Prompt: Flashback

Summary: A THRUSH onslaught brings back memories of Illya’s war-torn childhood that he’d rather forget.

Cross-posted to AO3

Illya gripped Napoleon’s arm, cringing as the sounds of
explosions continued to echo overhead.
THRUSH had caught up with them, and promptly attacked with nothing less
than rocket launchers.  The nearest
“safehouse” wasn’t very safe after THRUSH opened fire with those, and the duo
were now seeking shelter in the cellar as the place began to crumble around
them.

“Illya?” Napoleon asked, realizing that his partner’s
usually calm resolve had given way to trembling.  Illya usually didn’t lose his cool like this,
even in dire situations—they’d been through far worse, after all.  Something about this situation was affecting
him very deeply, and Napoleon could only hope that it wouldn’t be too much.

He drew an arm around Illya, and Illya’s grip tightened.

“What is it?” Napoleon asked, as there finally appeared to
be a break in the THRUSH onslaught.

“…I was just remembering the night my home in Kiev had been
attacked, when I was a boy,” Illya said.
“It began like this, incessant attacks on houses, with no regard for
civilians who might be inside.  There was
a gap like this, too—a gap in the fire…
That was when my mother told me to run, and I did.”

Napoleon’s heart gave a twist.

“I hid where I could, also in houses that eventually came
down.  I usually hid with other
children—war children, as we would later be known.”  He sighed.
“We didn’t dare to seek help from adults; our families were gone, and
we’d heard about people disappearing, and we didn’t know which ones were behind
it, or who they were looking for.”

“I’m sorry,” Napoleon said, quietly.

Illya gave a shuddering nod.

“It was absolutely terrifying when I was a child,” he
said.  “But I don’t know what’s worse—the
terror I felt then, or growing up and finding out the truth about the missing
people—that they were massacred because of who they were, no other reason than
that…”

He trailed off, cringing as the THRUSH rockets resumed
flying, but then he scowled.  There were
THRUSHies coming closer, as though waiting to nab them the moment they
succeeded in flushing the U.N.C.L.E. agents out.

“And that is why we cannot let them win—for they will do
the same.  Napoleon, do you have the rest
of that wine we had at lunch?”

Napoleon’s eyes widened.

“…Yes,” he said, grabbing the bottle.  He soaked a handkerchief with some of it and
slipped the handkerchief in as a fuse.

Illya waited for the THRUSHies to approach closer before
igniting the handkerchief and hurling it at their pursuers.  The THRUSHies fled upon seeing that they were
being attacked by a makeshift weapon; it wasn’t until there was complete and
utter silence for an extended period of time that the two partners emerged from
the trapdoor, relived at having made it.

“They’ll be back with reinforcements,” Napoleon said.  “I’d like to be out of here when they do.”

“Me too,” Illya said, and, once again suppressing the ghosts
of his past, he ran alongside his partner, who still had a hand on his wrist as
they ran, silently reassuring him that they would get through this together.