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The Hobsons Choice Affair Chapter 28
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Disclaimer
This is a work of amature fiction, no contravention of copyright is intended and no profit is made from this endeavour.
**Ryan whispered a number of words in his ear. Hearing them, the Russian
realized he'd have to agree to the traitor's demands -- and before another
sun rose over New York.**
"Look this way, mate." Napoleon unwillingly dragged his eyes from the
direction he had been staring, wincing at the growing pain in his head. He
wanted to know what was going on in that room -the door, its hinges loose,
had slid open enough to see more than he wished. He hadn't known Illya
Kuryakin for all that long, nor as well as he still hoped, but he knew the
Russian well enough...enough to recognize the tension that had suddenly
stiffened the blonde's lean back even as he had bent over the traitor Ryan
and a few words had passed between them.
And that kiss...what was that kiss all about? Why did the thought of it
spark a proprietary anger within him when he and Illya had yet to make any
promises or pledges to each other? If they ever did...no matter how much he
wanted to. "Damn!" Napoleon flinched as practiced fingers examined his
injuries -apparently, the UNCLE agent he knew as Mark was not only a field
agent, but a field medic as well...or as close as they got to one.
"Sorry," the Brit murmured, "but you'll be glad t'know that you'll live -in
pain for a bit, but you'll live. A trip to the chemist's will take care of
what aches...though I'd suggest a visit to a doctor. UNCLE will take care of
it, unless you want to see your own."
Napoleon winced inwardly. "My doctor was killed...by THRUSH."
Mark flinched -major faux pas there. "Right. Sorry about that, mate, I am."
He paused, noting that the American's gaze had again drifted over to the
room where Illya and Ryan remained in huddle -he knew that look, had seen it
on others, had worn it himself once upon a time. "Um, Napoleon, right? It's
none of my business, but it might not be the best idea to be thinking of
taking up with Illya for the long haul." The American's expression darkened.
"Look, it's the life we lead, ey? I know Illya likes you -I can tell- but
this...job...is everything to him. Can't rightly have a family or long-term
relationships -especially not with innocents- when you're under the gun most
of the time. He's never stuck to anyone more n' a week."
"I don't know what you're talking about, *mate*," Napoleon hissed. "And it's
none of your business either way."
At that moment, the partially open door swung open completely, re-admitting
Illya and his traitorous prisoner -no thunder cloud was as dark as the
expression in the Russian's storm-blue eyes. He glanced at Napoleon, his
manner deliberately detached...though, Bozhe Moi, how hard it was play that
role....especially now. "How is he?"
Mark shrugged. "He'll live."
"Da...good." Illya steeled himself. Mark, I am taking the prisoner into my
personal custody -there are documents we must collect."
Mark and Napoleon shared a puzzled glance -something about that sounded odd
to both of them. "Right...are you sure, mate? Maybe some back-up--"
"Nyet!" Illya withdrew slightly. "I mean no -thank you. I am able to handle
this matter. Napoleon--" He nodded to the American. "--perhaps I shall see
you later?"
With that, the Russian stomped out of the room, the openly sneering Ryan in
tow, in the forefront of Illya's thoughts, those few awful whispered words:
"I have pictures, Kuryakin, *and* I have the negatives."
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