Work Text:
The Post-Twilight Affair
By Anne Higgins
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Dr. Donald "Ducky" Mallard pulled the trigger of his 9mm with a smooth practiced pressure. A split second later the bullets tore through the silhouette target on the far end of the range. His eyes not what they once were, he couldn't see the holes they made, but he knew age had not stolen his ability to aim. For all the good it did anyone the damage would be centered in a tight cluster through the heart. He fired a fifth shot this time sending the bullet between the target's eyes.
He'd come straight here after finishing the autopsy on Caitlin. Special Agent Kate Todd had died from a head shot as well, but he did not see her lovely face as he fired. Instead he pictured her killer, pictured Ari Hswari's head erupting in a spray of blood and brains, pictured him falling, his eyes open wide in death. A most satisfying picture. Such a pity he could do nothing more than imagine it. These days he had to leave more than illusionary vengeance to younger men. It did not sit well.
With a sigh he thumbed the safety, then set the weapon aside. A push of a button brought the target to him, verifying the accuracy of his shooting. A very hollow sort of vengeance. The faintest of sounds caressed his eardrums – the sound of an elegant gait accompanied by an equally elegant cane. He sighed again. "I take it Tom called you."
"I don't believe Ducky is supposed to be such an excellent shot," a familiar and much loved voice commented from behind him.
"Perhaps not, but he has done his job." He turned to face a sliver-haired man with warm brown eyes. "There is no longer a need for him."
"Illyusha-"
He silenced his lover with a glare. "We are not at home," he reminded him, then pointedly added, "Lee."
A smile answered him. "Secrecy is a habit these days not a necessity, my love." One hand remained on the ornate handle of an ebony cane, while the other moved to caress his cheek. "Besides, bow tie aside, the esteemed Dr. Mallard is not here."
No, he wasn't, at least not for the most part. After wearing a persona for so many years it never totally went away. Where did Illya Kuryakin end and Donald Mallard begin? The gun and the skill to use it belonged to Illya; the medical degree to Ducky. Beyond that the lines blurred. They were even more indistinct between Napoleon Solo and Lee Roberts. Napoleon had many talents, but he'd never been the role-player Illya was. "Point taken, Napasha, but I am not so easily distracted."
He turned around, loaded another target and sent it zipping down the range. A new clip in the gun and he fired until it was empty. Napoleon said nothing, but Illya could feel his eyes watching him, taking everything in. His lover seldom missed anything and nothing where Illya was concerned. Well, almost nothing. "Don't worry so," he said retrieving the target. "If I were planning anything foolish, I would not be here perforating paper."
"But you want to."
"Of course I want to. That bastard killed someone I had grown quite fond of," he snapped. "But I am well aware of my current limitations." Once he would have had the skill, the youth and the resources to track down Ari no matter what corner of the world in which he chose to hide. Not now. Not for a long time.
Hands settled on his shoulders. The cane wasn't really necessary unless Napoleon was particularly tired. Even then it seldom bore much of the man's weight. Proof the present had some advantages over the past. Napoleon had almost lost his right leg to the warehouse explosion that had "killed" both of them. Years of physical therapy and a stubborn streak without peer had restored almost full function in the leg.
Lips brushed against his neck. Not a seductive touch, but one of comfort. "This isn't the future we thought we'd share."
Illya snorted. "I never expected to have a future. I always thought you would be head of UNCLE and I … well, I would end up like poor Caitlin."
Napoleon's grip tightened, then he released Illya, but only long enough for his arms to encircle Illya's waist and draw him back against Napoleon's chest. More comfort, but this time for Napoleon as well as for Illya. His lover never had cared for any discussion featuring Illya's demise; no doubt a side effect of so many Thrush agents taunting Napoleon about their colorful plans for Illya. "I still almost lost you."
He sighed and let Napoleon hold him. The man had yet to forgive himself for being out of town when the Hanlans had kidnapped Illya. The incident had been remarkably similar to the old days, and Illya had taken to thinking of it as the Meat Puzzle Affair. He avoided referring to it at all when Napoleon was within earshot. Not only had the man not forgiven himself, he held a certain degree of lingering animosity toward Caitlin. Illya had tried to talk him out of it, but could not deny that she had indeed been charged to protect him, yet failed. "She did her best, Napasha."
"Not good enough." A shudder and the arms tightened briefly. "Thank God for Gibbs."
Yes, thank God indeed. "He knows, by the way."
"Knows what?"
"Who we are, or at least who I am. Caitlin told me over lunch yesterday."
"She knew?"
Illya shook his head. "She told me she had asked Jethro what I looked like when I was younger and he answered, 'Illya Kuryakin.' I declined to explain the reference." Now he wished he had. Sharing secrets over lunch would have been a pleasant memory of her final days.
"I guess I'm not surprised. That man is tenacious."
He almost smiled. Napoleon often referred to Jethro as their love child despite neither of them having met him until he joined NCIS seven years ago. This always led to a mock argument over who provided Jethro's looks and who provided the stubbornness. They always ended with the agreement that Jethro had at least inherited his lethal streak from Illya. "Yes, indeed he is. We really should find out what we missed that let him discover us."
"Let it rest, love. Our old foes are ready for retirement homes as well. It's Lee and Ducky's enemies we have to worry about these days." And Lee had far more than Ducky since he had been director of NCIS prior to Thomas Morrow. "And speaking of retirement homes. …"
Illya sighed. Not this again. What was he supposed to do if he gave up his job? Travel? While playing tourist instead of hunter or hunted would have a certain novelty value, they'd seen as much of the world as either really cared to. And Illya was hardly the volunteer or stay-at-home-and-watch-Oprah type. "Napasha, retirement would not suit me."
Napoleon pressed a kiss against Illya's temple.
"Nor can we even leave town for an extended period of time while 'Mother' is still alive." It was strange really. Alexander Waverly had arranged for Napoleon's aunt to disappear along with his two wounded agents. Having her pose as Illya's mother instead of a relation of Napoleon's had provided a point of confusion for any hunters, but it had also confused the poor senile woman as well. These days she genuinely believed she was Ducky Mallard's mother and viewed Napoleon as that annoying chap who had deprived her of any grandchildren, but at least he made her son happy.
Another kiss made his eyes narrow. "You aren't arguing with me."
"Perhaps you've finally convinced me."
Oh, this could not be good. He turned in Napoleon's arms and, while he didn't break the loose embrace he did favor his lover with his best scowl. "What are you planning?"
Napoleon sighed dramatically. "You're always so suspicious, my love," he said, but his eyes were twinkling with mischief.
"More than forty years of experience with you will do that to a man."
Napoleon chuckled and gave him a quick kiss on the mouth undoubtedly to reward his cleverness.
Illya would have to make him pay for that later. Right now he wanted answers. "Napoleon."
"Tom is moving onward and upward."
Ah. "They want you to serve as director again."
"You don't sound surprised."
"You are the best man for the job. You always were." Waverly had died within a year of the "deaths" of Solo and Kuryakin. Neither of them had been in any condition to rise from the dead to replace him. Instead they'd watched helplessly as UNCLE had collapsed so completely that even many in the intelligence community today did not know it had ever existed. With the end of the organization they'd both assumed they'd serve until their dying days, the two former agents had devoted themselves to their new lives. Illya had gone to medical school, but he lacked a rapport with living patients and was, as ever, pulled toward thwarting villains, so he'd specialized in pathology.
Once Napoleon had recovered enough to be more than a bed-ridden invalid, he'd pulled what strings he could and slipped back into an intelligence community that only dimly realized the extraordinary resource they had in him. When all was said and done he'd ended up head of what became NCIS. "No one wanted you to retire in the first place."
Napoleon shrugged. "I'd reached the age where it seemed the thing to do, and consulting is far less troublesome."
"Yet you are considering the offer." It wasn't a question. As he'd pointed out, he had years of experience in interpreting the mind of Napoleon Solo.
He nodded. "I'm not as busy as I'd like to be," he admitted. "And if I don't take it they are going to give it to a child who thinks low-cut gowns are appropriate attire for state functions."
Illya smiled slightly. It was rare that Napoleon complained about a woman wearing revealing clothing. The offense must have been great. Still, "Is that her only fault?"
"No, she seems to have learned her people skills from Gibbs." He shook his head. "I don't know, Illya. I'm really too old for the job, but she's too young. Unfortunately, they need a quick replacement and no one of a more appropriate age is suitable. A pity our Jethro isn't more of a people-person. Otherwise, he would have been perfect. As it is –"
"Yes, I know, perish the thought." He smiled. "No doubt he would shoot anyone who offered him the job." Shoot someone. Perhaps in the head. Damn. His good humor vanished as he remembered all too clearly why he was here.
"Illya?"
He looked into Napoleon's dark eyes. Waverly had never retired, opting to head UNCLE North America until he'd died at his desk – serving until his last breath. Could those groomed to follow in his footsteps fail to uphold his example? "Take the job, Napasha."
"You're certain?" The Hanlans aside, their lives had been fairly peaceful since Lee had retired as director. This could put them all in the firing line again.
He nodded, then pulled the bowtie from his own neck and stared at it. He was more doctor than former agent these days, but he was sick of hiding his past within Ducky's stories and pretending to be something he was not while the world tried to self-destruct around them. "Yes," he said, admitting to himself that Napoleon was right – those who had served Thrush were dead and gone. There was no need to hide. There hadn't been for decades.
Illya dropped the tie, then kissed Napoleon – long and deep. Of all the things that had changed through the years, one thing had not – Napoleon's touch never failed to warm his heart, his kiss to make Illya's head spin. "Call Morrow," he said when their lips parted. "Tell him, Napoleon Solo and Illya Kuryakin are at NCIS' service."
Napoleon studied his face for a long moment, then nodded. "So they are," he said, releasing Illya so he could pull out his cell phone.
Illya left him to the task and turned his attention back to the gun. Cold and heavy in his hand, it felt familiar and right. He would never again be without it, but he knew his days as a field agent were over. He would continue to do Ducky's work, but he would no longer hide his ability to help Abby in the lab or to advise Napoleon in the command center.
He shook his head at their foolishness. They had hidden while the world changed, had even fought the inevitable when the Hanlans reminded them no one could hide from danger forever, least of all them. But a young woman Illya had cared for was dead and he needed to give her death meaning. Yes, he knew he could not have saved her had he screamed to the world who he really was, nor could he personally track down her killer now. But he could stop pretending, stop holding back. He could be who he was, who he was always meant to be, and maybe that would make a difference for someone else. Long ago he had been Illya Kuryakin, number two, section two of UNCLE North America. What he would become in the days ahead remained hidden for now, but one thing was certain -- he and Napoleon were needed.
Illya looked down the firing range, lifted the gun, then fired.
end
End note: Obviously this became an AU by the time I was finished. Originally, I'd intended it to be a quiet smile behind the scenes of any ep the show threw at me, but I found that when I revisited this fic I could not find a reason for an angry Illya to be anything less than Illya.