failspy

perilouscowboy  asked:

Prompt: An oldie but a good, Illya and Napoleon are handcuffed together and have to cooperate to escape.

When Waverly had said that he thought Napoleon and Illya should get closer, Napoleon thought, this surely wasn’t what he’d meant.

Because the two of them were currently chained, back-to-back, to a rather heavy bomb casing, and sitting in a medium-sized boat that was slowly but surely sinking into the black water around it.

Dupond, the rather short Frenchman who had put them in this predicament, was currently skipping away on a high-powered speed boat, toward a huge shape that sat low on the water, silhouetted by the rising moon.

A submarine.

Napoleon had pulled out his lockpick as soon as Dupond had finished his dramatic exit monologue and sped away, and was currently working on the padlock that held them fast to the small and imposing black box sitting on the deck of the boat.

It was taking a little bit longer than he’d hoped.

“Hurry up, Cowboy,” Illya growled. He could feel the man’s bass timbre where their backs were pressed against each other.

“You know,” Napoleon said through gritted teeth, “I feel as if you just don’t appreciate how difficult this really is.”

They were racing against time. The boat was sinking, yes, but the two of them were also currently strapped to a not insignificant amount of explosive power… and the timer was ticking.

Most of Dupond’s explosives stockpile had been destroyed a week ago, when Gaby had infiltrated his warehouses in North Africa. But of course, for a person with Dupond’s particular skill set, it wasn’t hard to whip up a small but effective explosive with just enough power to blow two grown men to bits if they were sitting right on top of it.

Which, of course, they were.

“Cowboy…”

“Yes, I know, would you please shut up!” He snapped. Just a little bit more…

There was a small click, and Napoleon sighed in relief. The chain fell off of their wrists, and the two of them stood up.

But Napoleon didn’t even have time to gloat before Illya was wrapping his arms around Napoleon’s waist.

“What,” Napoleon said, just as Illya lifted him bodily off the deck and threw them both into the air.

The bomb exploded behind them, hot enough that Napoleon was sure his hair was at least a little bit singed. The force of the explosion propelled them forward, and they collided with the water hard enough to knock the breath out of both of them.

Napoleon spluttered, struggling to keep himself above the water; his left hand was caught on something. Illya appeared to be struggling as well. He pulled whatever it was out of the water.

They both froze.

“Oh,” Napoleon said.

Illya nodded. “I had forgotten about that.”

Before they had both been chained to the bomb, Dupond’s thugs had handcuffed them together. It was understandable. If there was one thing they had learned on this mission, it was that Dupond was a very thorough man.

As though on cue, the sound of yelling echoed across the water. Napoleon and Illya both looked around, past the inferno that was their boat. Far in the distance, they could see the speedboat that contained said Frenchman swinging around in a wide arc.

It was coming back towards them.

They both looked at each other.

“Time to go,” Illya said.

“Agreed.”

The both tried to start swimming at the same time, but ended up choking on water, each one struggling for control.

“You are going to drown us! Just follow my lead!” Illya coughed, sending water into Napoleon’s face.

“You don’t exactly have a perfect track record when it comes to swimming, you know,” Napoleon shot back, wiping his eyes and pulling on the handcuffs.

“Stop!” Illya thundered. “We do not have time for this! We have to match our swimming if we want to finish this mission! Stop being so stubborn!

Napoleon was silent for a moment. Finally, he nodded. “Let’s go.”

It took a few tries, but they eventually settled into a fast-paced freestyle stroke, headed for the dock, which was blessedly close. Dupond had only kicked the vessel out far enough to be over deep water, deep enough for drowning. It meant that they were making steady headway and would get there soon; but the speedboat was throttling toward them at full speed, and they didn’t have much of a buffer between them and mission failure.

By the time they were coming up under the dock, Napoleon desperately wanted to look over his shoulder to check the distance, but he kept his eyes in front of him.

Napoleon and Illya reached up simultaneously and grabbed the edge of the dock, pulling themselves up and falling awkwardly as they tried to stand in opposite directions.

Illya grunted in frustration. Napoleon agreed. This was starting to wear on his nerves.

“Can you get these things off, please!” Illya ordered, eyes flicking over to the speedboat, which was still hurtling towards them. Napoleon had just been reaching for his pick. But there was a problem.

“Ah,” he said, patting his sleeves, his pockets, his belt-

He’d lost the pick.

Illya’s eyes flicked to Napoleon, then back to the speedboat. “Cowboy,” he said warningly.

“I know, I know, I, uh…” He ran his right hand through his hair, under his collar, even smoothed his tongue along his teeth, searching for the pick and simultaneously praying that he had a second one hidden somewhere.

No dice.

“I appear to have lost the pick.”

Illya’s eyes snapped back to him, and his glare was scorching. “What? You lost it? How could you lose it?!”

“Well, I don’t know, Peril, a boat blew up behind me and I kind of lost tracks of things,” he bit back, patting down his trousers.

Illya let out a disgusted snort, eyes flicking back to the boat while Napoleon continued to search himself. Calculating.

“We do not have time for this.” He stated.

“For gods sake, if you’d just give me a moment-

But before Napoleon could finish his sentence, his left wrist was swallowed up by Illya’s massive right hand, and his arm was almost jerked out of its socket as Illya started running.

It took a few strides to right his balance, but eventually the two of them were sprinting into the shadows of a warehouse. Napoleon had to move his legs almost twice as fast as Illya; the Russian’s strides ate up distance like it was nothing.

Suddenly, in the middle of stacked wooden boxes, Illya came to an abrupt halt, jerking Napoleon’s arm again.

“Do you think you could be a little bit gentler, Peril? Not all of us are made of Iron,” He huffed as he bent over, trying to catch his breath.

“Sorry,” Illya said shortly. “Where is our car?”

“West,” Napoleon said, gesturing to the left with their joined hands. “Small white sport.”

Illya nodded. “The alarm hasn’t gone off yet,” He said gruffly. “We have to move quickly.”

“Right,” Napoleon said, and straightened up. “Shall we?”

The two took off running. There was an incline in every direction in front of them. The entire complex was on a slope toward the docks, where the land turned into sand which turned into sea, and every way out besides that was uphill from their current location.

In short, running was a bitch; even Illya was struggling, and the man could move like a freight train.

“Time,” The Russian heaved. His own watch was currently wrapped around Gaby’s wrist, a habit they had gotten into whenever one went on mission without the other.

Napoleon checked his watch.

“Seven minutes, forty three seconds,” He responded.

“How close are we?”

Napoleon tugged his handcuffed hand, slowing Illya down. “Very close,” He huffed, coming to a stop beside a tall chain link fence that ran the distance between the warehouses to their right and left. “I believe… It’s just on the other side of this fence.”

They considered the obstacle. “You wouldn’t happen to have that laser with you, would you?” Napoleon joked, and Illya smirked.

“We could go around,” the Russian suggested.

The sound of yelling suddenly echoed off the walls around them. They turned around. At the end of the workway, two darkly clad guards were shouting at them. One of them ran off, and the other drew his gun and aimed, shouting orders at them.

“No time,” Napoleon said. “Up.”

Illya grunted, and the two men threw themselves against the fence, clambering up and over the top, handcuffed arms moving in sync.

“Jump,” Illya said, and they did, both landing hard on the other side. Gunshots echoed, and the two men ducked around the corner quickly.

“Car?” Illya demanded.

“There,” Napoleon pointed across the wide main drag, at a squat vehicle that fit Waverly’s description. They quickly moved across, aware of distant yelling and the sound of feet hitting asphalt. Napoleon tried the door; it squeaked open at his touch.

“You know,” he said, “you’d think that for two of the best spies in the world, they’d be able to spare something a little more… stylish.”

Illya huffed. “Just get in, Cowboy.”

Napoleon did as he was asked, clambering in through the drivers seat and over the stick, his handcuffed arm stretched awkwardly behind him. He flopped over, hunkering down in the passenger seat and frantically searching the glove compartment for the keys as Illya tried to squeeze his bulk into the driver’s side. Napoleon stuck the keys in the ignition and turned; the engine sputtered to life, and both of the men gave a sigh of relief. At least something was going right.

But the sound of a bullet shattering through their rear window was enough to bring both of them back to the razor’s edge, and then Illya was gunning the engine, turning the car into the narrow alley between two warehouses. They screeched back out onto the wide main road for a moment and saw that the main gate was closing. But that was fine; they had a different exit planned.

There were more gunshots, raining down from the guard towers that winged the North entrance. Napoleon spun the wheel to the left, downshifting as they squealed into another alley, heading toward the west gate.

“Time?” he asked again, looking over his shoulder to see if they were being followed yet. They were clear, but sirens had begun to wail and lights were coming up over the entire complex.

“Three minutes,” Napoleon replied, retrieving a communicator from the glove compartment and hurriedly tuning in to the designated signal. His other hand was gripping the steering wheel, side by side with Illya’s.

“Waverly,” He spoke directly into the radio. “Come in, Waverly.”

Napoleon could only hear static for a moment before a familiar British voice came over the line. “Yes, hello, chaps, I’m here. How is everything going? You’re coming up on extraction in a couple of minutes.”

“Yes, we know,” Napoleon said, turning around as a small, dark sport car pulled out in the alleyway in front of them. Illya cursed, flinging the steering wheel left onto one of the main drags and then right again, into another narrow workway. The other vehicle wasn’t far behind. Gunshots rang off the warehouse walls on either side of their car.

“Everything all right, you two?” Waverly’s voiced came back in, concerned. “The entire Dupond Complex is coming on. I can hear the sirens from here.”

“Yes, well, we encountered a bit of trouble,” Napoleon ground out. “We were actually going to wrap the mission up early when-“

Another round of fire rained onto the back of their car. Napoleon ducked as the familiar sound of a shot tire exploded off the walls around them, and both Napoleon and Illya cursed loudly.

“Are those gunshots?” Waverly’s voice was barely audible over the scraping of metal on asphalt – their back left tire had been blown off, and the entire car was listing.

“That would be part of the trouble,” Napoleon said briskly. “Listen, Waverly, is there any way we could hold off on the extraction plan for another minute or two?”

There was a moment of silence over the line; then:

“Well, I’m sorry, Solo, but I’m afraid the explosives can’t be reset now. I told you they were on a timer, not remote; we’re too far to reach them at this point. You have another minute and a half to get to the checkpoint, else I’m afraid you’ll be stuck.”

Napoleon looked up. He could see the west gate from where they were; it was swarming with black-suited guards.

“Steer for me,” Illya said.

“What?”

“Steer for me!” The Russian replied, pulling their spare handgun from the lining of the passenger’s side seat. He put his fist through the cracked driver’s window, and then twisted, leveraging his entire torso out. Napoleon gripped the wheel tightly with the hand holding the radio, his other jerked out of the car roughly by the Russian, who was gripping the window frame to stabilize himself.

“Chaps? What’s going on?”

“Not now!” Napoleon yelled, trying desperately to keep his eyes above the dashboard as he stretched awkwardly across the car, attempting to keep from flattening Illya against the wall of a warehouse.

Illya fired a round of shots across the windshield and front tires of the vehicle behind them, quickly retreating back into the car to avoid another spray of bullets.

The black car swerved and hit the warehouse to their left, smoke billowing from its hood. Illya kept the pistol in his left hand, the one attached to Napoleon settling back solidly on the wheel. They were almost there.

“Waverly, we’ve almost reached the gate. Where’s that assist you promised us?”

“On the way, Solo.”

Even as he said it, Napoleon saw red flashing lights start spinning on top of the gate. He could hear the guards exploding into confusion as the giant gates started to crank open.

They hurtled along the alleyway, finally breaking free into the open area in front of the gate. Napoleon could see more vehicles speeding towards them from both sides, but it was too late; they were closing in on the exit, which the guards were still scrambling to try and get closed.

Finally, the black silhouettes gave up on trying to reverse the motion of the gate and turned around, aiming their firearms straight at the car.

Napoleon and Illya both ducked down as a hail of bullets rained down on them, their car being assaulted from all sides as they bowled through the guards, past the barriers, through the gate…

And onto the bridge.

“Time?” Illya grunted.

“We’ve got twenty seconds,” Napoleon responded. He wriggled up, chancing a glace behind them.

A fleet of security vehicles were chasing them, slowly gaining ground.

Napoleon looked down off the bridge.

The Dupond warehouse complex was situated on a piece of land separated from the mainland by a relatively narrow gap; it wasn’t an island, per say. But it wasn’t connected, either.

There was a rather deep chasm that split the end of the peninsula off from the rest of it, wide and tall enough to be uncrossable, except by bridge.

Ocean water swirled at the bottom of the chasm, beating mercilessly against the rocks. Though there were safety guards on both sides of the bridge, any sort of car crash could easily send someone tumbling to their deaths. Fortunately for them, the bridge was wide, and the only traffic was currently hurtling along behind them.

Unfortunately for them, the entire thing was rigged to explode in about ten seconds.

“Peril,” He said warningly as he wriggled up.

I’m driving as fast as I can, Cowboy,” The Russian shot back, pushing himself up as their pursuers fell behind and their firing abated in favor of driving faster.

“Five seconds,” Napoleon said, a bit of nervousness creeping into his throat. They were cutting it close. Too close. Illya’s hand twitched next to his, a sign of the man’s own nervousness.

“Three,” He counted. “Two. One…”

…nothing. They were still racing toward the end of the bridge, and both of them looked at each other in confusion, wondering-

A sudden blast rocked them both. The first charges had gone off, those closest to the Dupond Complex. Napoleon whipped around, just in time to see that section of the bridge collapse in a cloud of rubble and fire. The next section followed, and then the next. They were so close, so close-

They flew off the bridge, propelled by the last charge going off; the wooden barrier in front of them splintered from the force of it, and the guard tower crumbled. Illya desperately tried to get control of the car, but the small vehicle had had enough; the blast threw it off balance, and they screeched to the right, rolling over twice before finally grinding to a halt on the hard dirt below them.

Napoleon coughed and groaned; they were upside down. Dust filled his nostrils, and he head was pressed against the roof of the car at an awkward angle.

He sighed. At least they weren’t currently sinking to the bottom of that chasm, blown to hell with the rest of that bridge.

“Not bad, eh, Peril?” He joked tiredly, pulling on their shared handcuff.

Illya’s hand was strangely limp. Napoleon looked over. The Russian’s eyes were closed. Blood was dripping from his forehead. Napoleon cursed.

He reached over and took the Russian’s pulse. Still beating. Thank god.

With his other hand, he patted around for the radio. Finding it, he pulled it up to his mouth, turning himself over so that he was kneeling on the roof. “Waverly. Come in Waverly,” He said, as he pulled Illya down and laid him on his back. The man’s eyes were flickering, but he had clearly been knocked out hard. “Waverly, come in.”

“Solo! Glad to hear your voice. I must say, I was a little concerned at how close you were cutting it. How is Kuryakin?”

“Well, actually, that’s what I’m calling about,” He replied. “I’m afraid Peril’s out cold. Our transportation is totaled, and I’m currently hand cuffed to a 200-some-odd pound paperweight.”

Illya groaned as though in indignation.

“What I’m saying is, we could really use some help getting out of here.”

“Oh! Quite,” Waverly replied. “We’ll be there in just a moment. Just keep an eye on Kuryakin. And watch out for more of Dupond’s men. The other bridges have been destroyed, but that’s not to say there aren’t any of his cronies on the mainland.”

“Right. Thanks, Waverly. Solo out.”

The radio fizzled to quiet, and Napoleon let it fall with a heavy sigh. His shoulder hurt quite badly; actually, his entire body was currently complaining rather ardently, especially his head.

Ignoring this, Napoleon reached over his head to open his door, scooting backwards out of the vehicle and pulling Illya along after him. Once out, he arranged the Russian so that he was laying down next to Solo. It felt rather odd to be pulling the massive man’s arm around. Like he was a ragdoll.

Napoleon visually checked Illya and then himself for wounds. Other than more than a few deep cuts and bruises, and Illya’s substantial head wound, they seemed to be alright. They would survive, at least.

Illya was just starting to stir when the sound of a deep, growling engine met Napoleon’s ears. He sighed in relief.

“Cowboy…” Illya muttered, eyes flickering open, then screwing shut in pain.

“Hey, Peril,” Napoleon said brightly. “The car’ll be here in a minute, but I think I could have a little bit of trouble getting off the ground. Think you could… lend me a hand?

Illya lifted his head off the ground slightly, eyes wide in disbelief. “I hate you,” he stated, and Napoleon smirked smugly to himself as the Russian let his head drop back onto the ground.

——————————————–

BONUS:

Illya gingerly removed the compress from his forehead and poked his cut; his fingers came away bloody.

“Hey!” Gaby reached over and smacked his hand. “No touching! Now put the compress back on and stop messing with it.”

Napoleon snorted with amusement. Illya shot a glare his way, but only got a wink in return.

“This would not have happened if you hadn’t gotten us handcuffed together,” He grumbled. Napoleon looked insulted.

“That was not my fault,” the man insisted. “I got us caught, which I do apologize for, but it was not my fault that we got handcuffed, and neither can I be blamed for dropping the pick. The boat exploded. Anyone could have done it.”

Illya looked like he wanted to argue, but he was cut off by Gaby.

“What?” She said, looking from Illya’s sullen face to Napoleon’s innocent expression. “You were handcuffed?”

“For the entire escape,” Napoleon clarified, nodding.

“And you didn’t pick the lock?”

“Like I said, the boat exploded and I lost it,” He reiterated, taking another swig of the scotch that Waverly had graciously offered the three of them as soon as they’d gotten Napoleon and Illya into the vehicle.

“…Well, what happened to the second pick?” Gaby asked, leaning forward; she was warm and dry, in black stealth getup that was the same as the boys’, but Illya and Napoleon were still damp, towels wrapped around both of them. Waverly was sitting in the front, in his usual suit, conferring with the person driving the vehicle; they were being taken to a countryside safe house, to debrief after their mission. It was a long drive.

“There was no second pick,” Napoleon stated, “I checked everywhere.”

“But I saw you put one in your shoe before you two went out!” Gaby insisted. Now, both she and Illya were staring at him. He opened his mouth to deny it, but then shut it. Surely she couldn’t be right.

He quickly pulled his right shoe off, checking it for any compartments. Nothing.

He did the same with his left shoe, running his hands along it, turning it upside down –

A small, silvery flash fell out of the sole and plinked onto the floor.

…his second pick.

Napoleon looked up. Illya was looking at him like he was seriously regretting not just snapping Napoleon’s wrist to get it out of the handcuffs, and Gaby was sitting back, clearly amused.

“Un-fucking-believable, Solo,” She said, and then burst out laughing as she restrained Illya from launching himself across the car and straight for Solo’s throat.