it didn't sound so exhausted. “Tomorrow. I will go to headquarters and I will answer all the questions and do what is needed, but for tonight I need...I want...” He shook his head slowly, eyes dark and clouded. “Мне просто нужно, чтобы отдохнуть.”
He hesitated for a long second. He knew what he should say, that the responsible thing was to call this in straight away, but he could see the need on Illya's face and he was responsive to that even if he didn't fully understand it. Really, he didn't think Illya fully understood either, but he did know what it was to be stretched far beyond your limits, to run on adrenaline for so long that coming home was stressful and overwhelming. Too many noises, too much sitting around, too many open spaces and people who didn't understand. Sometimes the temptation to find somewhere to just hide away and get some breathing space was enormous, and if Illya wanted to do that in his apartment, well, Napoleon could give him that. (It was the least he could do. After all, he had left him there. He had abandoned him.)
“Alright,” he said, holding his hands up in surrender. “Alright. Just for tonight, and in the morning we'll go straight to headquarters - and to medical. And there's a few ground rules. I'm going to be taking a look at your injuries - and don't even think about pretending you're not hurt, that ship has sailed, my friend - and if there's anything I think can't wait, I'm calling it in right away with no argument from you.”
To his relief, Illya nodded without a hint of hesitation or disagreement, which probably meant he was already convinced there was nothing life threatening.
“Secondly,” he went on “You need to stick to English, okay, tovarisch? If you're not coherent enough to talk so I can understand you, then I can't help you.”
“Mais, oui,” Illya said, a tiny quirk to his lips.
It was the smallest of jokes, but there was an air of quiet desperation about it - as though Illya was reaching out going 'This is normal, right? This is how we are supposed to be?'
And what could Napoleon do but answer. “I'm fine with French,” he replied steadily in that language. “But didn't you complain last time that my accent was an affront to your ears?”
The quirk turned into a full, if brief, smile. “Yes.”
Napoleon returned the smile, just for a moment, just because...because Illya was alive and half an hour ago he hadn't been, and beneath the worry his heart was singing. “Third rule, then," he said. “You can't stay in the tub all night.”
Illya considered that for a long moment and then looked away awkwardly. “I...I am not sure - “
“ - it's okay,” he interrupted quickly. “I'll help.” He glanced around the bathroom. “Really, you came all this way for a bath, and you got vodka and a gun, but not a clean towel?”
“I have priorities,” Illya told him, watching through half-shut eyes as Napoleon vanished out into the hallway to the linen closet to collect a towel. Hmm. Illya would need clothes as well. He stepped into his bedroom and grabbed a pair of fresh pyjamas. That would do for tonight.
From the splashing as he walked back into the bathroom, he suspected Illya had made an attempt to stand up that hadn't been completely successful. He laid the clothes and towel over the rail and reached out a hand towards him. “Come on, up you get.”
It was an awkward struggle but eventually Illya was standing and Napoleon narrowed his eyes at the way he was standing, placing barely any weight on his left leg, his fist pressed against his hip.
“Has gone this long without medical attention,” Illya pointed out practically, and Napoleon nodded and passed him the towel.
“How long is this long?” he asked.
There was a pause and he thought maybe Illya was just remembering that Napoleon didn't know where he'd been all this time, or what he'd been doing. “What is date?” he asked eventually.
“November 8th,” Napoleon told him. “It's been nine weeks since I...since you disappeared.”
“Oh. Then, three weeks? Maybe?” Illya said, brow creased as he looked down at his leg.
The next obvious question was what happened, but Napoleon wouldn't bet any money at all that he'd get an answer to that. Not tonight at least. Besides, he'd offered Illya a place to hide, and part of that was not having to face up to the questions. He cast a careful eye over Illya's body as he dried himself. There was an old bandage around his stomach, stained almost brown, a patchwork of bruises down his shoulders and chest, a patch of skin on his upper arm that seemed to have been burned or scoured away. And maybe none of that was life threatening, but he could count every one of Illya's ribs, if he so chose.
“Your towels are ridiculously fluffy,” Illya told him seriously, and he wasn't sure if it was a deflection attempt or just the exhaustion talking.
He smiled anyway. “Capitalist decadence. You know you love it, tovarisch.” He was quiet, for a while, until Illya was dressed and looking marginally more human. “Did you get any food while you were raiding my kitchen for vodka?”
He shook his head slowly, and Napoleon wondered at his priorities.
“Alright,” he said agreeably. “What do you want first? Food or first aid?”
“Food,” Illya said, after a moment's too much thought.
He nodded and gestured towards the door and the kitchen, and when Illya took a stumbling step forwards he automatically to take his arm, but Illya stepped back immediately, and glared him away, tense and wary.
“Don't,” he said abruptly. “I can manage.”
Napoleon seriously doubted that, but he suffered to walk behind and watch as Illya kept his hand on the wall for support.
“What would you like?” he asked neutrally, once Illya was sitting down.
“Probably something light would be best,” Illya admitted.
“Oatmeal?” he suggested, and he was amused by the expression of mild disgust followed by a brief nod.
“It has been nine weeks?” Illya asked after a few moments had gone by, and he was stirring the mush in the pan.
“Yes.” He didn't look round. He didn't want to admit to it. “I looked for you. As soon as I could. But there was so much chaos, so many dead - I must have missed you. I'm sorry.”
“You looked for me?” Illya sounded hazy. “You were not supposed to. Our orders - “
“ - I had to,” he interrupted tightly. It had been his order. His responsibility.
“It has been nine weeks,” Illya said again. “The vodka was still in the freezer.”
“Yes?” He turned round, frowning. “It's not like it goes off.”
“No.” Illya looked at him impatiently. “Is like light in the window.”
“Vodka in the freezer to guide you home?” He smiled.
Illya shrugged. “I'm here.”
Napoleon could hardly hear the pilot's words over the static on the radio. "I'm sorry Mr Solo. We're taking a lot of fire here. There's no way we're going to make it to both extraction points."
Illya had made it back to the landing site. Simons was still back at the river. They both had guerillas closing in on their positions. If they didn't make it out now, there would be no second chances.
Unforgivably safe back at headquarters thanks to a broken leg, it was on the tip of his tongue to demand the pilot try anyway. But they were operating in one of the places in the world where they were not supposed to be and he couldn't take that selfish chance.
Illya had more experience than Simons - he'd have a better chance of making his own escape. Wishful thinking. (He already knew Illya would never betray UNCLE under torture. He wished he didn't have to consider that.)
"Napoleon." Illya's voice was gentle. Expectant. Reminding him of the call he had to make.
"Go to the river," he instructed the pilot, voice steady. "Pick up Simons and get out."
If he saved Illya he would always know why.
"Thank you," Illya said. "I will destroy anything that can tie me to UNCLE so this will be my last communication." A pause. "I will see you when I get back to New York, my friend."
He closed his eyes at the uncharacteristic optimism. All to make him feel better. "You'd better," he said steadily. "It's your turn to buy dinner."
There was gunfire in the distance. The connection went dead.
*
It had been raining for six days straight now, turning the New York streets into a miserable sea of soggy grey, which matched Napoleon's mood perfectly. He turned his collar up as he headed home, ignoring the water dripping down his neck. Friday night. He should have a date. He didn't.
Illya had...gone...nine weeks ago and there had been no sign of him since. Napoleon had pored over every report coming out of the region, looking for anything - the slightest word he could take as hope - but there had been nothing but a steady downpour of bad news. The death toll of the massacre was reaching the hundreds of thousands. No one had outright political control of the area. The rebels had executed a Soviet spy.
His head told him that was probably Illya. His heart disagreed.
In truth, he couldn't bring himself to believe that Illya wasn't coming back. He'd gone to search himself, against orders and long before his leg was fully healed, but he'd found nothing and he'd been forced to leave long before he was ready to admit defeat. And now he was back trying to carry on as though nothing had happened, and instead he found himself buying two cups of coffee and leaving space for Illya's inevitable sarcastic remarks in briefings. Mr Waverly had given him a long look at that, as though he knew exactly what was going through his head.
Eventually he'd get through this, he knew. But right now he felt as though he was quietly falling apart.
He was soaked to the skin as he approached his apartment door, exhausted and numb enough that it took him a second to realise that his security system had been turned off.
Damn. All he'd wanted tonight was to go straight to bed and sleep. He wasn't in the mood for trouble.
That was odd though. The security system hadn't simply been broken or disconnected, it had actually been turned off. That wasn't supposed to be possible.
Drawing his gun, he pushed the door open quietly and quickly sprinted inside to the nearest bit of cover before looking around. There was no sign of anyone, but there was a trail of dirty footprints across his hardwood floor. Someone had certainly been here, and they hadn't exactly been going to great lengths to cover their tracks either. The footprints led straight to the bookshelves around the fireplace. The case hidden on the top shelf was open and empty. So the intruder had gone straight for his spare gun?
Frowning, he stealthily followed the trail further, into the kitchen, nearly falling over a pair of ruined shoes which had apparently been kicked off and abandoned. The freezer door was hanging open and there were ice cubes scattered across the floor.
“Make yourself at home, why don't you?” he murmured.
He didn't dare give voice to the hope in his heart. Not even when he looked inside the freezer and realised that the bottle of vodka he still kept there was missing.
Without any more footprints to guide him, he headed from room to room, hoping that - the intruder - was still here. He found a pile of rags that had probably once been a t-shirt lying in the hall outside his bathroom, unsettlingly stained with blood and dirt and who-knew-what.
Hardly daring to breathe, he pushed open the bathroom door. Illya was lying in the bath asleep, the bottle of vodka on one side of the tub, the gun on the other, a knife lying on the floor. He was so pale and so still that for one awful moment Napoleon thought he'd somehow managed to survive the unsurvivable, travel hundreds of miles to get home and then quietly die in Napoleon's bathroom. But then he saw the slow rise and fall of his chest and, relieved, he could breathe again.
He let the door close loudly behind him. “You're late,” he said calmly as Illya's eyes snapped open and he reached frantically for the gun. “Again.”
For a second Illya just stared at him. “Water got cold.”
“That'll happen,” he agreed, through a sense of unreality. “It's still no reason to point a gun at me.”
“Oh.” Illya blinked down at his hand as though he didn't remember picking the gun up. “Sorry. It's you,” he added, as if in sudden realisation.
Napoleon nodded. “It's my apartment,” he reminded him. “Are you hurt?” A stupid question, he had seen the blood and even now he could see hints of bruises and more across Illya's shoulders and chest. But he wanted to hear what Illya answered.
“Fine,” he said dismissively, which was really no answer at all.
“Did you call headquarters?” he pressed, already knowing the answer - if Illya had reported in, he would have been called ten seconds later. At the most.
“Nyet.” Illya shook his head. “Your place was closer.”
Somehow, he doubted the truth of that. “Okay, well, I'll call in and take you round to medical - “
“ - nyet! Pozhaluysta.” Illya's eyes were wide. Pleading.
He paused. “You're hurt,” he said gently. “And you've been missing for over two months. We thought you were dead.”
“As you can see, I am not,” Illya said and it might sound dismissive if it didn't sound so exhausted. “Tomorrow. I will go to headquarters and I will answer all the questions and do what is needed, but for tonight I need...I want...” He shook his head slowly, eyes dark and clouded. “Мне просто нужно, чтобы отдохнуть.”
He hesitated for a long second. He knew what he should say, that the responsible thing was to call this in straight away, but he could see the need on Illya's face and he was responsive to that even if he didn't fully understand it. Really, he didn't think Illya fully understood either, but he did know what it was to be stretched far beyond your limits, to run on adrenaline for so long that coming home was stressful and overwhelming. Too many noises, too much sitting around, too many open spaces and people who didn't understand. Sometimes the temptation to find somewhere to just hide away and get some breathing space was enormous, and if Illya wanted to do that in his apartment, well, Napoleon could give him that. (It was the least he could do. After all, he had left him there. He had abandoned him.)
“Alright,” he said, holding his hands up in surrender. “Alright. Just for tonight, and in the morning we'll go straight to headquarters - and to medical. And there's a few ground rules. I'm going to be taking a look at your injuries - and don't even think about pretending you're not hurt, that ship has sailed, my friend - and if there's anything I think can't wait, I'm calling it in right away with no argument from you.”
To his relief, Illya nodded without a hint of hesitation or disagreement, which probably meant he was already convinced there was nothing life threatening.
“Secondly,” he went on “You need to stick to English, okay, tovarisch? If you're not coherent enough to talk so I can understand you, then I can't help you.”
“Mais, oui,” Illya said, a tiny quirk to his lips.
It was the smallest of jokes, but there was an air of quiet desperation about it - as though Illya was reaching out going 'This is normal, right? This is how we are supposed to be?'
And what could Napoleon do but answer. “I'm fine with French,” he replied steadily in that language. “But didn't you complain last time that my accent was an affront to your ears?”
The quirk turned into a full, if brief, smile. “Yes.”
Napoleon returned the smile, just for a moment, just because...because Illya was alive and half an hour ago he hadn't been, and beneath the worry his heart was singing. “Third rule, then," he said. “You can't stay in the tub all night.”
Illya considered that for a long moment and then looked away awkwardly. “I...I am not sure - “
“ - it's okay,” he interrupted quickly. “I'll help.” He glanced around the bathroom. “Really, you came all this way for a bath, and you got vodka and a gun, but not a clean towel?”
“I have priorities,” Illya told him, watching through half-shut eyes as Napoleon vanished out into the hallway to the linen closet to collect a towel. Hmm. Illya would need clothes as well. He stepped into his bedroom and grabbed a pair of fresh pyjamas. That would do for tonight.
From the splashing as he walked back into the bathroom, he suspected Illya had made an attempt to stand up that hadn't been completely successful. He laid the clothes and towel over the rail and reached out a hand towards him. “Come on, up you get.”
It was an awkward struggle but eventually Illya was standing and Napoleon narrowed his eyes at the way he was standing, placing barely any weight on his left leg, his fist pressed against his hip.
“Has gone this long without medical attention,” Illya pointed out practically, and Napoleon nodded and passed him the towel.
“How long is this long?” he asked.
There was a pause and he thought maybe Illya was just remembering that Napoleon didn't know where he'd been all this time, or what he'd been doing. “What is date?” he asked eventually.
“November 8th,” Napoleon told him. “It's been nine weeks since I...since you disappeared.”
“Oh. Then, three weeks? Maybe?” Illya said, brow creased as he looked down at his leg.
The next obvious question was what happened, but Napoleon wouldn't bet any money at all that he'd get an answer to that. Not tonight at least. Besides, he'd offered Illya a place to hide, and part of that was not having to face up to the questions. He cast a careful eye over Illya's body as he dried himself. There was an old bandage around his stomach, stained almost brown, a patchwork of bruises down his shoulders and chest, a patch of skin on his upper arm that seemed to have been burned or scoured away. And maybe none of that was life threatening, but he could count every one of Illya's ribs, if he so chose.
“Your towels are ridiculously fluffy,” Illya told him seriously, and he wasn't sure if it was a deflection attempt or just the exhaustion talking.
He smiled anyway. “Capitalist decadence. You know you love it, tovarisch.” He was quiet, for a while, until Illya was dressed and looking marginally more human. “Did you get any food while you were raiding my kitchen for vodka?”
He shook his head slowly, and Napoleon wondered at his priorities.
“Alright,” he said agreeably. “What do you want first? Food or first aid?”
“Food,” Illya said, after a moment's too much thought.
He nodded and gestured towards the door and the kitchen, and when Illya took a stumbling step forwards he automatically to take his arm, but Illya stepped back immediately, and glared him away, tense and wary.
“Don't,” he said abruptly. “I can manage.”
Napoleon seriously doubted that, but he suffered to walk behind and watch as Illya kept his hand on the wall for support.
“What would you like?” he asked neutrally, once Illya was sitting down.
“Probably something light would be best,” Illya admitted.
“Oatmeal?” he suggested, and he was amused by the expression of mild disgust followed by a brief nod.
“It has been nine weeks?” Illya asked after a few moments had gone by, and he was stirring the mush in the pan.
“Yes.” He didn't look round. He didn't want to admit to it. “I looked for you. As soon as I could. But there was so much chaos, so many dead - I must have missed you. I'm sorry.”
“You looked for me?” Illya sounded hazy. “You were not supposed to. Our orders - “
“ - I had to,” he interrupted tightly. It had been his order. His responsibility.
“It has been nine weeks,” Illya said again. “The vodka was still in the freezer.”
“Yes?” He turned round, frowning. “It's not like it goes off.”
“No.” Illya looked at him impatiently. “Is like light in the window.”
“Vodka in the freezer to guide you home?” He smiled.
Illya shrugged. “I'm here.”