Waverly is unfolding a crudely drawn map when Napoleon stretches in his seat in an obvious display of boredom that has Illya rolling his eyes.

"I don't know what you're so worried about. It sounds like a simple extraction," Napoleon says with a sniff.

"Oh?" Waverly says.

"Another rich politician's entitled son, kidnapped from his private school or Wimbledon lessons, taken for ransom or leverage or whatever these bastards are after. We'll just waltz in, kidnap him back, and take him home to daddy. Simple."

Waverly looks unimpressed. "Do try and remember this is a stealth mission, Solo. Hardly the time for waltzing." He gives him one last disapproving look before turning back to the map spread out on the desk. "Our man on the inside says Janssen's son is being kept in this outbuilding, here. You're to retrieve him as quickly as possible without drawing attention to yourselves. Is that clear?"

Napoleon shrugs. "It certainly isn't anything I haven't dealt with before."

Waverly raises his eyebrows in a look that Illya has come to learn means something like, you're completely bloody wrong. "Well, um, how are you with children?" the Brit asks, a hint of smugness in his voice. "Because the prince's son is, I believe, five years old."

Illya isn't fond of children, much less the small ones, and he can't help but make a face of disgust. Napoleon, on the other hand, looks more terrified than anything else.

"Problem, Cowboy?" Illya says wryly.

"You may not believe this," Napoleon answers slowly, "but even given my considerable charm, I am not gifted with children." He looks at Waverly with an expression of pleading. "Why don't you send Gaby with Illya?"

"She's been assigned to another operation. Unless you'd like to trade places with her and seduce an arms dealer?"

Napoleon shrugs. "Given the choice…"

"Come on, Cowboy," Illya says, nudging the American in the ribs. "Don't let him intimidate you." He lowers his voice. "Children can smell fear you know."

Napoleon scowls at him, then turns to Waverly and narrows his eyes. "Fine. But this better be an isolated incident, or I'm going back to the CIA."

xxx

They make it into the outbuilding easily enough. There are two guards at the end of the hall, at the door where Waverly's source said the boy is being kept, and they're dispatched easily enough. What the agents don't bank on, however, is the third man, in the room with the boy. He manages to get off a warning shout just before Napoleon can reach him.

"They definitely heard that," Napoleon says as he lowers the dead guard to the ground. He can see the trembling child out of the corner of his eye. And he can hear the shouts of men, getting closer. "What do we do with him while we take care of them?"

Illya does a quick scan of the room before crossing to a large cabinet and pulling out the contents, scattering them on the cold cement. He looks up at Napoleon. "Here."

Napoleon scoops up the boy and stows him in the small space. "We'll be right back," he says before putting a finger to his lips and closing the boy in. He removes his knife from the guard's chest. "Let's go."

They work quickly, and although they're outnumbered, they work together well and are both well-trained in the art of killing efficiently and so are able to hold their own-though by the time they get to the last man they've both been disarmed. Illya wrestles him into a chokehold and looks up at Napoleon, straining.

"I've got him. You go get the boy."

Napoleon nods and runs back to the other room, rushing in and flinging open the cabinet door. The boy jumps and lets out a cry."

"Qui es-tu?" he whimpers, shrinking away from the American with wide eyes.

Napoleon closes his eyes and sighs as the smell of urine reaches him, trying not to look and sound as fed up as he feels. "I'm here to help you."

The boy stares at him with wide eyes, his lower lip quivering as he scrunches himself further in the corner.

Napoleon rolls his eyes and lets out a small sound of frustration, which he quickly smothers with a smile and quirked eyebrows. "Listen, I'm a friend, you understand? Camarde!"

The boy just shakes his head and sniffles.

He's usually very skilled at keeping his personal feelings in check, but Napoleon is growing increasingly irritated. There's a reason he avoids children. They don't listen to reason, they have the communicative abilities of a goldfish, and they are so damn emotional. He takes a deep breath. "Look, kid-"

Just then, the door bursts open and Illya appears, panting, his expression equal parts confused and annoyed. "What is taking so long? We have to go!"

Napoleon shrugs helplessly and gestures at the cowering child.

"Move," Illya says, and Napoleon scootches to the side. Illya bends down so he's eye-level with the kid and gives him a small wave. "Salut ami. Je suis la pour te ramener à ton père."

Napoleon frowns, giving Illya a sideways look. "Since when do you know French?" he asks, simultaneously impressed and annoyed.

Illya glances over at him. "Since Waverly had me and Gaby learn while you were studying Farsi. Now shut up and let me talk to the boy." He turns back to the kid. "Allons-y, petit prince!"

The kid whispers something that Napoleon can't hear and Illya snorts.

"What?" Napoleon asks, trying to sound less interested than he actually is.

Illya grins. "He says he does not like you."

Napoleon feels his eyes narrow as he opens his mouth, then closes it. He isn't surprised, really. He doesn't care, either-but he does care that Illya seems to be doing fine. With the kid, with the French...It's irritating to be behind. But if he's going to have to be the backup, then he's going to be the best backup, damn it. "Why don't I go find a blanket. We have to get to the rendezvous on foot and he's not exactly dressed for the weather."

"Good idea," Illya answers as Napoleon slips behind him and out into the hall.

It doesn't take him long to find a large blanket. The compound isn't exactly cozy, and even evil child-snatching terrorists get cold, it seems. He snatches up the olive green wool monstrosity and makes his way back to Illya and the child.

"Here," he says, holding it out to Illya, who's somehow managed to coax the boy out of hiding.

Illya takes it and wraps it tightly around the boy, who watches Napoleon with a solemn gaze.

"How did you get him to come out?" he asks, slightly unnerved at the kid's apparent ability to not blink.

"Children can sense when you do not like them," Illya responds, scooping the child into his arms.

Napoleon snorts. "I saw your face when Waverly told us the mission. "You don't like kids any more than I do."

Illya shrugs. "I guess I'm good at pretending. Now come, it's nearly dawn, and there is not much daylight to get to the extraction point."

Napoleon raised an eyebrow as he stepped back out into the hallway and did a quick sweep. "Since when are you good at pretending?"

"I pretend to like you don't I?"

"Ha ha ha," Napoleon responded. "And that was me pretending to laugh. Now let's get the hell out of here. He looks out into the hall and grimaces.

"Tell him to close his eyes," he says, stepping over the arm of a dead man. His boot lands in a pool of blood.

"Ferme tes yeux," Illya says, and Napoleon almost smiles at the gentleness in his voice.

"You lied to me, Peril. I thought you didn't like kids." He moved over so he could turn and see Illya's face more easily.

"I don't," Illya says. "I just know how to talk to them. You give me plenty of practice."

Napoleon lets out a sound of mock hurt as they pick their way through the carnage to the exit. "You've been spending too much time with Gaby. Out little harpy seems to be rubbing off on you."

"She says the same thing about you. I think you're both to blame."

Napoleon can't stop the small laugh that erupts from him. "Yes, that's probably true." He's turning to say something else when he sees movement out of the corner of his eye. Things happen quickly from there-Napoleon, placing his body between the man and Illya at the same time that he shouts for his partner to look out, his gun already out of its holster, his finger already tightening. He's barely gotten the shot off before he feels it, in his left side, hot and sharp. He hears the child scream, and Illya shouting his name.

"I'm fine," Napoleon insists. "I'll be fine. We have to get him out of here. Once we're beyond the compound we can try and figure out what to do about...this."

There's a long pause before Illya says, "Okay." He doesn't sound convinced, but he starts walking again. It isn't long before he takes the lead, for which Napoleon is grateful.

The adrenaline is wearing off by the time they clear the compound (which, by some miracle, hasn't been stirred into action by the gunshots), and the pain in his side is getting worse with every step he takes. He does his best to ignore it. The further he can make it, the more likely Illya will be to listen to reason. Because, though he wouldn't dare say anything until he absolutely has to, Napoleon knows he'll never make it to the rendezvous.

xxx