Man from UNCLE | Spy Games

[eponymous_rose]

Title: Spy Games
Author: eponymous_rose
Word Count: 1189
Rating: PG
Characters: Napoleon Solo, Illya Kuryakin



The man's motions were nervous, uncertain, and as he waved his gun around in what he obviously thought was a menacing manner, Napoleon couldn't help noticing that the safety was still on.

"This is humiliating," Illya grumbled, and Napoleon felt him shift against the mess of ropes holding them to their respective chairs, which in turn had been roped together, back-to-back. Their untrained adversaries had evidently gone with the 'more is more' approach to knot tying, and while the end result was crude, it was also maddeningly effective.

"Now, now," Napoleon muttered, wincing as his fumbling hands only succeeded in tightening the bonds around his wrists. His splitting headache, centered on the bump at the base of his skull, was starting to fade, and he felt almost jovial, under the circumstances. "No use antagonizing them. They're doing a good job for their first time, aren't you, fellas?"

"Shut up!" the man with the gun bellowed, and there were four different shouts of agreement, featuring varying levels of profanity and originality, from his companions, scattered across the room. Napoleon didn't have to glance over to know that Illya had also registered both the number of lookouts and their relative locations.

Fat lot of good that did them at their present level of mobility, of course, but it never hurt.

"Look," said Napoleon, and ignored Illya's sigh at his overly calm and rational tone of voice, "who are you working for, anyway? I mean, I get the impression this is all a big misunderstanding."

"Or Thrush has been lowering its standards," Illya said, and Napoleon managed to loosen one of the ropes enough to nudge his partner in the ribs.

"Diplomacy, Illya," he whispered, and heard the Russian snort. The gunman seemed taken in, though, and leaned forward with a leering grin.

"Oh, you don't need to bother trying any of that shit," he said. "We've been warned about you." There were a few knowing laughs from the men waiting in the wings.

"Ah," said Napoleon, and paused for the sake of politeness before continuing. "Warned by whom?"

The man brandished his ineffective pistol in Napoleon's face. "Oh, no," he said. "Don't even try to deny it, Marshall."

"Marshall?" Though they were back-to-back, Napoleon could imagine the smirk spreading across Illya's face.

The gunman's eyes flickered for a moment, and Napoleon sighed - watching this display of gross incompetence was getting embarrassing. "Look," he said. "You've got the wrong guys."

"I told you," said one of the lookouts, and the others shushed him. "Well, I mean, this one's a blond! You said they both had dark hair, MacGregor."

"He could've dyed it!" snapped the gunman.

"Surely I would have guessed that your acute judgment would spot such deception a mile away," Illya said, deadpan. "Hardly worth the tallow."

"Candle," Napoleon corrected automatically, and felt his partner shrug in a deliberate, casual motion that also loosened the bonds on both of their wrists.

Now MacGregor was squinting at them, as though comparing their profiles with some dubious mental repository. "Nah," he said, "they look an awful lot like Marshall and Marshall."

"Marshall and Marshall?" Napoleon parroted, unable to suppress a grin.

"Attorneys at law," Illya said. "I've seen their placard around town."

Napoleon winced. "You think we're lawyers?"

"Napoleon, the more pertinent question is why they think they're kidnapping lawyers," Illya pointed out. "Hardly a lucrative business."

"Yeah," said Napoleon, and slipped his right hand out from the tangle of rope, keeping it close against his back - while MacGregor didn't seem to have grasped the concept of a safety catch, the others might not be as careless. "I'll bite. Why are you after Marshall and Marshall, anyway?"

"We're after you," MacGregor snapped, "because you've been pissing off the wrong people, prosecuting Williamson."

"Sophomore scare tactics," Illya sighed. "Real lawyers have seen far worse on the courtroom floor."

Napoleon allowed his calm smile to fade into something a bit more predatory. "And we've seen worse on the way to the bus stop."

Now MacGregor was spooked; his glances in Illya's direction were frequent enough that Napoleon knew he was having second thoughts about their identities. "Well," said Illya, and cleared his throat. "I suppose it's now or never."

At that, Napoleon reached in one smooth motion for the gun under his jacket - the jacket that, in their probable panic, the men hadn't even bothered to remove.

MacGregor squeaked and dropped his own gun, which clattered to the floor with enough noise that it was probably lucky the safety was on. "Shit," he said, "it's not them!"

"They just keep getting smarter," Illya said, and together they managed to disentangle themselves from the mess of ropes with minimal fuss. "Tell your friends to put their weapons down," he added.

"Slowly," Napoleon clarified, wincing at the first clatter. He cast a glance over his shoulder to see another man, strategically positioned near a window that faced a brick wall, drop his weapon as well. As he turned back to MacGregor, he caught the first glimpse of his partner since the short-lived struggle where they'd been captured, and grinned. "You've got a bit of a shiner, there."

"And now I'll never hear the end of it," Illya groaned. "That's justifiable homicide, Napoleon."

MacGregor looked ready to run, faint, or some awkward combination of the two. "Not just yet," Napoleon said, keeping his voice low and dangerous for maximum effect. "Maybe we should show them a little mercy."

"You are so boring," Illya muttered; Napoleon couldn't help a quick grin at the genuine regret in his friend's voice.

"So's the paperwork," Napoleon pointed out.

Illya took a few seconds too long to consider that; MacGregor was sweating. "You think we should let them go?"

"Yeah," Napoleon said. "Let them kidnap lawyers if that's what they want to do. Honest mistake."

Illya raised his gun in a gesture of surrender, and there was a clatter somewhere above that heralded the hasty departure of MacGregor's band of merry men. MacGregor himself was still rooted to the spot, staring at Napoleon's gun.

"Who are you?" he said, finally.

"Oh," said Illya, "nobody of any consequence. International spies."

"High-ranking international spies," Napoleon added.

"Angry, high-ranking international spies," Illya said.

MacGregor blinked at them both. "Just my luck to wind up with a couple of whackos." And with that parting shot, he ran.

Napoleon glanced at Illya, who was wearing a carefully cultivated look of grumpy boredom, the brooding mien of which was set off somewhat by the purpling bruise around his eye. "Well," said Napoleon, holstering his gun. "That was entertaining."

With a noncommittal grunt, Illya strode past him to the entrance of the warehouse. "Not my idea of a pleasant evening."

"Come on, Illya," said Napoleon, and smirked. "You were having fun back there, weren't you? You're a born actor."

Illya glanced up, but there was a glint of humour in his eyes. "Who said anything about acting?"

"Bloodthirsty Russian," Napoleon teased.

Rolling his eyes, Illya nudged open the door to the warehouse. "Come on," he said. "Let's go find the real bad guys."