— Disclaimer: I don't own The Man From U.N.C.L.E., but I like it anyways!

a/n: Spoilers for movie.

Summary: Illya wants Napoleon. Napoleon sees it and thinks he can take advantage, but the Russian is the dominator, not the dominee.

Coupling: Illya/Napoleon

The Man From U.N.C.L.E

Pique and Pursue

Napoleon had only time to widen his eyes in recognition of the tall, lethal blonde Russian next to him, before said man grabbed the lapels of his suit jacket and ran him backwards. Napoleon scrambled to keep his feet as he was shoved back into the toilet stall behind him. His back collided with the grungy tile wall, his head tapping back against the same tile as he struggled not to fall into the toilet beneath his spread legs. Illya's face was like etched in stone, but his Russian blues were almost manic.

He struggled with the taller man. Illya was using the American as some sort of battering-ram, pushing and shoving him through the weakly bolted stall walls, that collapsed behind Napoleon's weight and his own strength. As they stumbled into clear flooring, Napoleon managed to loosen Illya's hold on him and get an arm around his head, pushing him down and putting a firm fist to his exposed ribs.

Illya grunted briefly as he grasped the wrist of the arm around his head, his other stopping the striking fist. He hooked his foot around the man's ankle and moved like a cog in a machine, each gear doing its work. He bent the arm from around his head as he twisted the other, his foot hooking Napoleon's own from under him. He flipped the broader man. His own body followed, rolling with him, slithering around to his back.

Illya ended up on the floor, slumped halfway against the green wood paneled wall between the urinals and the door to the bathroom. But that was just where he wanted to be, with Napoleon halfway on top of him. He had the American in a chokehold, the man's dark-haired head at his chest. He had his legs wrapped around Napoleon's hips and hooked around his legs, his feet under his knees, spreading them wide and keeping the straining man firm in place.

What had once been an immaculate suit, was now creased, wrinkled, rumbled, you name it. His crisp white dress shirt had been tugged from his belted pants during the struggle, and at the moment was riding up his toned stomach and back. At least he hadn't heard any tearing, Napoleon thought.

Napoleon struggled against the man's coiled hold, but it was like a steel-trap. He hoped this wasn't how he died—in a park café men's restroom in East Berlin. That would be in very poor taste—though he supposed this would have more dignity in it than if the K.G.B. Operative was shoving his face in one of those toilets right now. There was a bruising force stabbing him in the small of his back. God, why didn't the bastard just shoot him already?

Saunders was still taking a concernedly long piss at the urinal, completely unconcerned with the attack Russian strangling his Agent at the moment.

"Kuryakin, не убить своего партнера в первый день."

It was another Russian who had stepped to his defence...? Napoleon wasn't quite sure, what with the oxygen deprivation and blood ringing in his ears. It wasn't until the old Russian's head twitched to the side did Illya release the American immediately.

Napoleon sucked in a sharp breath—feeling suddenly dizzy from the explosion of oxygen now instead of lack of. He inadvertently slumped back against his would-be killer's chest for a brief instant as he recovered.

Illya put a hand on his broad shoulder and pushed to his feet—the gun tucked in the front of his pants knocking the back of Napoleon's head.

"What?" Napoleon asked in confusion, clearing his throat as he stumbled to his feet.

"He said: don't kill your partner on your first day." Saunders translated Oleg's Russian words, all tucked in.

Napoleon gave him a confused look as he started to readjust his rumpled suit, brushing the material back into its proper places, straightening his tie and tucking his shirt back into his pants.

"Say hello to your new partner, Solo."

Napoleon blinked at the older man in horror. "Kill me now," he muttered.

In the blink of an eye, Illya had his gun out from the back of his pants and pointed it at the American's head. "Ask again and I will grant your wish, American." He heard the Russian's voice for the first time.

Napoleon stopped fingering his mussed locks back into place. Not because of the gun pointed at him—but because of where the gun had come from. The entire struggle, that hard thing pressed against his back, that thing that had thumped him on the back of the head when Illya stood with mass—was Kuryakin's erection.

Oleg had Illya standing down with a simple blink of the eye. Illya shrugged simply, tucking his piece back into its place at the small of his back, jerking his tight brown jacket back into place over his hips.

They settled at a table in the outside cafe, and sat next to their respective handlers and directly across from each other. Napoleon's gaze flickered down as Illya sat across from him. The crotch of his grey slacks were stretched thin across his lap and Napoleon clearly saw the firm outline against the material before the table blocked his view.

He kept his expression carefully cocky as he stared back across the table at the impassive Russian. Their handlers each took turns upon explaining the reason for this sudden and dubious partnership between the C.I.A. and the K.G.B.

Gaby Teller, (whom Napoleon had extracted the previous night), was the daughter of Dr. Udo Teller, an alleged Nazi scientist-turned United States collaborator at the end of World War II. Dr. Teller's brother Rudi worked in a shipping company owned by Alexander and Victoria Vinciguerra, a wealthy Nazi sympathizing couple who intended to use Teller to build their own private nuclear weapon and give it to lingering Nazi elements.

The fight had aroused the Russian and Napoleon couldn't help but wonder at what aspect of it. What it a simple adrenaline rush of the fight? Was it finishing off what had been denied him the previous night when they parried blows? Or, could it be Napoleon himself?

"We'll leave you to get acquainted." Saunders said, rising. And along with both their handlers, the entire café emptied, leaving the two Agents in solitude.

Oh, this certainly got a lot more interesting in the American's eyes. Napoleon made himself pay attention as the Russian spoke.

"...But, what interests me, is given your profile, what would motivate you to become the C.I.A.'s most effective Agent? I concluded it must be to... counter-act the humiliation of knowing your balls are at the end of a very long leash held by a very short man."

Napoleon thought it rather interesting that the Russian would bring up his balls right now, but they were both professionals, after all. "I'm sure you understand humiliation better than most."

"Really?" Illya leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms over his chest. "How so?"

"Well, after your performance last night, I thought I should read up on you. Rather a sad story: what with your dad being a big, top government official with all the perks and privileges—right up until he was caught embezzling party funds." Illya's finger taped against his forearm. "How old were you when he was sent to the Gulag? Ten? Eleven-years-old?" Tap. Tap. "Was that when the psychotic episodes started? You did, however, rise above it. Special Forces. K.G.B. The youngest man to join in fact, and their best within three years." Napoleon watched the Russian blues darken, the corner of his lips tighten imperceptible, his nostril flare as he breathed through his nose. "I do wonder if it was your father's shame that gave you such drive, though... or... was it your mother's reputation?" the heat in Illya's gaze turn dry-ice cold. But Napoleon pushed anyways: "I understand that she was extremely popular amongst your father's friends after he was shipped off to Siberia."

Illya jumped smoothly to his feet and overturned the table between them with a single flick of his hand, sending it and its contents smashing to the ground. Napoleon looked up casually and unaffected at the furious man, who then swiftly spun on his heel.

"See you tomorrow!" Napoleon called after the Russian chirpily.

Napoleon felt a low flare of arousal as he followed Illya's departure until he couldn't see the man any longer. The man's anger was something to contend with, maybe even untameable. But Napoleon had a few tricks up his tailored sleeve... What would that sort of energy, that unbridled passion be like as a honed tool of the Russian's sexual drive?

When he was flung from the boat and into the harbour, Napoleon simply abandoned the Russian and swam to the dock. He found a truck that seemed to just be waiting for him, with keys still in the ignition and a basket full of food on the passenger seat. He turned the key and let the radio play, glancing out the door window and into the bay where he could still see Illya racing around in the harbour with the pursing henchmen. Illya could take care of them, escaping on the boat had been his idea in the first place, and now he was going to have to deal with the consequences while Napoleon had a latenight meal.

And then he heard the explosion and saw Illya's boat on fire, sinking into the harbour—felt the unfamiliar clench of fear in his gut and drove the truck right onto the pursing boat idling at the wreckage before he could even understand what he had done.

Now Napoleon could feel the slight vibration against his back that wasn't the motor scooter's soft engine between his thighs—but Illya that was emitting a fine shiver from his long exposure and near drowning in the harbour, that had left Napoleon's own knees feeling a little weak and his heart beating weird in his chest.

Napoleon swerved slightly in surprise as he felt the arms that Illya had wrapped around his torso, start to roam.

"Keep your eyes on the road, Cowboy." Illya murmured in his ear and Napoleon couldn't help the shiver at the new nickname.

"Peril, what exactly are you—?"

"Need to get warm, Cowboy, before... гипотермия set in." He reasoned—and unzipped Napoleon's jacket, sliding his hands into the contained warmth there. He started to rub them up and down the clothed torso.

Napoleon huffed. "I think that's more likely to get me hot than you."

"Don't think on it, Cowboy." Illya somehow managed to shift forward even further on the bike seat, hips thrusted lightly against the back of Napoleon's butt. Napoleon felt the familiar heat through the damp and the coming firmness like back in the bathroom in East Berlin.

"God, Peril! You just drowned, how are you—" Napoleon was finding it growing seriously difficult not to crash the motor scooter and end them in a splat against the wall.

Illya's hands moved down flat across his chest, and took the path of his thighs, caressing. The distractingly returned up his legs, via the inside of his thighs. Napoleon bit the inside of his cheek, having to fight the urge and the want to stare down in his lap instead of concentrating on the road, to watch those large hands gaining closer to a very wanting and growing organ between his own legs—before distinctly avoiding said area and pushed under the hem of his long sleeve. He made a sound in the back of his throat as he felt Illya's calloused fingers stroke the strip of flesh underneath his bellybutton.

Illya nuzzled the side of his throat, his light stubble prickly the flesh and Napoleon had to stop this before they crashed or they were going to die completely unsatisfied. He pressed the brakes and they squealed to a halt on the corner, with the Plaza just across the street, luckily or not.

Illya easily adjusted to the stopped vehicle, and Napoleon felt the instant loss as his legs fell away from his own.

"So, you were just teasing me?" Napoleon narrowed his eyes and looked over his shoulder at the Russian. He didn't care how petulant he sounded.

"It is you who tease me." Illya's voice rumbled through his back.

Napoleon was again taken by surprise at the Russian's aggressive actions, completely this time, as he gripped the American's hips and jerked him backward. Napoleon fell back against his chest and partially onto his lap. And there was definitely no denial of the Russian's erection now as the little monster attempted to burst through the man's zipper and then the seam of his own trousers; he could feel it sniffing around.

"See what you do? See what you cause?"

"Well, what are you going t-to do about it?" If it was meant to be a challenge, the tone was undercut by the stammer when Illya took his earlobe gently between his teeth. Now, if only the infuriating man's hands would just go a bit further south—

"Nothing at the moment." Illya released his ear.

"Wha—" Napoleon was left completely floundering. "Now who's the tease?" The Red bastard had played him.

"Still you." Illya nodded. "But your girlfriend is paying you a visit." He extended his arm from under Napoleon's and pointed at the hotel across the street.

Napoleon followed the long limb to the hotel and his mind kicked into spy-mode. He cursed and scrambled from Illya's lap, the Russian followed smoothly, seeming unaffected by the disruption. Napoleon cursed his cold exterior.

They snuck into the hotel and ran up the stairs to beat the lift and went their separate ways seamlessly as Napoleon was forced to go one floor higher to his own room. Once inside, he rush into the bathroom, flinging his clothes off and stuffing them in a hamper. He threw on a white bathrobe and splashed a handful of water to further wet his damp hair.

And if he was half-hard under the robe, well then...

And if he stepped from the bathroom to find Victoria in the room, there wasn't much he could do about that either.

And if, when they fell into bed, he thought of the Russian in the room below his, well then, no had to know but him.

The sprint up the stairs and into his and Gaby's suite dissipated any lingering shivers that he may of had from the water, but this was not the way he had intended.

Illya scowled at the speaker as he heard Napoleon's groans of sexual pleasure and Victoria's giggles crackled through the speaker. Cowboy had only been back for less than five minutes and already he'd dropped his pants. The plastic creaked under his white-knuckled grip, his jaw clenched as he fought the boiling—Gaby walked in in her pyjamas.

She looked at him wide-eyed. "What's going on?" she looked at the radio in his hands and the sounds coming from it. "What happened?" she noticed his state. "You're wet."

"A simple swim." He told her. He shut the radio off and threw it onto the soft cushions of the couch where it bounce from the force behind it, saving it from otherwise destruction had he done so against the wall. "I'm going to bed." He said curtly and left her standing there.

She blinked after him as the bedroom door slammed before she sat on the couch. She took the radio in hand and switched it on, the notes of Napoleon and Victoria's active activities filling the quiet air before she shut it off again. She sniggered quietly to herself, laying back. The Russian was completely and utterly jealous, though she was sure of it was of Victoria, not Napoleon.

Illya scrambled to pack up his radio and escape. Gaby's double-cross was an unexpected turn that he never suspected to account for on this mission and it set off the rage inside him—but as much as his rage incensed him to want to leap through the bushes at Gaby, her Uncle Rudi and Victoria Vinciguerra's husband Alexander and show them what it meant to betray a Russian K.G.B. Officer, the ominous baying of dogs and armed security forced him the other way. His pack proceeded him over the razor-topped fence, he quickly followed, the dogs catching up to him first, crashing useless against the meshed wire.

The armed men, on the other hand, weren't as useless as the gunfire followed after him as he ran towards his parked van up on the country road, he returned fire before diving into the driver's seat. Bullets thudded almost dully against the vehicle as he speed away, his mind racing.

Gaby had betrayed them, perhaps playing them this whole time. Him and Napoleon. He cursed in a long string of Russian curses as he pulled out onto the main road and started to execute a serious of evasive manoeuvres to shake whatever tail might be on him.

Gaby may have betrayed them, but in her revelation of his position, she had given him what time he had needed to make his escape. Napoleon, on the other hand, would not of had such a warning in his meeting with Victoria. It was nearly forty-five minutes too long before he deemed himself not under pursuit and pulled the van over. He couldn't risk going back to the hotel, it would be watched. But he had all the gear that he needed in the van. He grabbed the duffle from the back, abandoned the van, and commandeered another vehicle.

He sorted through the duffle and took out the tracker, turning the Russian-made device on and turned the frequencies until he got a steady signal on one of the trackers and or bugs that he had secretly placed on or in the American's belongings. Some he made easily found to throw the scent of the ones not easily so.

He followed the signal to a nearby warehouse from Victoria's office. He showed the guards there no mercy, instead took satisfaction in their deaths. He discovered Gaby's Uncle Rudi showing off his gruesome album of past torturees, with Napoleon strapped to an odd looking chair tangled in wires, blood running from his nostrils.

Napoleon locked eyes with the blond. "My, am I glad to see you."

Rudi blinked in confusion at the American, then realized the blue-eyed man wasn't actually looking at him. Rudi turned and paled completely as he looked into the cold eyes of the tall Rusian that his niece played engaged to. The fist felt like a sledgehammer to the Nazi torturer's face, he flew from the stool and to the floor, unconscious.

"Glad we're on the same side," Napoleon's brain felt fuzzy around the edges and he blinked to clear his blurry gaze. He'd really thought this was where he'd die, definitely more painful than if Illya's had chosen to kill him in the bathroom.

"Cowboy?" Illya questioned, approaching. "Okay?"

"Mm. Just a little overcooked. Get me out of this thing, would you?"

Illya nodded. He hand trembled for a moment as he reached for the straps that held Napoleon in the gruesome chair before he steadied them. He wondered if this was how the American felt when he had drowned at the shipping yard. The fist clenched in his gut.

Napoleon stood quickly from the chair, not ready to be electrocuted purposely or accidentally again. He swayed and reached for support. Illya was surprised at the hand clamped around his bare left wrist, now naked of his father's watch divested of him because of this mission that had already started on the down side.

Napoleon was surprised himself as he felt the warm and firm support of Illya's hand on the back of his shoulder. He looked at the Russian, not even having fully realized that he had grabbed him. Their eyes locked.

"Well... it looks like we've been compromised." Napoleon said by way of relieving the tension and letting Illya know that he was fine without actually saying that.

Illya's expression darkened and he scoffed in derision as they released each other respectively. "Gaby."

"What? Is she okay?" He asked in confusion at the fury of the man.

"Она квислинг! Предатель!" Illya growled, his fists clenched. "Tricked us, betrayed us!"

"Well," Napoleon blinked at the clearly unexpected news. "I did not see that one coming." Illya let out a string of Russian profanities that had Napoleon trying not to smile despite the situation. "It's just as much of a shock to me too, Peril." He wiped the blood away from under his nose.

"It is different. I am Russian."

Napoleon scoffed at the petulant answer from the K.G.B. Agent. "Being Russian doesn't make you all-seeing. And despite all your displays to the contrary, Peril, you're still human."

Illya looked at him and Napoleon looked back. The blonde opened his mouth, but whatever he might have said was interrupted by a forgotten Nazi scum groaning his way back to consciousness. Napoleon silently cursed, whatever kind of moment, whatever anger had left the Russian, returned. He turned from Napoleon and grabbed Rudi one handed by the throat and picked him up. Napoleon stepped back and watched Red Peril work as he tossed a squealing Nazi pig into the electrical chair and harshly. Illya found the pedal and promptly stomped it. Rudi shrieked.

"I will fry you like chicken, burn you to crisp." The treat seemed pretty childish, but coming from the Russian, it was very, very real. He stomped it again.

Rudi whimpered. "I'll tell you anything you want!"

Illya stomped the pedal in reply, but it simply clicked and nothing happened. Rudi let out a sob anyways.

"Easy!" Napoleon grabbed the Russian's arm. "We need him alive."

"It not work." Illya ignored him. "Why?" he continued to tap the pedal.

"I said I'd tell you!" Rudi protested. He was ignored.

"There's a short."

"I will fix it." Illya said shortly. He bent down and grabbed at the bundle of tangled wires.

"Would you stop and just talk to me for a moment?" Napoleon demanded, grabbing his arm.

"He must pay for what he has done—" he never got to finish.

"Please, I'll tell you anything you want to know!" Rudi couldn't take it any more. And he blathered on about the uranium, how it was already a bomb; and about the Vinciguerra's island fortress where Dr. Teller was and where Gaby would be.

But all Napoleon could wonder was if Illya was referring to the Nazism, or what he'd done to Napoleon. "Illya."

Illya paused at his name leaving the American's lips for the first time. He looked at the shorter man, the Nazi forgotten, the bundle of wires falling from his hands and onto the floor. "Napoleon," he responded lowly, the man's name rolling off his tongue.

Napoleon gave him a dazzling smile. Illya emitted a low growl, but it wasn't one of anger, and took a step towards the American. There was a loud crackle of electricity from the chair and Rudi shrieked. The two men jumped back as the chair seemed to go haywire, crackling and popping. Rudi screamed and flailed in the straps, then they abruptly stopped, the man was done.

"Whoa, jeez." The chair was quite done, the current still going—Rudi caught on fire. "Come on, let's get out of here." Napoleon's expression twisted at the smell of cooking flesh.

Illya nodded and followed the American out. And though his death had been painful, it was over far to quickly for the Russian satisfied liking. Rudi deserved to go through countless hours of agony for daring to harm Napoleon, not a simple few minutes before he succumbed.

With no other option left to them, they returned to the hotel. But it wasn't Vinciguerra's thugs waiting for them like they might have expected, but a high-ranking British Intelligence Officer, who informed them that Gaby was working for him the entire time. Another twist neither K.G.B. or C.I.A. Operative had expected either.

"Получить ленту. Убийство Solo."

The static of the disconnect barely registered through his ringing ears before Illya yanked the phone line out of the wall and hurled it across the room. Soon, any table within reach was overturned, but not before the contents of said tables took a whirl through his hands; the television, the radio, vases, the record player… He yanked the paintings off the walls, and even the sofa met a sordid fate. Housekeeping was going to be very angry and have a long night ahead of them when Illya finally checked out, but the Russia did not care.

Until finally, he stood in the epicentre, chest heaving and hands shaking. A sense of helplessness enveloped him. Lately it was an annoying and frequent feeling. Ever since their first encounter, followed by their second in the cafe bathroom, and then the countless the following days.

Inhaling once and exhaling the same, he checked the pistol tucked on the inside of his jacket and shut the destroyed hotel suite's door behind him. He went down the hall, bypassed the elevator, and used the stairs instead to go the single floor up to Napoleon's room.

The first time he had met Napoleon, he was intrigued but didn't care whether the man had lived or died—and he would kill him. By the end of that night, he had a grudging respect for the American spy; he'd escaped the K.G.B. Agent as well as with the asset. He wondered if he would ever meet the man again.

This question was answered the very next morning as he went to meet with his handler and encountered the American again. He instantly went for it. It had been a debilitating chokehold—not a deathly one. A cat playing with the mouse. He didn't much want to kill Napoleon—but he would have snapped his neck if Oleg had ordered.

At the shipping yard, they had reluctantly partnered up. Napoleon had saved his life that night, pulling him from the water. And Illya was rather appreciative on the ride back, and didn't hold much back. His intentions clear. Napoleon had responded well to his touches.

With Rudi and the chair... it was not about repaying a debt, though the Russian was would have done so. No, Illya could only think of how much he wanted the American safe, in front of him whole. Something passed between the two of them that went unsaid, undiscussed, but not unfelt.

And now Oleg had given him clear orders to kill Napoleon and get the tape with Dr. Teller's blueprints. Illya didn't want to kill Napoleon—he didn't think that he could even if it meant defying his superiors' orders.

He knocked on Napoleon's door. He had an instant of hope that maybe the man had already left, but it was dashed away as he called out, "Come in!"

Everything seemed to blend together as he stepped into suite, just stopping as he watched the other man through the open doorway of the bedroom. All he could hear was the rush of the blood in his ears, his own heart beat.

"Got something for you," Napoleon was saying something, he was supposed to respond, but what had the American said? And something dark was flying through the air towards the Russian. Illya grabbed it out of the air on pure instinct, too surprised to do anything else.

He looked down at the watch in the palm of his hand with bewilderment. It was his father's, he recognized it instantly. But how—? He quickly latched it onto his left wrist with sure fingers before Napoleon could think to leap across the distance and snatch it back.

He looked up and stared across at Napoleon, his expression one the American didn't recognize. Napoleon shifted uncertainly.

"Back at the compound, I saw it on one of the bodies you left a trail of." Napoleon said by way of explanation and hoped that it might spur some sort of response of from the taller man.

Illya dipped his head in acknowledgement, but didn't say anything or break eye contact. The ringing stopped in his ears. He could hear Napoleon's breath as if it were his own. Like his father's watch settled into proper place upon his wrist, some other things fell into place as well.

Napoleon forced himself not to take a step back as suddenly, with long determined strides, Illya was heading for him. He had hoped that the watch would dissuade the Russian from any completion of the order he knew he had gotten same as his own, but maybe it wasn't enough. Maybe—

Illya's hand came up and slid around to the nape of his neck, and pulled the slightly shorter man to his lips even as he bent for them. This was the last thing that Napoleon had been expecting in this situation, but it was whole-heartedly welcome. Illya ravished his mouth, his tongue a domineering force as he shuffled Napoleon backwards towards the bed. Illya pushed him onto the bed and shoved the packed but open suitcase onto the floor.

"Hey—" Napoleon started a protest, but Illya cut it off another kiss.

"Which is most important? Your clothes... or this?" Illya took his hand and pressed it against the straining member against his zipper.

"You have my attention." Napoleon said and Illya smirked.

"Good little American."

"This is far from little, I believe." And he cocked a brow and took the Russian's hand and put it against his own growing erection through his slacks.

Illya's eyes brightened at the feeling, and with a growl he shoved Napoleon back onto the bed and jumped on him. He was going to finish what he had started on that bike days ago, and all the things he had been picturing since.

Illya rolled off Napoleon, stretching out on the bed on his side, facing the other man laying on his stomach. He was… beautiful. There was no other way he could think to put. Napoleon turn his head and looked at him, his blue eyes sparkling.

Napoleon smirked. "Nicely done, Illya." That was the understatement of the century.

"Thank you," Illya said sincerely. He'd never been more relaxed in his life.

Napoleon chuckled as they looked at each other. He'd never been more right, the Russian was a menace in the sac. All that energy and fire, that dead-focus all directed at him.

But there was still the dirty unfinished business between them.

"Glad I didn't kill you, Cowboy." His finger tips traced the sharp point of his shoulder blade.

"Well, I think I can agree with that, Peril." Napoleon said. "So with that in mind," he crawled over Illya to reach into his pile of spilled clothes for the small blue case that held the wretched tape in it that caused all their problems in the first place, and sat back at Illya's hip, "What do you suppose we do with this?"

Illya's Russian blues glinted with mischief. "I have a few ideas."

"Care to share?" he asked curiously.

Illya nodded. "But first... this." And he grabbed Napoleon's wrist and pulled the broad man on top of him. Napoleon went their quite happily, and what followed for the second time in the last hour was definitely a great idea.

And after burning the tape, their true saviour came in the form of one MI6 operative and the undertaking called U.N.C.L.E. Guess they were going to be seeing each other and on very much more pleasant terms.

f

The Man From U.N.C.L.E

Russian to English Translation:

не убить своего партнера в первый день = don't kill your partner on your first day.
гипотермия = hypothermia
Она квислинг! Предатель! = She's a quisling! A traitor!
Получить ленту. Убийство Solo = Get the tape. Kill Solo.

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