?

Log in

No account? Create an account

Previous Entry | Next Entry

At last!! Longest chapter yet (5,334 words) but it's action packed and leaves no cliff hangers. The next chapter will be the last, and will consist of lose end sorting and sex. It may run long too, but I don't see anyone complaining.

T.D.

The Top to Bottom to Switch Affair; Chapter 7

-a Man from UNCLE slash fanfic by Taylor Dancinghands

Pairing: Napoleon Solo/Illya Kuryakin
Genre: slash, first time, h/c, BDSM, A/U: BDSM Universe (Origionally created by Xanthe )
Warnings: Possibly triggery situation depicted [see author's notes] ==>THIS CHAPTER!!!!<== + m/m; m/f; dubious consent
Rating: adult, aka NC-17

Length: Probably fairly long (30,000-40,000 wds +? 8+ Chapters?). I can't seem to do anything else.

Summary: Set in a BDSM AU. Alpha Top Napoleon Solo, the new CEA at UNCLE, is surprised when he is asked to take a sub on a mission with him. Illya Kuryakin has his secrets, and Napoleon just can't leave well enough alone. Getting the Russian's secrets from him will come with a price, however, for Napoleon has his own secrets -ones that he's keeping from himself, and those are the most dangerous secrets of all.

Intro page and Chapter Index


~~~~~



Author's notes: Being super careful here and have not yet learned the trick of blocking out text for spoilers, (so if you're not worried about triggers, read no further) but there is a depiction of an *almost* gang rape in this chapter.

Disclaimer: I'm old, but still not old enough to be any of the writers or owners of the Man from UNCLE intellectually property. I swear, my own twisted musings are not costing those people a dime, and I won't be making a penny myself.

Chapter 7

Napoleon knew it would be useless to try sleeping the rest of the night, though he did make an effort. Knowing that there wasn't anything else he could do to aid in his search for his partner until the storm let up, he lay in his bed, tossing and turning, visions of Illya receding into the blizzard haunting the few moments when he was able to doze off.

He watched the morning approach as the light outside his window went from opaque grey to opaque white and when his alarm went off he roused himself, dressed and went down for a breakfast he had to force himself to eat. By the time he had made his way through his plate of rubbery eggs and cold toast, however, it became clear that the storm was letting up at last. Now he could begin to search in earnest, but he would need assistance.

Napoleon hadn't mentioned to anyone beyond the night desk that Illya was missing, and now he decided to keep Illya's disappearance under wraps. He couldn't really trust anyone from PetrAmCo; he was fairly certain that THRUSH had infiltrated them already, but wasn't sure which personnel were out-and-out Thrushies and which were merely suborned or incompetent. Tina, on the other hand, he gotten a good feeling about from the start, and she would know who among the locals could be relied upon.

Finding the native girl meant trudging out into the bitter, cutting wind and asking around, which is what Napoleon did immediately after breakfast. Luckily he didn't have to go far, as she was well known in the tiny village of Wainwright, and by the time he found her he had decided to make her his full confidant. If both he and Illya should disappear, she would have a much better chance of keeping herself and other villagers out of trouble if she knew what was really going on. This was exactly what he told her once they'd found a sheltered spot inside an empty equipment shed where they could have a private conversation.

"I knew you weren't really geologists!" she exclaimed triumphantly once Napoleon had revealed their mission. "The last geologists I took around before had these little hammers and they kept breaking off little bits of rock everywhere they went and putting them into little bottles with labels. You guys just looked at the scenery until we came to the old barracks; then suddenly you were interested."

Napoleon gave her a wry smile. "Very astute of you," he said. "Now, what I need help with at the moment is finding someone with a snowmobile for rent so I can get back out to that abandoned barracks. It's just the kind of place I'd expect them to use as a cover for a base, and I'm sure Illya is out there somewhere."

"Yeah, sure, my uncle has one he rents out to visitors all the time," Tina said. "But you know I could take you out there again myself."

"I know you could," Napoleon said kindly, "but for one thing, I won't have you putting yourself at risk, and for another, there's something very important we need you to do back here. You'll be able to see a flare if I launch one from out at that barracks, won't you?"

"Unless there's another blizzard, sure," Tina replied. "The whole village will see it. It's so boring here most nights that any little thing will get noticed."

"Great," said Napoleon. "So if you see one within twenty four hours after I leave, it means we've gotten away, it's safe for you to come, and we could use a lift back to town. If you don't see anything after twenty four hours and we're not back, I'll need you to send a message. Is there someone you can trust in town who can get a call out to someone with a regular phone line?"

"Yeah, my Aunt Lippy's always on the radio with this guy down in Bellingham," Tina replied. "She thinks he's her boyfriend or something. Anyway, he can make a phone call for you... as long as it's not to Timbuktu or anything.

"No, he can call collect," Napoleon said. "And it's just to New York. All he'll need to do is call the number I'll give you, say he's got a message from Agents Solo and Kuryakin, and that they're reporting a 'code 77'. I'll write it all down for you."

"Wow, like real super spy stuff!" Tina exclaimed.

"Very real," Napoleon said. "Which means that lives are at stake —ours and yours. It would be a lot safer for you if there was some way you could get out of town after you made that call."

"Oh that's no problem," Tina said. "A bunch of us will be heading out to set up our winter hunting camp in a couple of days. I was thinking about going with 'em anyhow."

"That sounds about perfect," Napoleon said, laying a hand on her shoulder. "Illya and I, if we get out of this, we're going to owe you a lot."

Tina shrugged, which Napoleon could feel under his hand more than he could see under her heavy fur parka. "Wouldn't want it said that the people of Ulguniq didn't do their best to help UNCLE. We may be isolated out here, but most of us understand that we're part of a larger world, too." The native girl glanced out the open door of the shed as she spoke, her gaze finding the unnatural intrusion of the dome shaped Early Warning station visible on the horizon.

Ulguniq, Napoleon recalled now, was the native name, in the Inupiaq language, for the village of Wainwright. Certainly the people here must have been made aware of the part they were playing in the contest between the two world powers whose border they happened to live near. Tina was both a child of her generation, and of her people.

"You're going to make some Top very, very lucky some day, not too far in the future I hope," Napoleon said with his most alluring smile.

"Quite possibly in the winter camp," Tina said, answering Napoleon's smile with her own infectious grin. "She's been going nuts watching me hang out with you guys the last couple of days, so thanks for that."

Napoleon laughed out loud as they left the shed, filing away the memory of Tina's smile for darker days, mind already turning to the tasks ahead.

~*~

The old abandoned barracks looked much the same as they had when Napoleon and Illya had been there before, with the exception of the drifts of new snow piled up on the windward side of the two remaining buildings. Napoleon wished there was some place he could hide the snowmobile, as he'd packed it with a few survival supplies which he and Illya might well need when they got out. The best he could do on this treeless tundra was drive it into a snowdrift, which covered it only slightly.

The absence of cover or any other signs of civilization was what made Napoleon sure that any THRUSH base nearby had to be underground. That and Tina's mention of how someone had started a rumor that there might be unexploded ordnance around the old barracks. This was a typical THRUSH tactic for keeping locals away from one of their bases, and while there was possibly more than one entrance, this seemed the most likely place that they'd found so far.

Before he left the snowmobile, Napoleon removed the flare gun and some other basic supplies and hid them, along with his communicator, under the foundation of the burnt down barrack. If some Thrushies did find the snowmobile and make off with it, they probably wouldn't look further. At least, that's what Napoleon hoped.

Reconnoitering the whole site again, Napoleon ventured cautiously into the old quonset hut first, thinking that something about the strewn rubbish at the back seemed suspicious. He took up a long piece of metal conduit and used it to probe the floor, as though it were some icy surface of unknown thickness. He thumped it here and there, seeking some sign of a cavity or trap door, but found nothing until he struck a pile of corrugated roofing that seemed arranged in a carefully haphazard manner.

With a crash and a clatter, the sheets of tin tumbled down into a deep hole whose bottom was, predictably, lined with sharpened stakes. As pleased as he was not to be among them, Napoleon knew he'd given himself away with the noise, and walked quickly back out of the quonset hut, thinking to hide himself in the remaining barracks. Unfortunately, it was from this building that a full complement of THRUSH guards was now emerging, guns at the ready.

Napoleon considered, for a second or two, the possibility of getting back to the snowmobile and fleeing, but with no cover of any sort for miles he knew this would be a bootless endeavor. Instead, he raised his hands with a sigh, letting the guards surround him and take his gun. They dropped a sack over his head so that he wouldn't know where he was being taken, but UNCLE trained all its agents in how to mark a course even when blindfolded. Napoleon memorized the route effortlessly as he was lead into the barracks, down a long set of stairs and along a series of twisting underground passages.

Eventually he was push roughly into an enclosed space, where he heard the sound of a heavy door closing, and where he was stripped of his shirt, his pockets emptied and he was strapped to a frame, in a most vulnerable position. It was a touch unnerving, but nothing unexpected. Once he was secured his hood was lifted, and he was subjected to two rude shocks.

Both should have been expected, all things considered. He had come here looking for Illya after all, so it should not have been a surprise to see him, but the visceral fury that surged through Napoleon's veins at the sight of his partner strapped to a cross and clearly showing signs of torture went well beyond what he might have imagined. He was unable to stop himself straining against his bonds, as useless as he knew it to be, and this was what prompted the remark, from a voice he also should not have been surprised to hear.

"Hush now dear," came the too familiar, poison honey voice. "You mustn't injure yourself. You must leave that to me... and my friends here, of course." Angelique strode forward into Napoleon's view now, dressed impeccably in a very short fur jacket and thigh high stiletto boots. Napoleon quickly glanced past her to where he could see Illya through a large window —probably a one way mirror, depending on where the lights were— slumped against a St Andrew's cross, lifeless save for the regular movements of his chest. Napoleon focused solely on this, even when Angelique drew closer, reaching out to run sharp nails down his back.

In spite of himself, Napoleon felt his mouth go dry in response to Angelique's touch. She didn't have a hold on him, and if his certainty wasn't enough, Napoleon recalled that Illya had confirmed the same. He would control his reactions... but then, perhaps he could control them differently, to their benefit. Mind racing as the details of this strategy came to him, Napoleon considered how nothing would please Angelique more than to see some confirmation that she had made Napoleon her creature in some way.

Distract your enemy, Napoleon recalled this principle like a litany. Do what you can to make them underestimate you. Let them believe that you are weak and helpless and strike when they turn their backs. He could do this —turn the unfortunate circumstances of his encounter with Angelique into an advantage. If he acted the suborned fool and pretended to be under her sway... Illya would have to draw his own conclusions, but Napoleon had a feeling that he would not be fooled... and would know enough to play along.

"Get... your hands off me," Napoleon gritted out through clenched teeth, letting his voice sound less than steady. Angelique only laughed prettily in response, and bent down to address Napoleon, her face mere inches from his.

"You're very used to giving orders, aren't you, my pretty boy?" she cooed. "I'm afraid you won't be giving any orders here, just taking them." Her smile was as venomous as the green of her eyes as she stood and walked around behind Napoleon, nails raking over his skin as she went. He was bound on a frame bent slightly forward and could not see hee past a certain point, but a moment later he felt her reach between his legs and grasp him there. She would expect a reaction, Napoleon realized, and if his ruse was going to be effective he would have to produce it.

Closing his eyes, Napoleon thought for a brief moment of the many lovely subs he'd enjoyed in his life, before settling on a vision of his partner, not topping him, as he had done recently, but bound and submitting to him, as Napoleon hoped he might one day agree to do. He imagined Illya, blue eyes wide and dark with arousal, his body open for Napoleon's pleasure and felt himself grow firm in his captor's grip.

Napoleon moaned, in both pleasure and dismay, as Angelique's grasp tightened and then released him. Her laughter now was dark and throaty and she walked back around to his face, fisting one hand in his hair to lift his head roughly.

"I hope you see now the true nature of your circumstances," she said. "You and your partner will do as you are told and perhaps you will be given the privilege of living out the remainder of your lives serving in a THRUSH pleasure house. And lest you think death might be preferable, let me make it clear that this will not be among your options."

"Doesn't... it doesn't matter what you do," Napoleon stammered out. "I won't tell you anything. You know that."

"Oh, we do know that," Angelique confirmed. "We don't care if you talk at all, though it wouldn't hurt for you to scream or cry a little. It's your partner who holds something of interest for us and as he's been more tight lipped than a clam up to now, your arrival is quite fortuitous. The others wanted to send a party out to capture you, but I told them that loyalty is UNCLE's greatest weakness, and you'd be along all of your own before very long."

Napoleon's guts twisted at these words, for it was now clear what THRUSH wanted, and what lay in store for him and Illya. On the plus side, it might mean that they would lay off Illya for a bit, giving him a chance to recuperate and possibly make an escape attempt. On the negative side, things were only going to go from bad to worse for Napoleon, for when Illya didn't talk they would up the ante, finding more cruel and extreme ways to torment Napoleon. All UNCLE agents were trained for such situations, as it was a possibility whenever agents worked as partners, and it was generally considered psychologically more difficult to endure the part of the one being forced to watch. Napoleon didn't disagree, but being tortured was no piece of cake either, especially when your only recourse was to beg your partner to talk.

If he continued with his planned strategy he would do just that at some point. It was what a craven, suborned agent would do. Napoleon had confidence that Illya would remain silent whether he knew Napoleon was playing a part or not, but the thought that he might believe that Napoleon was no longer his own man lay like a knot of dread in the pit of his stomach.

"He won't talk either," Napoleon said, dry mouthed. "The man's got a block of ice where his heart should be." There. If Illya was listening he would know that this was all for show. What he would do with that knowledge, however, Napoleon had no idea.

They began Napoleon's torments with the basics, laying into his back and shoulders with a strap, then with a knotted flogger so that his skin was soon covered with painful welts. They'd shifted the lighting so that Napoleon saw only his own reflection in the large window that lay between him and Illya, something which Napoleon had no particular desire to see. Illya would be watching, however; they would not give him a choice.

With that thought in mind Napoleon shifted his gaze to the window, not at his own reflection but at what lay beyond it, to the place where he remembered Illya had been. He focused on where he might meet his partner's eyes, trying to convey with his look that he was not broken and would not break. He might suffer, but that was an agent's lot, and he would recover when this was all over.

His captors paused in their overt torments from time to time, but forced humiliations upon him during those periods. He was induced to relieve himself into a bucket (under threat of being given diuretics and forced to soil himself) and later Angelique came to spoon feed him some sort of gruel, cooing at him as though he were an infant the whole time. Napoleon toyed with the notion of vomiting it all up onto her pretty fur jacket, but considered that this would not be in character for the role he was playing.

After this meal and another round of flogging his tormentors departed, turning off all but one of the lights as they left. Alone in the near dark and still cuffed to the frame, Napoleon supposed that he was expected to try and sleep, which they would no doubt interrupt with some sort of loud sound and lights. This did come later, but first they had another subtler torment for them both.

"Napoleon?" Illya's voice, uncertain and rough sounding (as if he'd been screaming a lot recently) came through some intercom in his room. Glancing up at the window, Napoleon saw that a single small light had been left on in the other room, as in his, so that he was just able to see Illya, now bound in a chair rather than on a cross. Illya would be able to see him as well, Napoleon figured, and he also figured that every word they said would be listened to. Now was not the time to break character, as much as he wished he could.

"Illya," Napoleon replied, keeping his tone carefully neutral. "You look comfy."

Napoleon knew he was not. They might have given Illya pants and a chair, but he recalled the many cuts and burns he'd seen on Illya's back and buttocks and understood that these 'comforts' only served to torment Illya in a more subtle way.

"Your observational skills are as deficient as ever I see," Illya replied dryly, letting Napoleon know that he understood the roles he meant them to take. "While this may represent a small improvement in my circumstances, I assure you it is nothing like 'comfy'."

"Really," Napoleon said, pushing his tone from neutral to bitter. "You're not enjoying the show?" Illya replied with an acid chuckle.

"There really is no limit to your vanity, is there?" he asked. "If I'd paid for this show I'd be asking for my money back. The sub is pathetic and flabby, and the Domme is... nauseating."

Napoleon had to work to refrain from laughing at Illya's obvious distaste for Angelique, transforming it into a angry if impotent curse. "Fuck you!" he snapped. "You could give them something, you know. You wouldn't have to give them all the plans, just a little bit, and they'd go easier on me, but you've never cared for another soul in your life, have you? We're all just chess pieces to you."

"Indeed," Illya answered, coldly logical. "And if you'd thought the same about me before you came barging in here without backup you would not be in this situation. That makes your discomfort not my responsibility at all."

"Discomfort?" Napoleon spat. "You really are a walking computer, aren't you? You know they say that about you, back at UNCLE, and to think I used to do my part to shut that kind of talk down. 'Not good for moral,' I told them. Damn me if they weren't right, though."

"Enjoy your sense of moral superiority while it lasts, Solo," Illya scowled. "Even a computer would experience nausea at the spectacle they tell me I'm going to be witnessing tomorrow. I imagine you'll be begging me to tell them anything and everything by the end, but if it's any comfort to you, I can promise that I will remain unmoved."

Napoleon almost shivered at the frost in Illya's voice, even knowing what he knew. Neither one spoke after that, each having said everything that they could, given that their words were not private, and the truth was that Illya's last sentence had come as a comfort to Napoleon —the only comfort that really mattered in the current circumstances. Illya had also let Napoleon know that their captors had something particularly unpleasant planned for him tomorrow, and given his posture on the bondage frame —bent forward with his legs spread— it wasn't hard to imagine what that might be.

Any agent with enough experience to have endured true privation knows that there is a level one descends to psychologically, when survival is the only goal. The imagination must be nearly shut down, or narrowed to only consider avenues for escape. All expectations must be denied, and all scraps of nourishment, sleep and other vital components must be accepted for what they are alone. Thus as Napoleon let himself doze off in the dimness and silence, and was shocked awake by bright lights and klaxons fifteen minutes later, he knew no surprise or dismay, but only waited for the noises and lights to end so that he could grab another few minutes of precious sleep.

He would pass the night that way, and felt no humiliation when they came in the morning to make him defecate into a bucket. He would eat what was given him, as long as it would nourish him, and the words and sounds emanating from his enemies would have no meaning. The words that came as promises Napoleon took in as data, and understood that his suspicions of last night were now confirmed. More promises, of an increasingly graphic nature, were heard and understood as his back was assailed with the flogger again, so that fresh welts were added to yesterday's.

There was no ignoring the pain, but Napoleon endured it, as he would endure whatever else came to him. He could endure anything but death, he told himself as Angelique ran her nails lovingly over those welts and then proceeded to cut his trousers and underwear away. Napoleon knew better now than than to think his body would not react, but he strove to distance himself from those reactions, beginning with the shiver he gave as his skin was exposed to the cool air.

Angelique herself applied the riding whip to his newly exposed backside and this finally broke Napoleon's near silence up to now. The shouts that he gave were like animal sounds, not so much his as his body's, which Napoleon was working very hard at distancing himself from, knowing what was to come. He knew it was coming soon because there was a lineup of men forming at the door, and the smell of their arousal could now be sensed, mixing with the smell of his own blood.

When the whipping stopped Napoleon's body knew relief, but that was only his body's first betrayal. It did not know that worse was soon to come. Napoleon closed his eyes, thinking to retreat as his training suggested, but then there came a sharp tug of a fist in his hair and a stinging slap on his face. Angelique was standing before him, a venomous smile on her pretty lips.

"Oh no, my darling," she said. "You're going to stay right here, and let your partner see into your eyes. I want him to watch you die inside, pretty boy. I want him to see your soul bleed."

This, alas, served all too well at shaking up Napoleon's careful distancing. He did not want Illya to see him suffer; he did not want to see himself —and the men abusing him— reflected in the enormous mirror/window that took up much of the wall to his right. Angelique gave him no choice, however, wrenching his head around to the right so that the whole tableau was revealed to him. It was what Illya would be seeing now —his partner bound, open and helpless with a growing crowd of men, some with their trousers open and already erect members protruding impatiently, gathered eagerly in the doorway.

Napoleon found the scene riveting in spite of himself and could not have torn his eyes away even if he'd been able to. This was surreal enough in itself, but then, inexplicably, the scene distorted, bulged slightly... and then shattered with a violent ear-splitting crash.

The air was all at once filled with countless shards of mirror surfaced glass and behind it —seemingly propelling it— came a chair, of the sturdy, metal office sort, quite possibly the very one Illya had been bound to until quite recently. With this connection, Napoleon's brain seemed to spring to life, racing at full speed to asses the situation and look for options. Conversely, the motions and actions of people and things around him seemed to slow.

The last image Napoleon caught in the dissolving mirror was that of the once eager men suddenly shrinking back towards the crowded doorway as the chair arced and tumbled through the now open window, a halo of glittering glass accompanying it. Angelique's fist in his hair vanished as she too stumbled backwards, her hands coming up to shield her face. Following the trajectory of the chair, a figure now appeared in the jagged window frame —a pale skinned, bare foot, blonde haired fury with a stolen gun, poised in the frame just long enough to aim and fire a handful of times. Napoleon did not have to be able to see to know that each shot had found its mark.

Angelique, alas, was not among them, as Napoleon saw her reappear in his far right field of vision, diving back through the shattered observation window, rather than trying to escape through the overcrowded doorway. That place, though Napoleon could not see it, quickly became a killing ground, as he saw Illya take aim and heard the gun speak, again and again. There was no expression at all on the man's face, and his blue eyes seemed as to be nearly frozen colorless, as though he really were the machine Napoleon had accused him of being the night before.

His expression did not change as he lowered his weapon, then turned it on Napoleon's shackles, freeing his hands first, then his feet. Napoleon stood slowly, feeling every one of the welts and cuts on his back and backside as he did so. The room was now silent, save for the occasional tinkle of still falling glass. Illya stood unmoving save for his heaving chest, gun in one hand with the other steadying himself on the punishment frame, eyes remaining on the open, unguarded door. Napoleon took that moment to assess the state of his partner, his eyes moving over his body to note that the floor around his feet was smeared with blood.

"Illya," he said softly, breaking the silence. "Your feet..."

"Doesn't matter," Illya said flatly, and Napoleon understood that, just as he had sought to 'go somewhere' to endure what he'd thought was coming, Illya had 'gone somewhere' too, in order to do what he'd had to, and he was still there.

"It does if you're going to walk out of here, partner mine," Napoleon said matter-of-factly. He himself was sensing a slightly hysterical edge of encroaching euphoria in reaction to what had nearly but not happened to him, but figured he could keep it together long enough to get them out of here. This involved draping a couple of jackets from the fallen Thrushies over the window frame so that he and Illya could return to that room where Illya's two guards had been felled with blows to the head (most likely from the chair) and whose uniforms, therefore, were more intact and less bloodstained.

He got himself clothed first, then made Illya sit while he removed the bigger pieces of glass from his feet and wrapped them in torn pieces of the guards' undershirts. Illya seemed to be coming back to himself as he endured this, shuddering as the pain of his injuries reasserted themselves.

"I observed twelve different personnel involved in my own punishments and yours," he said eventually. "I believe I have eliminated nine."

"I imagine Angelique is arranging for her own escape, even now," Napoleon said. "And there's a good chance she'll be accompanied by at least one or two of the remaining three."

"I am sorry to say you are probably correct," Illya said with a sigh. "Sorrier still that there is no point in going after her now, and sorriest of all that Mr Grantner was not among those who met their end in the other room. He came to visit me several times previously and took far too much pleasure in our misfortunes."

Illya had begun to relax with his sigh, coming to slump against Napoleon as they both sat on the floor of the room where Illya had been tortured. Very likely no one would return to find them here, but it would be better for them to get a move on nonetheless. Wrapping his arm around his partner's waist, Napoleon pushed them both to their feet, keeping as much of Illya's weight on himself as possible. Illya paled and hissed out a pained breath just the same, and let Napoleon all but carry him through the abandoned complex and up the stairs to the ruined barracks.

The snowmobile was gone, of course. The tracks, and a set of accompanying footprints lead back in the direction of the settlement. The satrap would be dissolved and Grantner was now a made man, and therefore ineligible for another undercover position unless he underwent plastic surgery —which Napoleon had heard was a not infrequent practice at THRUSH.

It had been more than twenty four hours, but Napoleon figured that no harm would come of firing off the flare anyway. Some help might come, more likely from the locals than any remaining THRUSH, and neither he nor Illya was really fit to make the two mile walk across the trackless wilderness back to the settlement. If they encountered any inclement weather they'd be much better off here at the barracks in any case.

Napoleon wrapped them both in the emergency blankets he'd stashed under the foundations of the burnt down barracks and fed them little bits of one of the chocolate bars along with sips of cold, fresh water. The two of them dozed there, huddled together in the corner of the old barracks as the sun worked its way slowly around to the western horizon. No klaxons or lights came to wake them but the gently gradual sound of barking dogs approaching eventually did, and it was possibly the most pleasant waking Napoleon could remember at the time.

~*~

Next: Loose ends are tied up, then Illya

~*~

Next week: Napoleon finally beats Illya at chess...

Comments

( 2 comments — Leave a comment )
jkkitty
Jun. 17th, 2013 11:37 pm (UTC)
Friends and partners, no matter what they are said to be.
rachaeljurassic
Jun. 18th, 2013 11:34 pm (UTC)
Nice rescue - 'a pale skinned, bare foot, blonde haired fury with a stolen gun'.

I think I'd like one of them please!
( 2 comments — Leave a comment )