Work Text:
One Way – The Downhill Way
The day was grey, but not the dull grey you found in tired, worn downtowns. No, a sparkling, fresh grey, a little dangerous and dark at the edges like a storm was coming; a bit like droplets on a wolf's fur.
Funny, Illya thought, how images from Boba's fairy tales followed him through life. The glorious fantasies stayed with him like a thin, clear layer around the nitty-gritty reality of his main perspective: that of a soldier. A soldier's perceptions were focused on finding strategically important positions, shelter, and protection. Where would the enemy hide? Where could he find the best escape routes?
Illya tightened the straps of his backpack and checked his skis with a little forward-back swish in the tracks. The glide was good, the snow was deep, and the slope was perfect.
He was high up, far above the mundane world, almost up in the skies; the clouds were close enough to let him make-believe. Down in the valley he could glimpse the tiny houses in the village; their reds and browns shone invitingly among the trees. The pines were their usual dark green against the background of white snow.
He felt once more for the contours of the small plastic square in the breast pocket of his windbreaker - it was there, he could almost scent the new plastic – and set off, giving speed with his ski sticks.
It was cold; freezing here at this altitude and Illya was grateful that he had sensibly put on his woolen sweater inside his jacket. He had tugged his knitted blue cap down over his ears and covered it with the strap of his goggles, but his cheeks were uncovered and aching in the icy air when he rushed downhill.
His brand new alpine skis were so perfect that he wished he could race down the slopes forever - he took a long detour around a small stand of firs to enjoy this last turn of the day. The sun, peeking out between the clouds, was already setting, only minutes into his trip, making the previously edgy grey shine with a soft yellow-pink hue. It was quiet, the quiet of a world on the precipice of night; waiting to slip into darkness.
"Hello? Help! Anyone?"
Illya cursed and stopped with a flourish, snow spraying around him like aquamarines and diamonds. The call came from somewhere off the track, from one of those treacherous, deep grooves that sometimes formed around trees in deep snow. His first thought was to curse incompetent skiers trying a track more difficult than they could master. But there were other possibilities, as always. Could this be a trap? Thrush? Robbers?
He approached the groove cautiously, the heavy weight under his arm reassuring.
A flurry of snow – in white cascades – and sticks and limbs moving met his eyes when he peeked over the edge of the snowdrift. He focused on a red spot – a red, moving, stocking cap. Beneath the red he spotted dark hair sprinkled with white and a face partly in shadow, dominated by piercing, brown eyes.
A man. Flailing for help.
"Do you require assistance?" Illya asked.
"Do I look like I need help?" Illya was impressed by how the stranger managed to roll his eyes despite his predicament.
Instead of words Illya shrugged off his backpack and unzipped it. He was always properly prepared.
"A rope? Kinky." The stranger flopped around and tried to stand up using his sticks – with little success. His huge parka and his feet – one sinking only deeper into the loose snow and the other still trapped on a ski pointing upwards – prevented him.
"Do you not wish to be rescued?" Illya said and stopped making the loop.
"Do I look like I need to be rescued?"
"Unless you are the brother of the abominable snowman and are about to crawl into your lair, the answer is yes," Illya said and finished the knot. "Here."
Illya watched as the stranger struggled, swore and managed to fasten the rope around his bulky form. "I'm ready when you are," the man said. "Just out of curiosity, how do you plan on getting me up? You don't look like much." He waved with one snowy arm towards Illya.
"I am plenty," Illya said. "Size is not everything." He blushed annoyingly when the stranger rounded his lips into an "o". Without answering, he turned and slid towards the steep slope, rope secured around his own waist. Once he gained the end of the rope it tugged and nearly halted his progress, but by then he had reached the piste, and gained momentum. He used his sticks to push, and by some miracle he felt the rope tighten, but not stop him from moving. A glance over his shoulder showed the stranger supporting himself with his own sticks, and moving up towards Illya.
Another couple of meters, and the man was balancing on his legs, the one ski still attached. Illya stopped and trudged sideways up towards the man again.
"Have you lost your ski?"
"No, I…yes. What's more, I might have twisted my ankle."
And yes; up close Illya could clearly see he looked unnaturally pale in the dwindling light. Besides, there was real pain in the smooth voice.
"There is little possibility that you will be able to ski down to the village by yourself, then. It will also be completely dark when I have finished making a sled of our skis."
"You go on, then. I'll be fine," the stranger said and leaned on his sticks. "I'll just take it easy and sled down on this." He tapped his one ski with his stick. The man raised his head and scrutinized Illya with shadowed eyes. "Thank you, by the way."
"Have you hit your head?" Illya scrutinized back and tried to search what skin he could see, looking for blood or bumps. "This is not a playground slide."
"Well, stranger - what would you suggest, then? We both freeze to death?"
"Nothing of the kind. There is a shack behind the grove of pines less than half a mile to our left. I suggest we make our way over there."
"If you promise not to take advantage of me," the stranger pressed out, and by now the pain was so clear in his voice that Illya winced in sympathy.
"I never take advantage on a first date," Illya surprised himself by saying and covered it up by turning in the direction of the pines. "Can you lean on me and balance on one ski?"
"There's a first for everything," the man said. "Lead on."
Somehow Illya trusted what he said, and a surprisingly short time later they were standing in front of the small shack. It loomed dark but sturdy - as much as a small one-storey log cabin can do.
"How do you plan to get in?"
"That is easy," Illya smiled at him. "These shacks are never locked. Their purpose is to accommodate travelers like us." Had he not familiarized himself with the customs of the area? At least this told Illya that the man was as new to these parts as he himself was.
"What? That is trust bordering on naiveté." The stranger nevertheless bent carefully, opened the binding on his ski, placed it up against the wall, and hopped on one leg to the door. Illya watched him before he belatedly chucked off his own skis and followed the stranger in through the door. At the threshold he turned and let his eyes roam over the alpine landscape. The weather was volatile up in these mountains and the heavens had not only turned dark, but closed off from eternity with large, floating clouds. Illya could smell snow on the air, and yes; tiny, shimmering snowflakes were already drifting lazily down and settling like feathers on the old snow. Sentimentality, Illya snorted involuntarily. I blame this, too, on Boba. He turned back towards the interior of the cottage again, still feeling the spell of fairy tales interfere with his perception.
--
Illya closed the door behind him and took in the unlit interior of the small room. A fireplace took up most of one wall. It had two chairs in front, there was also space enough for the traditional kitchen counter, a small, wooden table, and a wide bench – the last item probably doubling up as a bed. The stranger was standing with his back to him, leaning – favoring his good leg - against the edge of the kitchen counter.
"You must sit down while I find light and start the fire," Illya said and wrenched off his backpack, his mittens, and his knitted cap.
"I don't think so," The stranger said.
"Huh?" Illya stared straight into the dark muzzle of a gun and forced his jaw to close. How daft was it possible to be? He had let down his guard for a moment, and now – this! He swallowed. "I can assure you, I carry no valuables, nor am I of any importance for blackmail."
"Show me your identity," the stranger, now scowling at him through slitted eyes, said. "Now!"
"Hey!" Illya was not able to stop his indignation. "You ungrateful bastard! I dragged you back here out of the kindness of my heart!"
"Sure," the stranger said. "I've been around the block sufficient times to recognize a Russian accent when I hear one. Besides, you're armed."
Illya reflexively pressed his upper arm against his ribs, feeling again the reassuring bulk there. "If I had wanted you dead, I would have left you to freeze to a stiff carcass under that fir."
"There are other things than dead." The stranger waved menacingly with his impressive gun. When Illya spared a thought for it, the weapon looked eerily familiar. "Now, open your jacket – slowly…"
Illya repressed the irrational urge to waggle his eyebrows and throw a kiss at the man. For a completely senseless reason he didn't feel the slightest threatened by his gun-toting ways. He slowly unbuttoned the windbreaker and slid it off his arms, revealing his dark blue woolen sweater – with a now very visible bulk over his left ribs.
"Hands in the air! Hands in the air!" the stranger urged and stepped closer.
Should he knock him down? Kick away the gun? But Illya was absolutely sure he could manage that later. Besides, he wanted to see where the man, no, the American wanted to take this. "Okay, okay!" Illya said, using his best soothing voice. "My identification papers are in my inner pocket. Please check them."
"No, you take them out. Don't doubt that I will follow every move you make."
Illya bent and lifted his jacket, holding it between his thumb and forefinger. Carefully he extracted his wallet and handed it to the stranger.
Who, to Illya's surprise, took it without hesitation and flipped it open – only to crumple on the floor from the sleeping gas puffing out from its container concealed inside the leather.
Serves you right, Illya smirked, but threw himself flat when a bullet whizzed past him, grazing his upper arm. So the gas did not work as fast as the head of the laboratory had assured him. "Wanker!" Illya yelled, hearing the anger in his own voice. Stupid!
"Mrffrh…" the stranger said and closed his eyes – finally.
"I will give you mrrfs," Illya growled and rushed the two steps over and kicked the gun viciously out of the stranger's limp hand. This close, the weapon really did look like his own Special.
Illya breathed rhythmically to calm himself and bent over the prone form to check for other weapons and the stranger's identity. He extricated two knives, a thick wallet and a suspicious looking silver pen, bent with wires hanging out from the middle. Sitting back on his haunches he held the wallet out from his body, opened it, and searched it thoroughly. After stroking back the man's hair and scrutinizing his slack features Illya sighed. "I might as well bandage your leg, you ungrateful American. But first things first; a good fire."
--
Illya pushed and pulled the still unconscious man into what he believed was a comfortable, blanket-covered form in front of the fire; one leg bare and bandaged, the other still encased in a ski boot. "There you are," he grumbled. "Thank you, stranger." He turned to the kitchen and searched through the cupboards. The most promising content was a tin of soup and a packet of tea.
Making the soup did not take long, even with the wood-heated cooker. What made it feel longer was the prickling sensation of someone watching his every move.
Illya turned around and met brown eyes. "So. Napoleon Solo. Famous top agent with UNCLE, New York. What brings you to my neck of woods?"
"I could ask you the same question," Napoleon Solo drawled. "I am afraid I'm at a slight disadvantage here; we have not yet been introduced."
The impertinent man had the cheek to reach out his hand, no doubt expecting it to be shaken – only so that this Napoleon fellow could jolt him forwards and to the ground. Illya was sure of this.
"Oh come on!" Napoleon Solo said, traces of exasperation in his voice. "I'm not out to get you. In fact, I believe you are the one who got me."
"True," Illya conceded and ladled soup into two mugs he'd conveniently found in the cupboard. "Eat." He handed Napoleon Solo his steaming mug.
"Will you reveal your identity? You may call me Napoleon."
"Napoleon Solo. Section two, New York. I am Illya Kuryakin, section two, London."
The slack-jawed expression on this Napoleon's face was strangely satisfying.
--
It was over. A more clichéd phrase Illya had never known. Nevertheless – it was true. More true than he wanted it to be. He tried to lift his head and managed a couple of inches; enough to press his chin into the hard, icy edge of his parka and enough to let his gaze circle his surroundings. He let his head fall back again, satisfied at last. Thrush's greatest threat to the modern world, this new world which included computer wizards and rural health fanatics both, was irrevocably gone. As dead as a man can be.
Illya had not wanted him dead, he had wanted him alive, if only barely, and brought into a nice, bare cell deep in the bowels of the UNCLE headquarters, tender like meat, ready for Illya's questioning. No such luck – he had died in the last skirmish here, high up in the snowy, alpine landscape. And if bad luck willed it so; so would he. His only hope, and a feeble one, he realized that much, was that the famous Solo luck would hold and bring Napoleon to his side before he died of either hypothermia or blood loss.
Luck? Because Napoleon liked having an Illya in his life and would miss him, which again would make Napoleon sad – and Illya knew he was silently rambling which was a sign of his senses leaving him, and…that must be why the first meeting between himself and the even then famous Napoleon Solo was so clear in his mind.
They had parted back then, still wary of each other and not expecting to see each other again. Napoleon did not like to be in anyone's debt, Illya had learned later, and Illya suspected that had been one of the reasons Napoleon had seemed almost relieved to see the last of him on that first occasion. Later, of course, he had learned differently. - Napoleon had had a disturbing epiphany in that cottage…
Before Illya could make his thoughts remember more, there was a distinct swishing sound to his left.
"Hello. Help! Anyone?" Illya croaked out and tried to lift his arms and wave. No luck.
"Illya!" Napoleon, the lucky one. Well, he hadn't been so lucky back when his experimental communication pen had malfunctioned. His own British-issued and trustworthy cigarette case had worked better. But then again, Napoleon had been saved – by Illya – only to…
"Lying about reminiscing about our first meeting, eh?" Napoleon tut-tutted with his lips.
"You flatter yourself," Illya pressed out. It hurt to speak.
"I made an unforgettable impression on you, just admit it and gain peace," Napoleon said, while his hands roamed over Illya. But even through his cap Illya could hear the strain in Napoleon's voice. He must have discovered his bullet wound and the blood, then. Illya closed his eyes. Napoleon would carry him.
--
Illya regained consciousness with a snap, a trait he had admitted to himself long ago that he couldn't apply to talent – only genes. He sniffed delicately; ah – a slight tang of chemicals in the air. He opened his eyes to a white different from the snowy one where he had closed them.
The infirmary. He blinked twice. Yes, his body seemed in order, he received no distressing signals from it. An effort to raise his head quickly divested him of that idea. He hurt everywhere. Nevertheless – he wanted to get up from the bed. Carefully, he managed to sit up. He turned his head to look for the customary glass of water – yes, it was on the nightstand, bent straw and ice chips – and his gaze fell on the one object that was not white in the room.
Napoleon.
He was asleep in an endearingly awkward position in one of the horribly uncomfortable chairs beside the bed. Illya drank in the sight of Napoleon with his eyes while his shaky hand held the glass of water to his lips, straw tickling his nose.
Everything was as it should be then. Napoleon had saved him again, the way they usually performed this act of chivalry for each other; daringly and at the last minute.
And now Napoleon was asleep in a chair, guarding him from all evil, especially nurse Joan, who had a nasty habit of…Napoleon moved in his chair, mumbling a little and waving his hand vaguely. Illya placed the glass back on the nightstand and sat further up, careful of the needle in the back of his hand and his aching body.
Yes, Napoleon was drooling a little and he had chucked off his boots; woolen sock-clad feet up on a small stool he no doubt had managed to make nurse Joan conjure from the nurse station. He was cute beyond words, and never would anyone hear Illya utter those words either.
Illya took a quick check before attempting to swing his legs over the side of the bed. His left upper arm was bandaged – that was where the bullet had grazed him. His face and – ouch – his ribs hurt – from the fight and the fall he guessed, but otherwise he felt surprisingly fine. The tube attached to the needle in his hand was easily removed.
He dared the move, and planted shaky feet on the cold linoleum. His body signaled immediately that this was a bad, bad idea, but Illya had a mission. He took the two steps he needed, perched his hip at the edge of Napoleon's chair, and gracelessly let himself slump over the sleeping form.
Ah – warm bliss – for a moment. Napoleon sputtered and groaned, instantly alert like Illya knew he would be. Luckily Napoleon's brain registered Illya, no danger and he didn't throw him off and draw his Special.
"Coherent as usual, I see." That did not come out as suave as Illya had wanted it, but what could he expect after an obvious extended period of unconsciousness?
"Illya! You're awake!" Napoleon's real smile and the tightening of his arms around Illya were in contrast with his inane words.
"So it would seem." Illya wriggled closer and tucked his head under Napoleon's chin. "You state the obvious as usual."
Napoleon's half-choked laughter was the next best pain-killer. "And you my friend, weren't as acerbic as usual," Napoleon moved his head aside and looked down at him, "You look okay, but how's your brain? Not as sharp as normal?"
Illya resisted the urge to sit up and stare evilly at Napoleon. He was comfortable resting on Napoleon's softly cushioned body. Not that he would ever tell the vain man that he had gained weight over the years, but he rather loved the new, changed Napoleon. He was perfect to curl up to in the darkness of their own bedroom when nobody in the world could see.
"Illya?" Napoleon lifted his chin with a finger and met his gaze. "Ah. You're not thinking of falling asleep again? I know your secret habit of sleeping, using me as a pillow, but this time it would kill my back." He nudged at Illya, so Illya let himself be deposited back on the bed again.
"You look remarkably well, considering I just dragged you out of Thrush's sharp clutches again." Napoleon seemed to stop himself physically, no doubt from the tirade about carelessness he wanted to give Illya, and turned towards the door. "I'll get nurse Joan – no protesting Illya, I promised her the minute you were awake – and see about getting permission to take you home."
Illya took one look at Napoleon's suddenly rigid form and clutched hands, and decided to remain silent. Also, he wanted desperately to be home in his own bed.
--
Of course, it had taken another two days before he was released, but finally, finally – home!
"You have a ridiculous affection for this apartment," Napoleon grinned in response to the smile Illya knew was trying to split his own face.
"It is not the apartment per se, Napoleon," Illya said and flung himself around his partner in a disgustingly sentimental show of affection. After all, it was only two weeks and three days since they had been home together. "It is you."
"That's okay then," was Napoleon's muffled answer against Illya's lips just before he kissed him.
--
"My heart nearly stopped when I found you lying in the snow," Napoleon mumbled against his hair later. Illya drew the bedclothes up to cover them and fastened his iron grip around Napoleon's soft middle. "It reminded me a little of…"
"Of the first time we met, yes," Illya continued Napoleon's thoughts as usual. "I – skiing, - you - in a flailing heap under a fir. What a coincidence – I rescued you from an undignified fate in the snow, and now, years later, you rescue me at more or less the same place." Illya shuddered. "I am grateful you reached me in time, Napoleon. I do not wish the circle to be complete yet."
"No," said Napoleon. "Besides, we wasted months not doing it after that first meeting."
"Not doing it?" Illya unclenched himself from Napoleon. "The suave Napoleon Solo. Just wait until I reveal this lack of vocabulary to…" Napoleon kissed him, always an effective word-stopper.
Illya broke the kiss, leaned back, and mumbled, "It was you who told me; if you can't say it, you can't do it."
Napoleon laughed into his neck. "Tell me, then."
"Already?"
"You are not up to it?"
Horrible puns from that infuriating…"Is that a challenge, Napoleon?"
Of course it was.