Work Text:
Burnt: adj. describes an operative who is known to be a spy, or whose cover has been blown
"You ready, Jeeves?" Napoleon caught Illya's eye in the rear-view mirror as they pulled up to the thoroughly non-descript house on the outskirts of Tehran.
"You are too good at playing a bad guy, Cowboy." He parked, got out of the car and walked around to open the door for Napoleon and Gaby, looking every inch an American business man and his spoiled wife. This time, Illya's cover was chauffeur/bodyguard, and he fell into step behind them as they approached the door. Napoleon knocked, and the trio settled comfortably into their roles. A tilt of her head changed Gaby's excited smirk to a disdainful one. Solo absent-mindedly patted her hand on his arm, and Illya loomed behind.
The door opened, revealing a slight young woman in a simple maid's uniform. Napoleon gave her a small smile and said, "We are here to see Mr. Volkov, please. He has a package for us." She hesitated, and he repeated the request again, this time in Russian that exaggerated his American accent more than necessary. She nodded at that, and ushered them into the house. The maid brought them to an office, immaculately clean, with a tea service already hot and waiting. Illya took his post near the door, a silent watchman.
Within a minute, the Mr. Volkov in question came in. He was a large man, of a height with Napoleon and quite a bit heavier. His smile was wide and pleasant, and his thick mustache had all the hair his bald head didn't. He was cheerful and bouncy, in a way that reminded Gaby a little of her foster father and Napoleon of the man who ran the corner bakery on the street where he'd grown up.
When Illya saw him, he looked to the floor.
"Mr. Jackson, it is nice to finally meet you." He spoke with a heavy accent in his English as shook Napoleon's hand firmly, then turned to Gaby. "And this must be your wife. She is lovely. You were right, too lovely to be scrubbing her own floors!"
Gaby looked over at her partner in feigned frustration. "Yes, and all the help he tried to hire me has not been adequate. None of them even spoke a civil language."
"My dear, sit down, and let us discuss what I can provide for you." They all sat, and Napoleon nodded to her, letting her take the lead.
"We want a girl. She must be quiet, clean, and speak English, German, or Russian. She must be obedient, and healthy as well." Gaby hesitated. Though she was getting better at keeping up a role, sometimes it was a little much. Illya wanted to step in, protect her.
"Is something wrong, Mrs. Jackson?" Mr. Volkov asked, concerned.
Gaby sat up a little straighter. Maybe she didn't need Illya's help with this. "I'm sorry, but I find this whole thing...distasteful. I would have sent my husband to get a maid for us, but if he went alone he would have come back with a pretty little boy instead."
Napoleon merely shrugged at the accusation. All part of the cover, give Volkov some vulnerabilities, some meat to sink his teeth into.
"My dear, I can help you. I have the best girls, and many speak Russian. Everyone tries to get children through the West; they do not think about looking South, so I bring them this way. How old do you want your girl to be? Fourteen? Sixteen?"
"I was hoping younger." Gaby said, and let Mr. Volkov take her hand. "Maybe eight? She would not be so strong yet, but I could train her how I want her."
Mr. Volkov's eyes sparkled merrily. "I have just the girl. From Kiev. Her mother died and she was all alone. So Uncle Sergei brought her here. Anya!" He called out, and the maid from before appeared in the doorway. "Take Mrs. Jackson upstairs to meet Klara."
Gaby stood and followed the maid out of the room, and once their footsteps on the stairs faded, Volkov grinned at Napoleon. "You have quite the wife. Knows her mind."
"She does. I know better than to deny my Roberta anything." Napoleon's smile was genuinely smug. Gaby really was something.
"Do you deny yourself, though?" Volkov glanced at the door, then lowered his voice and leaned in a little. "She said you would prefer a boy."
The American leaned in too. "I don't think she'd let me keep one, but if services could be arranged...."
"I have mostly girls, but I have some good boys too. Even some as good as Illya here was." Volkov looked over at the man who had already memorized the pattern on the rug. "Illya, why do you not say hello to your Uncle Sergei? Your mother taught you better."
Illya met Napoleon's eyes and silently willed him to just keep cover, before he swallowed and finally replied. "I...did not realize. It has been a long time, and you changed your name."
That was actually true. When Illya had known "Uncle Sergei", he hadn't been Sergei Volkov. Though considering his line of work, it wasn't surprising he was using an assumed name.
"You have changed much too. You were just a little thing still when your mother sent you away. I was sorry to hear when she passed. I hope you are doing well now." Volkov did, indeed, look sorry.
"Yes, thank you." Illya mumbled, and clenched his trembling fingers into a tight fist.
Napoleon finally cleared his throat, drawing attention away from his "bodyguard" again. "I didn't know you two were acquainted. And while I would love to find out more about my driver's mysterious past, I'd like to finish discussing business before my wife returns."
"Yes, yes." Volkov turned back to him and nodded. "I can arrange a good boy for you. You can come here, or I give you address and Illya can pick up."
"That is generous of you." Napoleon worded it carefully, surprised that Volkov was so cavalier about his business.
"Most do not get this deal, but I trust my boys, even after so long." The man started to chuckle. "Though prices have gone up since Illya was in business."
"Of course. Let me get my wallet." The American reached into his jacket and pulled out his pistol, leveling it at Volkov's face.
The man sputtered and jumped back in his seat, only to be caught around the neck by a very irate Illya.
"Dammit, Cowboy. We are not supposed to kill him."
"What is going on?" Volkov demanded in Russian, though his words were choked by the hold the taller man had on him.
Napoleon rolled his eyes. "We're shutting down your operation. And if you're very good and tell us where the rest of the children you've smuggled into the country are, I may be nice and kill you quickly."
"We are not supposed to kill him." Illya insisted again, though his hands were still shaking.
"No! You don't want to kill me!" Volkov tried to twist his head, to make eye contact with the Russian agent. "Illyusha, I will tell you anything. You were always such a good boy. Don't hurt your Uncle Sergei. I was always... so kind..."
His words choked out as Illya solidified his hold. A few seconds later, the man slumped down, and the Russian loosened his grip enough to check his pulse. It was faint, but there still.
"Illya..." Napoleon started, but his partner just glared at him. "I'm going to check his desk. See if any of his papers mention the other address."
Illya didn't respond, or even look at him for a long moment. He considered the man who was blinking himself back into consciousness, then delivered a precision strike to Volkov's head. Finally, he asked, "Why couldn't you keep your temper, Cowboy? I am the one who should be angry."
"I couldn't listen to him say those things about you."
"He did not lie." Illya walked over and started helping look through he mess of papers on the desk. "And I told you that you were not my first man."
"Excuse me, but bullshit." Napoleon plucked a letter out of his partner's hand and shook his head. "God, Illya. That's not... Your Iron Curtain, KGB agent, carved-from-stone persona is very attractive sometimes but please, please tell me you don't think that's the same thing as what we do."
Illya's face softened. "No, Napoleon. I do not. It was long time ago."
"That makes it worse." The American reached up and gently cupped Illya's cheek in his hand. "You were just a kid."
"And now I am not. If you do anything I don't want, I say no and break your hand. It is not the same thing." He covered his partner's hand with his own for a moment, then gently moved it and pointed to the desk again. "It is past. Let it stay past, please."
"Okay, Illya. Just promise me you will break my hand if I ever do anything to make you uncomfortable. I don't ever want to hurt you."
"Fine, Napoleon. But I will warn you first."
***
By the time Gaby returned with the maid, they had located a few possible addresses for the other location, and transmitted them to Waverly for followup. She looked at the unconscious man on the couch for a split second before pulling out her own gun and training it on the other young woman, who instantly threw up her hands in surrender. "Next time, boys, please let me know when we break cover so I don't keep pretending I want to buy a child slave, okay?"