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So I could continue this as just one shot porn and end it, or I could make this an actual "Affair" and try to keep it going for 3 more parts, which of course means more porn as well as plot. As it is now, there is no porn, because I was trying to get a feel for things...characterization...etc... *sigh*
So feedback appreciated on this one. Thoughts, whatever. And for those that don't know Man from UNCLE or don't remember much, Crack_Van MFU Overview.
Part I — "...Say, Illya?"
Roughly Season Two-ish. Not that anyone ever said the episodes occurred in chronological order anyway. For all we know, The Five Daughters Affair could have taken place before The Gazebo Affair. So, whatever.
I hope this is in character. I mean enough in character even though they are supposed to be acting out of character. I mean...*sigh*. I just mean only one person can truly fluster Napoleon Solo.
“As you are no doubt already aware, gentlemen, for some time now we’ve had our eyes on a particular satrapy across the bridge in Brooklyn.” The word ‘Brooklyn’ was uttered with both boredom and disdain, as though Mr. Waverly had seen all the world had to offer but still couldn’t quite believe that even THRUSH would hide out around Flatbush Avenue when they had all of Manhattan available. Napoleon hid a smile so the Old Man wouldn’t see and glanced across the table to see if Illya had also caught the slight dig.
Illya probably thought one borough was the same as any other, Napoleon guessed when Illya didn’t look up from his rather intense study of the papers in front of him, though if he asked, Illya would probably give him the exact size and position of each borough as well as a brief history and list of residential statistics. How or why Illya bothered to learn these things was something Napoleon didn’t concern himself—at least not anymore. Asking had only earned him remarks about furthering his education and not wasting his time on “frivolous pursuits” that in a tone that was no doubt meant to be sarcastic but bordered on snippy, though Illya would never admit it.
Not very nice of his partner, Napoleon decided with another smile to himself, since knowledge gleaned from such “frivolous pursuits” had brought down more than one cell of THRUSH operatives and saved their lives too many times to count, and still remained enjoyable after all his years of service. Highly enjoyable, he decided, his smile widening to a grin at the thought of the previous evening, to all parties concerned.
“You find something amusing in this report, Mr. Solo?”
Napoleon turned back to face Mr. Waverly instantly, lifting his chin to indicate interest though not quite wiping all of the grin from his face as he shrugged his apologies. With a soft harrumph and a warning glance, Mr. Waverly continued on, pointing to the location of the satrap on a map on the wall. His eyes left the table for a moment, and Napoleon found himself glancing over to Illya again, and feeling not a little like a boy in school passing a note.
This time Illya was looking up, ready to meet his gaze as always, and Napoleon crooked an eyebrow at him, his lips curling gently. He actually had a soft spot for Brooklyn, home of good Italian food and great Italian tailors, but Illya doubtless would prefer to say in Manhattan on a stakeout near some beatnik café in the Village.
Blue eyes were wide and steady on his face, as if Illya had been watching him for some time, and Napoleon blinked his surprise, glancing down for a moment at the copy of the report in front of him as though it needed further review when he hadn’t even reviewed it in the first place, studying instead his hands, the band of his watch, before bringing his eyes back up.
The exact shade of Illya’s eyes was always startling, undoubtedly intimidating for those who didn’t know him—or those that did, for that matter—especially when he chose to wear the one white turtleneck that saved his wardrobe from being entirely black, suddenly seeming that much more foreign, as cold as vodka and as pale as the winter wheat he claimed was used to make it.
Agent Kuryakin had earned his reputation as a living, breathing glacier, and had so far given no sign of melting, not that Napoleon had seen. Not that he had been looking exactly, or waiting, he was Napoleon Solo after all, and people waited on him. And not that Illya was anything other than a good man, and a great agent. He even had a sense of humor, something hard to find in a field agent even if various THRUSH goons hadn’t seemed to appreciate it. Maybe that was how they recruited goons, telling knock-knock jokes and choosing the ones who didn’t laugh. Although imagining Illya telling a knock-knock joke took more mental stamina then Napoleon currently possessed.
He coughed abruptly, frowning as he tried to zero back in on what Mr. Waverly was saying and thinking that maybe next time he ought to skip that second cup of coffee if it was going to make it this hard to concentrate.
“…Dr. Carvalho is some sort of flora specialist…paleobotanist I believe was the phrase someone suggested…quite well respected in her particular field. What her name was doing in THRUSH interoffice memorandum, Section Three still isn’t sure but we are naturally suspicious…”
“Paleobotanist?” Napoleon interrupted curiously, already anticipating a meeting with this doctor and conducting some information retrieval, so to speak. Never let it be said that Napoleon Solo was not in favor of more women earning PhDs. He had already learned that beautiful women who stared intently into a microscope usually applied that same intensity to other activities. Sure, it might take a little more work to get close enough to steam up the lenses of those thick glasses and coax them out from behind their Bunsen Burners, but just imagining his hands peeling away a white lab coat was enough to make him shift slightly in his seat.
“Palynology.” Illya spoke for the first time, correcting them both without any hint of irritation in his voice. That would be saved for his brief glare at Napoleon, and Napoleon debated not looking up to acknowledge his inattention before giving an audible sigh and doing it anyway. Illya probably knew what he was thinking in any case.
“It is similar to paleobotany,” Illya turned to Mr. Waverly just as Napoleon lifted his head, eyebrow cocked expectantly, and Napoleon didn’t hide his frown of surprise at being ignored. “But regarding spores.”
“Thank you, Mr. Kuryakin.” Mr. Waverly’s tone did not actually sound very grateful for the correction, and Napoleon snapped out of his daze, shaking his head.
“So this is where you’ve been spending your nights,” he remarked carefully and gesturing to the report before dropping his voice with exaggerated sadness. He peeked up to watch Illya’s reaction a moment later, smiling slightly.
Illya somehow straightened his already perfect posture and turned his head to Napoleon at last, giving him a look he usually reserved for the empty-headed go-go dancers and flustered secretaries that Illya always managed to pick up on their missions and drag along with them.
“I have heard her lecture.” Each word was cold enough to chill a martini. “As you would have, Napoleon, if you had not gotten yourself captured after an evening wooing an informant named Michelle…” Illya’s eyes narrowed, and then he was turning away. “…Who turned out to be working both sides of the fence.”
Napoleon coughed forcefully, clearing his throat. Then he frowned, thinking back to a month ago, and their last visit to Paris, and Michel, and just how accurate Illya’s description had been. “You mean you knew I was captured and sat through a lecture anyway?” He’d known Illya would come for him of course, if he didn’t escape first, but he’d thought Illya had been following after him.
“Fortunately for you it was easy enough to guess what had occurred.” Illya added, almost thoughtfully. The tiny smirk at the corner of Illya’s pale mouth meant he was teasing, in his way, and Napoleon reflected that Illya must have learned how to make a joke during a THRUSH torture session, since his humor always stung, just a little.
But he shrugged, shivering slightly at the whip-crack edge in Illya’s voice before answering.
“Well I am a very fortunate man.” The soft purr came naturally, the words as smooth and warm on his tongue as expensive scotch, and Illya’s fingers went still on the tabletop. With heavy-lidded eyes, Napoleon watched Illya’s quick sideways glance at him, expecting the sly look, but not the following flush of pink across Illya’s cheek before he turned his head away.
Napoleon sat up so suddenly his new Italian loafers scuffed loudly along the floor, and he felt Mr. Waverly’s glare before he actually dragged his eyes from Illya to give the Old Man his best innocent face.
THRUSH captors never seemed to believe it either.
“Gentlemen, may I continue with this briefing or do you have something more important then the current holes in our intelligence and a possible new THRUSH plan for world domination to attend to?” Mr. Waverly’s tone suggested nothing was out of the ordinary, his expression just the usual vague combination of amusement and exasperation that most people seemed to wear he and Illya attempted to lighten the mood during a tense moment. Since nothing escaped Mr. Waverly’s notice, Napoleon could only assume the man was ignoring Illya’s unexpected blush for the sake of Illya’s pride. But spies weren’t supposed to have scruples, unfortunately for his partner.
Napoleon was smiling as he opened his mouth to remark on just how pretty Illya looked in rouge—a comment he had made once before in fact, at the end of a long mission involving two chorus girls and a jade cat that had UNCLE security codes carved into the fur patterns on its back—and he had meant it as much then as he did now, thinking how surprised people would be to learn that Illya’s skin would be warm to the touch.
He never got the words out, his breath catching in his throat to hear the sudden, strange noise from Illya’s side of the table. He felt Mr. Waverly’s attention turn to Illya as well, but didn’t take his eyes away from Illya to look, certain anyway that his expression was far too shocked for an experienced agent like Napoleon Solo and not needing any witnesses.
A moment later, he even managed to lift his jaw and shut his mouth, turning to exchange a glance with the Old Man, deciding he needed a witness after all.
Illya Kuryakin had just…giggled. There really was no other way to describe it, and a laugh would have been startling enough from him at a briefing. A quick cough had not quite stifled the sound, and though Illya had ducked his head in either shame or embarrassment, there was still evidence of a smile at the corner of his lips, even more unexpected than the laughter.
Illya cleared his throat once more and then attempted a scowl, as though pressing his mouth into a straight, serious line was going to make Napoleon forget that his partner had just giggled like a little girl. And blushed. Napoleon’s grin faded a little as he thought of that, exchanging another look with Mr. Waverly.
“Are you completely well, Mr. Kuryakin?” It was a serious question and Mr. Waverly asked it seriously, taking his unlit pipe from his mouth and tapping it a few times against the table. Illya’s eyes came up to meet Napoleon’s before he shook his head, appearing to glare at the table. “Mr. Solo and I noticed you were a few minutes late to this briefing.”
That was possibly a more serious offense in Mr. Waverly’s eyes than an unexplained outburst of giggles. Illya nodded, as Napoleon had thought he might, and then lifted his chin and stared straight ahead.
“I apologize for my behavior. Perhaps I am coming down with something after being pushed off that barge and into the river two days ago.” He paused at Napoleon’s disbelieving little huff of air, but Napoleon was not taking the blame for that incident when it was Illya who had fired only one sleeping dart into that rather large security guard instead of two. “And this morning I had to stop in our office for a moment on my way here.”
“Very well,” Mr. Waverly stayed silent just long enough to get his irritation at both Illya’s tardiness and these interruptions across and then he continued effortlessly with his briefing, waving a hand at the papers before each of them on the desk. Napoleon shot Illya one last look before focusing on the typed reports, noting the words ‘palynology’ just as Illya had said, and also a note at the bottom from Mandy on several as yet untranslated words, which meant the original intercepted documents had been in Portuguese.
“I always did love Rio,” he commented hopefully, skimming over the notes about some new discovery of this Dr. Carvalho’s, though what it was, the report didn’t say.
“I shall be sure to deliver your compliments to the Rio office who are currently trying to determine what exactly Carvalho’s last expedition brought out of the jungle.” Waverly assured him smartly without slowing, shuffling through the papers on his desk until he found a file. He opened it to reveal a picture of Dr. Carvalho, an attractive dark-haired woman. Next to her was a slim, blond man. “Edward Milowicki, Professor of Biochemistry at Columbia University, specialist in rare flora, Dr. Carvalho’s new lab partner, and known THRUSH operative.”
“Pretty,” Napoleon remarked on the picture with a low whistle, before looking back down at what looked like a chemical breakdown of something. It could have been the molecular makeup of Coca-cola for all he knew. He shrugged and waited, habit when he knew Illya would have to explain, and then lifted his eyes across the table when Illya said nothing.
Blue. The word imprinted itself on Napoleon’s consciousness the moment he looked up, and then a thought followed that he could have been interrogated by Edith Partridge herself at that second and he still wouldn’t have been able to think anything other than...blue. Blue that should have been cold, but which made his skin burn hot, itching inside his suit, the kind of heat that made a man shiver at each hair-raising lick down his spine. Like artic seas and summer nights, which didn’t make any sense no matter how much his brain tried to mesh them together, and so he blinked, licking his lips at the same time and barely containing his shudder when Illya abruptly flinched and cast his gaze down to the table.
Napoleon’s fingers found his watch again, then moved on restlessly to the papers in front of him, stirring them for no good reason. It was the only movement he allowed himself, other than his grin as his heart rate sped up.
Illya had been staring. At him. Again. There were of course, many possible reasons for that, Napoleon reminded himself, not the least of which was that he was not at all bad to look at. That was an interesting reason; the more mundane reality was that Illya was feverish and simply staring without direction, since Illya would never have been so careless as to get caught staring in the first place.
Even a target being studied should never…
His grin froze in place as Napoleon considering his partner, sweeping his gaze quickly down to the table where Illya was intently moving one hand back and forth, rubbing the skin of his wrist along the surface of the paper, as thought scratching an itch. Illya coughed once, and forcibly stilled his hand before speaking. He did not glance to Napoleon, though unlike Illya, Napoleon didn’t bother to hide his scrutiny.
“I will need an actual sample for further analysis, but it appears as though some plant extract is, or was, being modified, if these documents are accurate.” Illya’s voice was rasping, and he darted out his tongue to run it over his bottom lip, nearly drawing Napoleon’s attention from the way his hand renewed his rubbing against the table, his fingers stretching out almost obscenely to stroke the smooth surface. Napoleon wondered if the table felt cool to the touch; not something he had ever needed to know about the table in this particular office but which he felt an almost unrelenting curiosity about now.
As it was he had to move, and used the opportunity to reach over and take the picture from Mr. Waverly. He glared at the snapshot absently for a few minutes then made a show of nodding and putting it down before leaning in slightly to slide it toward Illya.
The strangely fascinating motions of Illya’s hand stopped at that, his fingers creeping out over the photograph’s edge. They hovered for a moment, and Napoleon almost held his breath at how close they came to his own, that they hesitated at all, and the soft hitch of air made Illya looked up.
His glare was fierce enough to flay a man’s flesh from his bones, and though Napoleon was by no means unused to such looks from his partner, or a man weak of heart, he nonetheless gave a meaningless shrug before making his tactical retreat and leaning back in his seat.
His smile as easy and empty, and even Illya had been fooled by it on occasion. Fortunately—and Napoleon had to again acknowledge just how lucky a man he was—whatever was currently bothering Illya was keeping him too distracted to question Napoleon’s behavior.
Which left Napoleon with plenty of opportunity to question Illya’s.
“I guessed that and I don’t have that big brain of yours,” he mocked, none too gently, and rolled his eyes in Mr. Waverly’s direction. The Old Man was not amused, and neither was Illya. There was no sign of whatever had been bothering Illya now, just one pale eyebrow raised in annoyance at Napoleon’s foolishness. Nothing out of the ordinary.
Napoleon’s sigh was slow and mournful.
“Spores are both effective and every ineffective as weapons…” As though that were his cue, Illya continued with his impromptu lecture on mold—no, spores—and this time Napoleon’s sigh was deliberate. “They are easily dispersed over large areas, but impossible to aim precisely, so there would be no way of guessing a strike area.”
Napoleon’s gaze flickered to Illya’s hand, or, more accurately, to his wrist, which was still pressed to the table and rubbing up and down across the papers, not that Illya seemed aware of it.
“And reactions would depend on the individual, at least, they do with naturally occurring allergens. There are already toxins that would kill on a large scale, so there would be no need for THRUSH research in that field.”
“So the purpose is something else?” The way in which Mr. Waverly phrased his question hinted that he’d already known all of that. It also hinted at exactly what their mission was going to be.
“THRUSH seem to be fond of psychological agents and mind games…” Napoleon murmured thoughtfully, feeling an excitement crackling under his skin. It could have been from the thought of this mission, and it would be, if anyone asked him he didn’t happen to see his glance at Illya.
“Yes. Lowering resistance in whatever way possible.” Illya finished his thought easily, his voice just as empty of bad memories as Napoleon’s had been.
“Confusion, pain...pleasure...” Napoleon trailed off there, tilting his head back to arc a look at Illya under his eyelashes. There was no trace of color in his cheeks now, no sign nothing unusual at all. But he caught Illya returning his look and smiled blandly at his inscrutable, slightly frowning, expression. Things looked like they were getting back to normal. Ah well.
“I take it we are to…make a visit…to these facilities?” At his gentle insinuation, Illya’s lips quirked.
“I doubt they will be giving tours.” He was possibly the only person aside from Mr. Waverly to appreciate Illya’s dry little joke, which was a pity. But he sighed and stood up, stretching a little to give his body a chance to move. They had their reports, and they had understood the purpose of their assignment. Waverly wasn’t going to get into specifics—that was for them to work out on their own later.
“Good luck, gentlemen.” Mr. Waverly dismissed them with an easy benediction; if only their mission would be that easy. Illya got up as well, and Napoleon put out a hand as they moved to the door, his fingers just glancing across Illya’s back to guide him to the exit, touching the surprisingly soft fabric of Illya’s sweater just beneath the strap of his shoulder holster.
“And Mr. Kuryakin...” Mr. Waverly’s voice made Napoleon turn for a moment and Illya neatly stepped to the side. “...Stop by Medical sometime today, just in case.” The concern was genuine, and for that Napoleon nodded to show he would see to it, but he couldn’t help his slight scowl, insulted at even the hint that something about Illya might endanger the mission. He turned back to face Illya’s watchful stare, and blinked to see that Illya had moved out of the way and he would have to leave the room first.
His pause was barely perceptible, but he stepped through the doors a second later, smoothing the frown from his face to see Lesley from Documents just down the hall. Her skirt hardly did her legs justice, but he let his gaze wander over the pale stockings anyway, and then up to where those legs ended. The small gun at the small of her back was no deterrent, which, judging from the wiggle in her step, Lesley probably already knew.
His whistle made her slow down, and Napoleon left Illya with a step that would have held a wiggle of its own if he’d had the equipment for it. He sailed down to the end of the hall pleased to see how Lesley had stopped to wait for him, glancing back over her shoulder almost impatiently.
“And where were you off to in such a hurry?” He greeted her with a smile, stopping next to her and leaning against the wall, sliding him just a fraction closer to her than was appropriate. Her quiet laugh said that she recognized that fact, but she didn’t move away so Napoleon dropped his head until he would almost be speaking into her ear. “Running away from me?”
There was only a trace of breathlessness in her voice to indicate that he’d flustered her, her pulse picking up, judging from the fluttering at her neck, and Napoleon felt his own speed up to match it as he thought of bending down further to catch the scent of whatever perfume she had daubed there.
“Oh, no, I have to get these files down to the Micro Lab as soon as possible, or Waverly will have me fetching coffee for a month.” Her warning made his grin widen, and shift his feet, expending just a fraction of his pent up energy with the motion. He expended just a little bit more to tuck a few strands of her hair behind her ear before returning his hands safely to his sides. Her pout at that could have meant anything.
“Then whatever are you doing here with me, my dear?” he asked playfully, his smile slipping when Lesley’s green eyes widened and moved to look beyond him. He would have turned to follow her look if not for the sudden rush of heat at his back, warm even through the layers of clothing but not heavy.
He went still for a heartbeat and then relaxed, recognizing his partner’s touch even if it was unexpected, the kind of silent reminder they might have used on a mission when discovery was not in their best interest. But a moment later Illya’s hand was still there, palm flat to his spine, and Illya had stepped in until there was a surprising amount of heat behind him. Another few inches and he would be able to feel Illya’s breath on his neck.
His breathing suddenly stalled, catching hard in his chest until Napoleon forced himself to exhale, keeping the smile on his face and forcing himself not to put his hands up as he usually did when someone had a deadly weapon at his back.
“M...Mr. Kuryakin.” Lesley nodded a greeting and Napoleon nearly twisted his head around to try to get a look at whatever was keeping her face that still and stunned. UNCLE agents, even those not in the field, should not be easily surprised. However, he had a feeling his eyes were wide as well, and the last thing he needed was for Illya to see it.
“We are wasting time here.” Illya spoke suddenly, and though the flat words were not whispered, Napoleon somehow felt they were meant for him alone. He swallowed, his throat dry, and had the fleeting thought that if colds did this to Illya then he might have to dunk him in the East River a few times a year just to keep things interesting.
Napoleon coughed before returning his attention to Lesley, smiling until she looked back at him and then picking up one of her hands. He turned it over to press an apologetic kiss to her palm, a showy gesture, but one which made her blush becomingly and let out a soft laugh.
“Let me know if you need anything from me...I...I mean from my department, Napoleon.” It would have been more promising if she had not then glanced back over his shoulder and openly flinched. She had taken a step backward before Napoleon could say anything in return, and then she was off down another hallway.
As he straightened, he could feel his jacket brushing against the presence behind him, and grinned.
“Nice girl.” It was just off-hand enough that no one, not even the annoyed Russian standing strangely in his proximity could object to it. But an odd, quiet little sound—almost like a sniff—caught his attention, leaving him standing still as Illya abruptly stepped out from behind him and walked calmly toward the elevator at the end of the hall.
He pressed the button before turning to look at Napoleon, not quite tapping his foot or glancing at his watch, but nonetheless conveying urgency and irritation with his level stare. Nothing unusual in that.
Napoleon shrugged and followed leisurely after his partner, wondering if perhaps his new cologne—which he of course had applied only in a tasteful, moderate amount—was bothering Illya’s nose. He might find it objectionable if he truly was getting a cold. Unless he had guessed what the price was, in which case Napoleon thought he ought to question Illya about his sweater, and if American decadence had led him into purchasing cashmere. Napoleon would have bought Illya a thousand cashmere sweaters if he’d thought Illya would actually wear them.
There really was nothing like sliding your fingers carefully into forbidden territory, exploring with the feel of soft skin against your palm and the smooth caress of cashmere on the back of your hand, waiting to see if you would be rebuffed, or allowed entry.
His fingers curled into his palms just at the image, his eyes darting to Illya’s flat stomach before he looked quickly away, clearing his throat.
He didn’t speak while they both got in the elevator and waited for the doors to close. Illya was quickly leaning back in one corner, slouched in his familiar stakeout posture as though the doors would open to reveal Gervaise Ravel, Victor Marton, and every other major U.S. THRUSH operative waiting on the other side. It was one of the few times Illya’s back was less than straight, and Napoleon ran his gaze up his slender figure, noticing for the first time traces of some sort of yellow powder at Illya’s shoulder, marring the white. Perhaps it was a stain. Which would be typical in a man who couldn’t even remember to get his hair trimmed.
At least that was clean, shining even under the pale, humming lights in the elevator, the only color in Illya’s pale profile until Illya finally lifted his eyes to him, and a faint wash a pink glowed through his ivory skin, almost the same shade as his lips.
Napoleon stuck his hands in his pockets and arched an eyebrow, glancing away as though to study his reflection in the mirrored doors.
“This close to HQ, we’ll undoubtedly be recognized if we just try to walk in. And though that could be fun, it wouldn’t help us to our goal. And I find it…unlikely…that we will able to persuade one or both doctors to venture over to our side of the bridge, not if their security is so tight we only just heard of this.”
“You are suggesting we sneak in.” Illya shifted in the wavy reflection behind him. Not averse to the idea, simply wary. “Do you mean surveillance or do you mean to attempt another ill-advised raid?”
“My last raid was a rather brilliantly executed and daring move, I’ll have you know.” Napoleon replied easily, lifting his chin loftily when he knew that Illya would find that amusing. Illya had, after all, read the report he had written afterward. It had been a piece of cake to walk alone into the THRUSH party, figure out the codes to discover where Illya might have been located, and then still manage to escape after being discovered. Piece of cake. He arched a little to ease the lingering ache in his back and then shrugged effortlessly. “I got the information I needed and saved you from a fate worse than death...and all without backup.”
That was all the mention he needed to make of Illya’s erstwhile “fiancée” and Illya was shuddering, straightening slightly to frown at him. For that Napoleon turned back, not hiding his smirk. He even mimicked Illya’s former pose, leaning back with his eyes nearly closed, just to watch.
Embarrassment—or more likely horror—drained the color from Illya’s face, his eyes seeming to grow darker as he stared back at Napoleon, pulling him from the wall, his gaze abruptly intent and open. He put out a hand needing to feel the rail under his palm when Illya’s lips parted to suck in one long, slow drag of air.
“You simply do not like to see me get the girl.”
It was the kind of light, faintly irritated comment about his ego that Illya might have made on any other day. And on any other day, Napoleon might have thought about remarking that he had never actually seen Illya with any girl. But that edge was back in Illya’s voice, like a knife at his throat, and as though he was tied up he couldn’t move away from the accusation, couldn’t even attempt a grin as he should have.
Illya was placing his feet carefully as he stood, leaving only his hands on the wall behind him, pushing back until his knuckles were white. Ready to pounce.
Napoleon was shaking his head without actually thinking about it, licking his lips as he imagined the bunching of muscles underneath Illya’s clothes, underneath that damned sweater, as Illya prepared to strike. Though of course he was mistaken, had to be, since Illya would never...
The doors slid open with a loud ping in front of him and Napoleon stepped out, not rushing because he was Napoleon Solo and Napoleon Solo did not rush unless THRUSH and bombs were involved. He felt the weight of Illya’s stare as he moved, sending a slow, burning shiver down his spine to recall the dazed heat in the blue eyes that everyone else had always found so cold.
He spotted the figure in the white coat and sighed as he caught up with her, flashing Nancy a wide smile. Illya was still somewhere behind him, he knew it without turning to look, and so dropped his voice to a whisper, leaning in to Nancy’s lovely ear for the most professional of reasons.
She was frowning a little when he only asked about an appointment for Illya today down in Medical, but agreed, frowning a little more when Napoleon sighed again and rubbed his forehead with the back of his hand. He yanked his hand back to his side and smiled before she could ask if he needed an appointment too, since he wasn’t at all sure he didn’t.
She hesitated before nodding and walking away, and Napoleon stared distractedly after her for a moment, turning and heading toward his office, unofficially their office, though Illya had his own down in the labs. He shot a glance to his side, to the slight figure hovering just at the edge of his peripheral vision. Lurking. Waiting, his mind insisted, having more than enough experience in being followed to recognize the feeling, every hair on end, his heart pounding.
“Napoleon!” Mandy was calling out from a doorway, but he shook his head at her, waving to show he was busy but would visit later. Her glasses were falling down her nose, and her pout was adorable, so he spared a second to wink at her before coming to his office.
He didn’t wait for Illya enter first, just walking in and turning to flip on the lights, not at all surprised to see Illya inside and studying him when he turned back, even if he hadn’t heard him enter. Napoleon paused where he was, one hand still on the door, and waited, eyebrows up.
Illya was still scowling, his eyes almost too bright as he looked Napoleon over, sweeping his gaze down to his loafers before bringing it back up to his face. His chest moved as he took a deep breath and Napoleon felt his mouth fall open to match it. His fingers tightened on the door, and then Illya was shaking his head, looking like a cat that had unexpectedly gotten wet, twisting his body as he slid backward and perched on one corner of Napoleon’s desk. He crossed his arms firmly and ducked his head, directing his eyes to the rest of the desk, over the neat stacks of paperwork and then on to the possible the largest bouquet of flowers Napoleon had ever seen outside of a racetrack or a funeral parlor.
It was absolutely enormous collection of orchids, in shapes and sizes and colors that he had never seen before and was so absurdly out of place on his desk that it was possibly the only that could have taken his attention from Illya at that moment. A wide, yellow vase startling next to the vivid purples and reds, blacks and oranges, all of them heavy with perfume and pollen, ripe for the plucking. The whole thing was balanced only by a few sprays of a white, tiny flower that had been arranged to support the unfurling orchid petals, making the color of the orchids that much more obvious. The statement it made, taking up nearly his entire desk, was dramatic to say the least.
He closed the door absently, glancing once to Illya before continuing to the other side of the desk and reaching out to just barely touch one of the delicate sprays of white. He couldn’t imagine who had sent it to him, but curled his lips into a smirk anyway when he couldn’t find a card.
“I assume these were scanned for weapons downstairs?” He asked it even while knowing the answer, and for that Illya managed a quick glare at him over the top of the arrangement.
“I was late, delivering them here.” Illya’s flat displeasure at admitting it was probably as great as his anger in being late at all, though of course the image of Illya lugging this ridiculous bouquet up here when it was nearly half his size made Napoleon grin.
Illya caught his amusement and his glare increased until Napoleon firmed his lips and took his eyes off the offending flower arrangement.
“Next time have your women bring it up themselves.” Illya’s voice dropped a notch, and Napoleon almost glanced up. He settled for looking down at his desk, where another copy of Mr. Waverly’s report had magically appeared somewhere between his brief visit here that morning and his return from the briefing upstairs.
He flipped the folder open, noting how close the two doctors were in their picture, pursing his lips thoughtfully. “A flora expert and a biochemist…” he mused, flicking a distracted look back to his unexpected gift and then swinging his gaze back instantly to see Illya’s fingers stroking the undoubtedly silky softness of an orchid petal, his eyes closed as he leaned in closer to inhale the scent.
Maybe two cups of coffee were simply not enough.
“I...uh...” There was something, he was supposed to be discussing now. Difficult to think of what, much less say it when his throat was dry and locked, his palms damp and tight on the desk to hold him up.
Illya’s mouth was open now as he made little sighing noises into the blooms, sending sprinkles of golden dust onto his cheeks and hands, across his lips.
Napoleon could almost smell it too, inhaling deeply to taste the perfume on his tongue, thick and warm as it filled his mouth. For a moment his eyes fell closed, his body seeming to throb as he swayed against the desk, and then he caught himself, opening his eyes and feeling the burn at his cheeks.
Blue stared out at him through the tangle of scarlet and indigo, simple, clear, and bright and yet he found himself turning away, stumbling back with heavy legs, looking around blankly until his eyes found the wall of filing cabinets with records of all their old cases. He had been sent a gift like this once before, a plant, a coded message.
It had been about Illya then, he remembered that much, moving forward until his hand found the metal handle. It was shockingly cold, as though he were feverish, and he frowned a little as he tried to think, tried to recall something he knew was very, very important.
"...Say, Illy...?” he started to suggest…something…as he turned around, and then grunted as Illya’s body collided hard with his own, crushing the air from his chest as he was pressed to the cold metal. His hands came up automatically and Illya found them, his fingers wrapping easily around his wrists and forcing them back next to his head, one knee sliding between his legs to prevent any possibility of escape as Illya leaned in, his eyes hot and his lips wet, his body so close Napoleon could feel his heartbeat.
----
Yeah I know, another WIP is the last thing I need.
So feedback appreciated on this one. Thoughts, whatever. And for those that don't know Man from UNCLE or don't remember much, Crack_Van MFU Overview.
Part I — "...Say, Illya?"
Roughly Season Two-ish. Not that anyone ever said the episodes occurred in chronological order anyway. For all we know, The Five Daughters Affair could have taken place before The Gazebo Affair. So, whatever.
I hope this is in character. I mean enough in character even though they are supposed to be acting out of character. I mean...*sigh*. I just mean only one person can truly fluster Napoleon Solo.
“As you are no doubt already aware, gentlemen, for some time now we’ve had our eyes on a particular satrapy across the bridge in Brooklyn.” The word ‘Brooklyn’ was uttered with both boredom and disdain, as though Mr. Waverly had seen all the world had to offer but still couldn’t quite believe that even THRUSH would hide out around Flatbush Avenue when they had all of Manhattan available. Napoleon hid a smile so the Old Man wouldn’t see and glanced across the table to see if Illya had also caught the slight dig.
Illya probably thought one borough was the same as any other, Napoleon guessed when Illya didn’t look up from his rather intense study of the papers in front of him, though if he asked, Illya would probably give him the exact size and position of each borough as well as a brief history and list of residential statistics. How or why Illya bothered to learn these things was something Napoleon didn’t concern himself—at least not anymore. Asking had only earned him remarks about furthering his education and not wasting his time on “frivolous pursuits” that in a tone that was no doubt meant to be sarcastic but bordered on snippy, though Illya would never admit it.
Not very nice of his partner, Napoleon decided with another smile to himself, since knowledge gleaned from such “frivolous pursuits” had brought down more than one cell of THRUSH operatives and saved their lives too many times to count, and still remained enjoyable after all his years of service. Highly enjoyable, he decided, his smile widening to a grin at the thought of the previous evening, to all parties concerned.
“You find something amusing in this report, Mr. Solo?”
Napoleon turned back to face Mr. Waverly instantly, lifting his chin to indicate interest though not quite wiping all of the grin from his face as he shrugged his apologies. With a soft harrumph and a warning glance, Mr. Waverly continued on, pointing to the location of the satrap on a map on the wall. His eyes left the table for a moment, and Napoleon found himself glancing over to Illya again, and feeling not a little like a boy in school passing a note.
This time Illya was looking up, ready to meet his gaze as always, and Napoleon crooked an eyebrow at him, his lips curling gently. He actually had a soft spot for Brooklyn, home of good Italian food and great Italian tailors, but Illya doubtless would prefer to say in Manhattan on a stakeout near some beatnik café in the Village.
Blue eyes were wide and steady on his face, as if Illya had been watching him for some time, and Napoleon blinked his surprise, glancing down for a moment at the copy of the report in front of him as though it needed further review when he hadn’t even reviewed it in the first place, studying instead his hands, the band of his watch, before bringing his eyes back up.
The exact shade of Illya’s eyes was always startling, undoubtedly intimidating for those who didn’t know him—or those that did, for that matter—especially when he chose to wear the one white turtleneck that saved his wardrobe from being entirely black, suddenly seeming that much more foreign, as cold as vodka and as pale as the winter wheat he claimed was used to make it.
Agent Kuryakin had earned his reputation as a living, breathing glacier, and had so far given no sign of melting, not that Napoleon had seen. Not that he had been looking exactly, or waiting, he was Napoleon Solo after all, and people waited on him. And not that Illya was anything other than a good man, and a great agent. He even had a sense of humor, something hard to find in a field agent even if various THRUSH goons hadn’t seemed to appreciate it. Maybe that was how they recruited goons, telling knock-knock jokes and choosing the ones who didn’t laugh. Although imagining Illya telling a knock-knock joke took more mental stamina then Napoleon currently possessed.
He coughed abruptly, frowning as he tried to zero back in on what Mr. Waverly was saying and thinking that maybe next time he ought to skip that second cup of coffee if it was going to make it this hard to concentrate.
“…Dr. Carvalho is some sort of flora specialist…paleobotanist I believe was the phrase someone suggested…quite well respected in her particular field. What her name was doing in THRUSH interoffice memorandum, Section Three still isn’t sure but we are naturally suspicious…”
“Paleobotanist?” Napoleon interrupted curiously, already anticipating a meeting with this doctor and conducting some information retrieval, so to speak. Never let it be said that Napoleon Solo was not in favor of more women earning PhDs. He had already learned that beautiful women who stared intently into a microscope usually applied that same intensity to other activities. Sure, it might take a little more work to get close enough to steam up the lenses of those thick glasses and coax them out from behind their Bunsen Burners, but just imagining his hands peeling away a white lab coat was enough to make him shift slightly in his seat.
“Palynology.” Illya spoke for the first time, correcting them both without any hint of irritation in his voice. That would be saved for his brief glare at Napoleon, and Napoleon debated not looking up to acknowledge his inattention before giving an audible sigh and doing it anyway. Illya probably knew what he was thinking in any case.
“It is similar to paleobotany,” Illya turned to Mr. Waverly just as Napoleon lifted his head, eyebrow cocked expectantly, and Napoleon didn’t hide his frown of surprise at being ignored. “But regarding spores.”
“Thank you, Mr. Kuryakin.” Mr. Waverly’s tone did not actually sound very grateful for the correction, and Napoleon snapped out of his daze, shaking his head.
“So this is where you’ve been spending your nights,” he remarked carefully and gesturing to the report before dropping his voice with exaggerated sadness. He peeked up to watch Illya’s reaction a moment later, smiling slightly.
Illya somehow straightened his already perfect posture and turned his head to Napoleon at last, giving him a look he usually reserved for the empty-headed go-go dancers and flustered secretaries that Illya always managed to pick up on their missions and drag along with them.
“I have heard her lecture.” Each word was cold enough to chill a martini. “As you would have, Napoleon, if you had not gotten yourself captured after an evening wooing an informant named Michelle…” Illya’s eyes narrowed, and then he was turning away. “…Who turned out to be working both sides of the fence.”
Napoleon coughed forcefully, clearing his throat. Then he frowned, thinking back to a month ago, and their last visit to Paris, and Michel, and just how accurate Illya’s description had been. “You mean you knew I was captured and sat through a lecture anyway?” He’d known Illya would come for him of course, if he didn’t escape first, but he’d thought Illya had been following after him.
“Fortunately for you it was easy enough to guess what had occurred.” Illya added, almost thoughtfully. The tiny smirk at the corner of Illya’s pale mouth meant he was teasing, in his way, and Napoleon reflected that Illya must have learned how to make a joke during a THRUSH torture session, since his humor always stung, just a little.
But he shrugged, shivering slightly at the whip-crack edge in Illya’s voice before answering.
“Well I am a very fortunate man.” The soft purr came naturally, the words as smooth and warm on his tongue as expensive scotch, and Illya’s fingers went still on the tabletop. With heavy-lidded eyes, Napoleon watched Illya’s quick sideways glance at him, expecting the sly look, but not the following flush of pink across Illya’s cheek before he turned his head away.
Napoleon sat up so suddenly his new Italian loafers scuffed loudly along the floor, and he felt Mr. Waverly’s glare before he actually dragged his eyes from Illya to give the Old Man his best innocent face.
THRUSH captors never seemed to believe it either.
“Gentlemen, may I continue with this briefing or do you have something more important then the current holes in our intelligence and a possible new THRUSH plan for world domination to attend to?” Mr. Waverly’s tone suggested nothing was out of the ordinary, his expression just the usual vague combination of amusement and exasperation that most people seemed to wear he and Illya attempted to lighten the mood during a tense moment. Since nothing escaped Mr. Waverly’s notice, Napoleon could only assume the man was ignoring Illya’s unexpected blush for the sake of Illya’s pride. But spies weren’t supposed to have scruples, unfortunately for his partner.
Napoleon was smiling as he opened his mouth to remark on just how pretty Illya looked in rouge—a comment he had made once before in fact, at the end of a long mission involving two chorus girls and a jade cat that had UNCLE security codes carved into the fur patterns on its back—and he had meant it as much then as he did now, thinking how surprised people would be to learn that Illya’s skin would be warm to the touch.
He never got the words out, his breath catching in his throat to hear the sudden, strange noise from Illya’s side of the table. He felt Mr. Waverly’s attention turn to Illya as well, but didn’t take his eyes away from Illya to look, certain anyway that his expression was far too shocked for an experienced agent like Napoleon Solo and not needing any witnesses.
A moment later, he even managed to lift his jaw and shut his mouth, turning to exchange a glance with the Old Man, deciding he needed a witness after all.
Illya Kuryakin had just…giggled. There really was no other way to describe it, and a laugh would have been startling enough from him at a briefing. A quick cough had not quite stifled the sound, and though Illya had ducked his head in either shame or embarrassment, there was still evidence of a smile at the corner of his lips, even more unexpected than the laughter.
Illya cleared his throat once more and then attempted a scowl, as though pressing his mouth into a straight, serious line was going to make Napoleon forget that his partner had just giggled like a little girl. And blushed. Napoleon’s grin faded a little as he thought of that, exchanging another look with Mr. Waverly.
“Are you completely well, Mr. Kuryakin?” It was a serious question and Mr. Waverly asked it seriously, taking his unlit pipe from his mouth and tapping it a few times against the table. Illya’s eyes came up to meet Napoleon’s before he shook his head, appearing to glare at the table. “Mr. Solo and I noticed you were a few minutes late to this briefing.”
That was possibly a more serious offense in Mr. Waverly’s eyes than an unexplained outburst of giggles. Illya nodded, as Napoleon had thought he might, and then lifted his chin and stared straight ahead.
“I apologize for my behavior. Perhaps I am coming down with something after being pushed off that barge and into the river two days ago.” He paused at Napoleon’s disbelieving little huff of air, but Napoleon was not taking the blame for that incident when it was Illya who had fired only one sleeping dart into that rather large security guard instead of two. “And this morning I had to stop in our office for a moment on my way here.”
“Very well,” Mr. Waverly stayed silent just long enough to get his irritation at both Illya’s tardiness and these interruptions across and then he continued effortlessly with his briefing, waving a hand at the papers before each of them on the desk. Napoleon shot Illya one last look before focusing on the typed reports, noting the words ‘palynology’ just as Illya had said, and also a note at the bottom from Mandy on several as yet untranslated words, which meant the original intercepted documents had been in Portuguese.
“I always did love Rio,” he commented hopefully, skimming over the notes about some new discovery of this Dr. Carvalho’s, though what it was, the report didn’t say.
“I shall be sure to deliver your compliments to the Rio office who are currently trying to determine what exactly Carvalho’s last expedition brought out of the jungle.” Waverly assured him smartly without slowing, shuffling through the papers on his desk until he found a file. He opened it to reveal a picture of Dr. Carvalho, an attractive dark-haired woman. Next to her was a slim, blond man. “Edward Milowicki, Professor of Biochemistry at Columbia University, specialist in rare flora, Dr. Carvalho’s new lab partner, and known THRUSH operative.”
“Pretty,” Napoleon remarked on the picture with a low whistle, before looking back down at what looked like a chemical breakdown of something. It could have been the molecular makeup of Coca-cola for all he knew. He shrugged and waited, habit when he knew Illya would have to explain, and then lifted his eyes across the table when Illya said nothing.
Blue. The word imprinted itself on Napoleon’s consciousness the moment he looked up, and then a thought followed that he could have been interrogated by Edith Partridge herself at that second and he still wouldn’t have been able to think anything other than...blue. Blue that should have been cold, but which made his skin burn hot, itching inside his suit, the kind of heat that made a man shiver at each hair-raising lick down his spine. Like artic seas and summer nights, which didn’t make any sense no matter how much his brain tried to mesh them together, and so he blinked, licking his lips at the same time and barely containing his shudder when Illya abruptly flinched and cast his gaze down to the table.
Napoleon’s fingers found his watch again, then moved on restlessly to the papers in front of him, stirring them for no good reason. It was the only movement he allowed himself, other than his grin as his heart rate sped up.
Illya had been staring. At him. Again. There were of course, many possible reasons for that, Napoleon reminded himself, not the least of which was that he was not at all bad to look at. That was an interesting reason; the more mundane reality was that Illya was feverish and simply staring without direction, since Illya would never have been so careless as to get caught staring in the first place.
Even a target being studied should never…
His grin froze in place as Napoleon considering his partner, sweeping his gaze quickly down to the table where Illya was intently moving one hand back and forth, rubbing the skin of his wrist along the surface of the paper, as thought scratching an itch. Illya coughed once, and forcibly stilled his hand before speaking. He did not glance to Napoleon, though unlike Illya, Napoleon didn’t bother to hide his scrutiny.
“I will need an actual sample for further analysis, but it appears as though some plant extract is, or was, being modified, if these documents are accurate.” Illya’s voice was rasping, and he darted out his tongue to run it over his bottom lip, nearly drawing Napoleon’s attention from the way his hand renewed his rubbing against the table, his fingers stretching out almost obscenely to stroke the smooth surface. Napoleon wondered if the table felt cool to the touch; not something he had ever needed to know about the table in this particular office but which he felt an almost unrelenting curiosity about now.
As it was he had to move, and used the opportunity to reach over and take the picture from Mr. Waverly. He glared at the snapshot absently for a few minutes then made a show of nodding and putting it down before leaning in slightly to slide it toward Illya.
The strangely fascinating motions of Illya’s hand stopped at that, his fingers creeping out over the photograph’s edge. They hovered for a moment, and Napoleon almost held his breath at how close they came to his own, that they hesitated at all, and the soft hitch of air made Illya looked up.
His glare was fierce enough to flay a man’s flesh from his bones, and though Napoleon was by no means unused to such looks from his partner, or a man weak of heart, he nonetheless gave a meaningless shrug before making his tactical retreat and leaning back in his seat.
His smile as easy and empty, and even Illya had been fooled by it on occasion. Fortunately—and Napoleon had to again acknowledge just how lucky a man he was—whatever was currently bothering Illya was keeping him too distracted to question Napoleon’s behavior.
Which left Napoleon with plenty of opportunity to question Illya’s.
“I guessed that and I don’t have that big brain of yours,” he mocked, none too gently, and rolled his eyes in Mr. Waverly’s direction. The Old Man was not amused, and neither was Illya. There was no sign of whatever had been bothering Illya now, just one pale eyebrow raised in annoyance at Napoleon’s foolishness. Nothing out of the ordinary.
Napoleon’s sigh was slow and mournful.
“Spores are both effective and every ineffective as weapons…” As though that were his cue, Illya continued with his impromptu lecture on mold—no, spores—and this time Napoleon’s sigh was deliberate. “They are easily dispersed over large areas, but impossible to aim precisely, so there would be no way of guessing a strike area.”
Napoleon’s gaze flickered to Illya’s hand, or, more accurately, to his wrist, which was still pressed to the table and rubbing up and down across the papers, not that Illya seemed aware of it.
“And reactions would depend on the individual, at least, they do with naturally occurring allergens. There are already toxins that would kill on a large scale, so there would be no need for THRUSH research in that field.”
“So the purpose is something else?” The way in which Mr. Waverly phrased his question hinted that he’d already known all of that. It also hinted at exactly what their mission was going to be.
“THRUSH seem to be fond of psychological agents and mind games…” Napoleon murmured thoughtfully, feeling an excitement crackling under his skin. It could have been from the thought of this mission, and it would be, if anyone asked him he didn’t happen to see his glance at Illya.
“Yes. Lowering resistance in whatever way possible.” Illya finished his thought easily, his voice just as empty of bad memories as Napoleon’s had been.
“Confusion, pain...pleasure...” Napoleon trailed off there, tilting his head back to arc a look at Illya under his eyelashes. There was no trace of color in his cheeks now, no sign nothing unusual at all. But he caught Illya returning his look and smiled blandly at his inscrutable, slightly frowning, expression. Things looked like they were getting back to normal. Ah well.
“I take it we are to…make a visit…to these facilities?” At his gentle insinuation, Illya’s lips quirked.
“I doubt they will be giving tours.” He was possibly the only person aside from Mr. Waverly to appreciate Illya’s dry little joke, which was a pity. But he sighed and stood up, stretching a little to give his body a chance to move. They had their reports, and they had understood the purpose of their assignment. Waverly wasn’t going to get into specifics—that was for them to work out on their own later.
“Good luck, gentlemen.” Mr. Waverly dismissed them with an easy benediction; if only their mission would be that easy. Illya got up as well, and Napoleon put out a hand as they moved to the door, his fingers just glancing across Illya’s back to guide him to the exit, touching the surprisingly soft fabric of Illya’s sweater just beneath the strap of his shoulder holster.
“And Mr. Kuryakin...” Mr. Waverly’s voice made Napoleon turn for a moment and Illya neatly stepped to the side. “...Stop by Medical sometime today, just in case.” The concern was genuine, and for that Napoleon nodded to show he would see to it, but he couldn’t help his slight scowl, insulted at even the hint that something about Illya might endanger the mission. He turned back to face Illya’s watchful stare, and blinked to see that Illya had moved out of the way and he would have to leave the room first.
His pause was barely perceptible, but he stepped through the doors a second later, smoothing the frown from his face to see Lesley from Documents just down the hall. Her skirt hardly did her legs justice, but he let his gaze wander over the pale stockings anyway, and then up to where those legs ended. The small gun at the small of her back was no deterrent, which, judging from the wiggle in her step, Lesley probably already knew.
His whistle made her slow down, and Napoleon left Illya with a step that would have held a wiggle of its own if he’d had the equipment for it. He sailed down to the end of the hall pleased to see how Lesley had stopped to wait for him, glancing back over her shoulder almost impatiently.
“And where were you off to in such a hurry?” He greeted her with a smile, stopping next to her and leaning against the wall, sliding him just a fraction closer to her than was appropriate. Her quiet laugh said that she recognized that fact, but she didn’t move away so Napoleon dropped his head until he would almost be speaking into her ear. “Running away from me?”
There was only a trace of breathlessness in her voice to indicate that he’d flustered her, her pulse picking up, judging from the fluttering at her neck, and Napoleon felt his own speed up to match it as he thought of bending down further to catch the scent of whatever perfume she had daubed there.
“Oh, no, I have to get these files down to the Micro Lab as soon as possible, or Waverly will have me fetching coffee for a month.” Her warning made his grin widen, and shift his feet, expending just a fraction of his pent up energy with the motion. He expended just a little bit more to tuck a few strands of her hair behind her ear before returning his hands safely to his sides. Her pout at that could have meant anything.
“Then whatever are you doing here with me, my dear?” he asked playfully, his smile slipping when Lesley’s green eyes widened and moved to look beyond him. He would have turned to follow her look if not for the sudden rush of heat at his back, warm even through the layers of clothing but not heavy.
He went still for a heartbeat and then relaxed, recognizing his partner’s touch even if it was unexpected, the kind of silent reminder they might have used on a mission when discovery was not in their best interest. But a moment later Illya’s hand was still there, palm flat to his spine, and Illya had stepped in until there was a surprising amount of heat behind him. Another few inches and he would be able to feel Illya’s breath on his neck.
His breathing suddenly stalled, catching hard in his chest until Napoleon forced himself to exhale, keeping the smile on his face and forcing himself not to put his hands up as he usually did when someone had a deadly weapon at his back.
“M...Mr. Kuryakin.” Lesley nodded a greeting and Napoleon nearly twisted his head around to try to get a look at whatever was keeping her face that still and stunned. UNCLE agents, even those not in the field, should not be easily surprised. However, he had a feeling his eyes were wide as well, and the last thing he needed was for Illya to see it.
“We are wasting time here.” Illya spoke suddenly, and though the flat words were not whispered, Napoleon somehow felt they were meant for him alone. He swallowed, his throat dry, and had the fleeting thought that if colds did this to Illya then he might have to dunk him in the East River a few times a year just to keep things interesting.
Napoleon coughed before returning his attention to Lesley, smiling until she looked back at him and then picking up one of her hands. He turned it over to press an apologetic kiss to her palm, a showy gesture, but one which made her blush becomingly and let out a soft laugh.
“Let me know if you need anything from me...I...I mean from my department, Napoleon.” It would have been more promising if she had not then glanced back over his shoulder and openly flinched. She had taken a step backward before Napoleon could say anything in return, and then she was off down another hallway.
As he straightened, he could feel his jacket brushing against the presence behind him, and grinned.
“Nice girl.” It was just off-hand enough that no one, not even the annoyed Russian standing strangely in his proximity could object to it. But an odd, quiet little sound—almost like a sniff—caught his attention, leaving him standing still as Illya abruptly stepped out from behind him and walked calmly toward the elevator at the end of the hall.
He pressed the button before turning to look at Napoleon, not quite tapping his foot or glancing at his watch, but nonetheless conveying urgency and irritation with his level stare. Nothing unusual in that.
Napoleon shrugged and followed leisurely after his partner, wondering if perhaps his new cologne—which he of course had applied only in a tasteful, moderate amount—was bothering Illya’s nose. He might find it objectionable if he truly was getting a cold. Unless he had guessed what the price was, in which case Napoleon thought he ought to question Illya about his sweater, and if American decadence had led him into purchasing cashmere. Napoleon would have bought Illya a thousand cashmere sweaters if he’d thought Illya would actually wear them.
There really was nothing like sliding your fingers carefully into forbidden territory, exploring with the feel of soft skin against your palm and the smooth caress of cashmere on the back of your hand, waiting to see if you would be rebuffed, or allowed entry.
His fingers curled into his palms just at the image, his eyes darting to Illya’s flat stomach before he looked quickly away, clearing his throat.
He didn’t speak while they both got in the elevator and waited for the doors to close. Illya was quickly leaning back in one corner, slouched in his familiar stakeout posture as though the doors would open to reveal Gervaise Ravel, Victor Marton, and every other major U.S. THRUSH operative waiting on the other side. It was one of the few times Illya’s back was less than straight, and Napoleon ran his gaze up his slender figure, noticing for the first time traces of some sort of yellow powder at Illya’s shoulder, marring the white. Perhaps it was a stain. Which would be typical in a man who couldn’t even remember to get his hair trimmed.
At least that was clean, shining even under the pale, humming lights in the elevator, the only color in Illya’s pale profile until Illya finally lifted his eyes to him, and a faint wash a pink glowed through his ivory skin, almost the same shade as his lips.
Napoleon stuck his hands in his pockets and arched an eyebrow, glancing away as though to study his reflection in the mirrored doors.
“This close to HQ, we’ll undoubtedly be recognized if we just try to walk in. And though that could be fun, it wouldn’t help us to our goal. And I find it…unlikely…that we will able to persuade one or both doctors to venture over to our side of the bridge, not if their security is so tight we only just heard of this.”
“You are suggesting we sneak in.” Illya shifted in the wavy reflection behind him. Not averse to the idea, simply wary. “Do you mean surveillance or do you mean to attempt another ill-advised raid?”
“My last raid was a rather brilliantly executed and daring move, I’ll have you know.” Napoleon replied easily, lifting his chin loftily when he knew that Illya would find that amusing. Illya had, after all, read the report he had written afterward. It had been a piece of cake to walk alone into the THRUSH party, figure out the codes to discover where Illya might have been located, and then still manage to escape after being discovered. Piece of cake. He arched a little to ease the lingering ache in his back and then shrugged effortlessly. “I got the information I needed and saved you from a fate worse than death...and all without backup.”
That was all the mention he needed to make of Illya’s erstwhile “fiancée” and Illya was shuddering, straightening slightly to frown at him. For that Napoleon turned back, not hiding his smirk. He even mimicked Illya’s former pose, leaning back with his eyes nearly closed, just to watch.
Embarrassment—or more likely horror—drained the color from Illya’s face, his eyes seeming to grow darker as he stared back at Napoleon, pulling him from the wall, his gaze abruptly intent and open. He put out a hand needing to feel the rail under his palm when Illya’s lips parted to suck in one long, slow drag of air.
“You simply do not like to see me get the girl.”
It was the kind of light, faintly irritated comment about his ego that Illya might have made on any other day. And on any other day, Napoleon might have thought about remarking that he had never actually seen Illya with any girl. But that edge was back in Illya’s voice, like a knife at his throat, and as though he was tied up he couldn’t move away from the accusation, couldn’t even attempt a grin as he should have.
Illya was placing his feet carefully as he stood, leaving only his hands on the wall behind him, pushing back until his knuckles were white. Ready to pounce.
Napoleon was shaking his head without actually thinking about it, licking his lips as he imagined the bunching of muscles underneath Illya’s clothes, underneath that damned sweater, as Illya prepared to strike. Though of course he was mistaken, had to be, since Illya would never...
The doors slid open with a loud ping in front of him and Napoleon stepped out, not rushing because he was Napoleon Solo and Napoleon Solo did not rush unless THRUSH and bombs were involved. He felt the weight of Illya’s stare as he moved, sending a slow, burning shiver down his spine to recall the dazed heat in the blue eyes that everyone else had always found so cold.
He spotted the figure in the white coat and sighed as he caught up with her, flashing Nancy a wide smile. Illya was still somewhere behind him, he knew it without turning to look, and so dropped his voice to a whisper, leaning in to Nancy’s lovely ear for the most professional of reasons.
She was frowning a little when he only asked about an appointment for Illya today down in Medical, but agreed, frowning a little more when Napoleon sighed again and rubbed his forehead with the back of his hand. He yanked his hand back to his side and smiled before she could ask if he needed an appointment too, since he wasn’t at all sure he didn’t.
She hesitated before nodding and walking away, and Napoleon stared distractedly after her for a moment, turning and heading toward his office, unofficially their office, though Illya had his own down in the labs. He shot a glance to his side, to the slight figure hovering just at the edge of his peripheral vision. Lurking. Waiting, his mind insisted, having more than enough experience in being followed to recognize the feeling, every hair on end, his heart pounding.
“Napoleon!” Mandy was calling out from a doorway, but he shook his head at her, waving to show he was busy but would visit later. Her glasses were falling down her nose, and her pout was adorable, so he spared a second to wink at her before coming to his office.
He didn’t wait for Illya enter first, just walking in and turning to flip on the lights, not at all surprised to see Illya inside and studying him when he turned back, even if he hadn’t heard him enter. Napoleon paused where he was, one hand still on the door, and waited, eyebrows up.
Illya was still scowling, his eyes almost too bright as he looked Napoleon over, sweeping his gaze down to his loafers before bringing it back up to his face. His chest moved as he took a deep breath and Napoleon felt his mouth fall open to match it. His fingers tightened on the door, and then Illya was shaking his head, looking like a cat that had unexpectedly gotten wet, twisting his body as he slid backward and perched on one corner of Napoleon’s desk. He crossed his arms firmly and ducked his head, directing his eyes to the rest of the desk, over the neat stacks of paperwork and then on to the possible the largest bouquet of flowers Napoleon had ever seen outside of a racetrack or a funeral parlor.
It was absolutely enormous collection of orchids, in shapes and sizes and colors that he had never seen before and was so absurdly out of place on his desk that it was possibly the only that could have taken his attention from Illya at that moment. A wide, yellow vase startling next to the vivid purples and reds, blacks and oranges, all of them heavy with perfume and pollen, ripe for the plucking. The whole thing was balanced only by a few sprays of a white, tiny flower that had been arranged to support the unfurling orchid petals, making the color of the orchids that much more obvious. The statement it made, taking up nearly his entire desk, was dramatic to say the least.
He closed the door absently, glancing once to Illya before continuing to the other side of the desk and reaching out to just barely touch one of the delicate sprays of white. He couldn’t imagine who had sent it to him, but curled his lips into a smirk anyway when he couldn’t find a card.
“I assume these were scanned for weapons downstairs?” He asked it even while knowing the answer, and for that Illya managed a quick glare at him over the top of the arrangement.
“I was late, delivering them here.” Illya’s flat displeasure at admitting it was probably as great as his anger in being late at all, though of course the image of Illya lugging this ridiculous bouquet up here when it was nearly half his size made Napoleon grin.
Illya caught his amusement and his glare increased until Napoleon firmed his lips and took his eyes off the offending flower arrangement.
“Next time have your women bring it up themselves.” Illya’s voice dropped a notch, and Napoleon almost glanced up. He settled for looking down at his desk, where another copy of Mr. Waverly’s report had magically appeared somewhere between his brief visit here that morning and his return from the briefing upstairs.
He flipped the folder open, noting how close the two doctors were in their picture, pursing his lips thoughtfully. “A flora expert and a biochemist…” he mused, flicking a distracted look back to his unexpected gift and then swinging his gaze back instantly to see Illya’s fingers stroking the undoubtedly silky softness of an orchid petal, his eyes closed as he leaned in closer to inhale the scent.
Maybe two cups of coffee were simply not enough.
“I...uh...” There was something, he was supposed to be discussing now. Difficult to think of what, much less say it when his throat was dry and locked, his palms damp and tight on the desk to hold him up.
Illya’s mouth was open now as he made little sighing noises into the blooms, sending sprinkles of golden dust onto his cheeks and hands, across his lips.
Napoleon could almost smell it too, inhaling deeply to taste the perfume on his tongue, thick and warm as it filled his mouth. For a moment his eyes fell closed, his body seeming to throb as he swayed against the desk, and then he caught himself, opening his eyes and feeling the burn at his cheeks.
Blue stared out at him through the tangle of scarlet and indigo, simple, clear, and bright and yet he found himself turning away, stumbling back with heavy legs, looking around blankly until his eyes found the wall of filing cabinets with records of all their old cases. He had been sent a gift like this once before, a plant, a coded message.
It had been about Illya then, he remembered that much, moving forward until his hand found the metal handle. It was shockingly cold, as though he were feverish, and he frowned a little as he tried to think, tried to recall something he knew was very, very important.
"...Say, Illy...?” he started to suggest…something…as he turned around, and then grunted as Illya’s body collided hard with his own, crushing the air from his chest as he was pressed to the cold metal. His hands came up automatically and Illya found them, his fingers wrapping easily around his wrists and forcing them back next to his head, one knee sliding between his legs to prevent any possibility of escape as Illya leaned in, his eyes hot and his lips wet, his body so close Napoleon could feel his heartbeat.
----
Yeah I know, another WIP is the last thing I need.
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