Rewatched The Man From U.N.C.L.E. the other day and couldn't resist. This kind of is in the same slight AU/headcanon as my previous MFU fic "Pulse," but you can also read it by itself. More chapters to come!

Disclaimer: MFU is not mine.

Barely a week after the Vinciguerra Affair and the creation of U.N.C.L.E, Napoleon received a visit from his handler. He should have been expecting it, really, because there was no way that the CIA would let as valuable an asset as Napoleon Solo go without a fight.

After Rome, the newly formed team from U.N.C.L.E. retired to a relatively small town in the Italian countryside to recuperate before heading off to Turkey. Napoleon developed a distinct fondness for the quaint town market and had been returning from a stroll when he was grabbed in a back alley. Two bulky men suddenly had their arms on his biceps and were guiding him through the back door of a quiet building. Napoleon knew better than to struggle; no one would come looking for him anyways.

Even if Napoleon was taken by surprise by the muscle, he was prepared for Sanders' permanent frown when his eyes finally adjusted to the dim lighting. He'd known the men were American the second they had grabbed him; it was the smell of cheap American cigarettes that gave them away. The CIA handler was sitting before an old wooden table, wearing that same stupid charcoal hat as always. Napoleon already had a quip about the man's questionable fashion sense ready when Sanders nodded and the muscle holding onto Solo slammed his head down onto the table without warning.

Despite himself, Napoleon let out a grunt of surprise. What the hell? The mission had been a success hadn't-

A mean right hook to his chest jumbled his thoughts and the following hit to his face didn't really help. Still anchored in place by one of the massive men, Napoleon could do little more than brace himself as the other muscle used the thief-turned-operative as a punching bag. He felt something wet at his hairline, tasted copper in his mouth and hoped he hadn't bitten his tongue.

Three minutes in, Sanders stood up and cleared his throat. "Alright, boys, that's enough."

As his handler stepped closer, Napoleon did his best to pull himself together. But his ribs burned when he breathed, there were dark spots dancing across his vision, and there was nothing graceful about the way he spit a glob of blood-tinged saliva out onto the floor. All the same, he raised his eyes to look at Sanders straight on.

"To what do I owe the pleasure?" Napoleon coughed out, fumbling for a nonchalant tone and failing miserably as more blood dribbled down his chin.

"That's for your little stunt." Sanders grumbled, sliding his hands into his pockets with an infuriatingly casual air. "If you think real hard I'm sure you'll know which one I'm talking about."

Despite the fact that he was obviously at a disadvantage, Napoleon couldn't resist the urge to run his mouth. "I'm sure I don't know what you mean, what with the foiled terrorist plot and all. Mission accomplished, as far as I see it."

Sanders eyes narrowed dangerously. "The disk, Solo. You were supposed to bring the disk to us, not destroy the damn thing!"

Ah, he should have known that would have come back to bite him in the ass. Napoleon shrugged as best as he could while still restrained. "That wasn't completely up to me. It was hard enough dealing with that giant Russian before we added Waverly-"

Crack. Solo's head snapped to the side under the force of a stinging slap and the operative felt his heart drop. Sanders was really, really mad if he was actually getting his own hands dirty. The older man's mottled face contorted under a dark scowl. "Don't give me that bullshit! You honestly expect me to believe that Soviet robot would have the balls to burn the disk? I don't think so. It's a damn cock-bull plan that has your stink all over it, Solo."

Well, what was he supposed to say to that? Napoleon merely glared at the floor and worked at the split in his lip with his tongue.

"Hey, I'm talking to ya." Sanders stepped even closer and gripped Solo's chin, forcing the younger man to look him in the eyes. "The higher ups think it'll be good to have you on this… U.N.C.L.E. task force for now. Good to get close to the Soviets and all that shit. But don't you forget you still report to me, your life is still in my hands."

Sanders released Napoleon's chin and, to his relief, the big muscle behind him stepped back as well. As Sanders followed his brawn out the small door, he threw one last look back at Napoleon. "One more stunt like that and going back to prison will be the least of your worries."

Napoleon waited a full ten minutes for Sanders and his goons to leave the area before exiting the building himself. As we walked, he dabbed at his split lip with a now ruined handkerchief. And that wasn't the only thing saturated with blood. Giving himself the once over, Solo found a large red spot marring the breast of his cool grey of his suit and sighed heavily. He highly doubted they would find cleaners with the skill to remove blood stains in a town this small. Pity, it was one of his favorite suits.

Not for the first time in his life Napoleon Solo wished Sanders and all the CIA higher ups a slow and painful death. He never forgot his freedom was only as long as their leash, but did they have to yank it so viciously? Napoleon breathed in deeply and then out through his nose, counting slowly to ten. He had hoped to get a cappuccino before heading back to their safe house, but he'd have to abort, given that he looked like he'd gone a few rounds with a brick wall.

He didn't want to give the old market women anything more gossip about that "scandalous foreign threesome" if he could help it.