Nights like these are what Napoleon lives for.
After his last narrow escape, he hasn’t seen finery in so long. Nearly a lifetime, or so it seems. He’d missed this — fine silk napkins, glittering trays of champagne, the candlelight corona of a crystal chandelier. Everyone is in suits and fine dresses, golden-drunk, shining like knives in the gallery. Beautiful and splendidly enticing. Napoleon’s pockets jingle with stolen baubles already — petty, he knows, but he just can’t resist.
A nearly perfect night. Now all he needs is a little adrenaline.
He deals in millions, now — gone are the days spent in dark alleys and dirty drunken bars. Now he surrounds himself with gold, a thousand invites in his pockets next to a pilfered bracelet or two.
After awhile, though, champagne can be cloying. Napoleon prefers to cut it with whiskey.
The man across from him leans forward, bracing his long delicate fingers against the low table. His eyes shine pale in the dim golden light. Napoleon finds himself leaning in a little closer as well. It’s not like anyone can hear them, tucked away in the corner, or that anyone cares to.
The man must be new at this. Napoleon remembers the feeling well.
“Listen,” says the man. There’s a tilt to his words, an accent that he’s not doing a very good job of hiding. Napoleon guesses Russian, maybe.
“Listen,” he says again, eyes flicking back and forth. “I need … something. Something you can give me, yes?”
I can give you anything. Napoleon quirks an eyebrow, graceful as his surroundings. “Of course. Just say the word, mister …” He waves a hand, effortlessly elegant.
The man does not volunteer his name. Napoleon sits back. “You’re going to have to give me some idea, here.”
“Something powerful.” The man’s blond hair catches the light at the edge of their little corner, revealing the striking line of his neck. Napoleon deliberately looks away, out into the rest of the party. Beyond, he spots another man talking to a woman in a black-and-white dress — the host, he thinks. She gestures toward their corner with an elegant wave.
Napoleon turns back to his client. “Powerful — that’s a start. Guns, ammo maybe …” He lets himself trail off. His client can finish the question.
The man swallows, clenches his perfect jaw. His icy eyes flick back and forth. Definitely nerves. Napoleon thinks of the host’s gesture and doesn’t blame him.
The man swallows again. Napoleon watches his Adam’s apple bob. When he speaks, the last of his fake accent bleeds away. “I want to buy a bomb.”
There it is. Napoleon smiles languidly, watching his client’s pale eyes. He doesn’t say anything.
“A — a nuclear one. Just one.”
Oh, what a treat! This is information, indeed. This man — this pretty blond fool — has just handed Napoleon a million bucks. So the Russians need tech to copy? Big news, for anyone who can afford it.
“Excellent,” says Napoleon. “Now, the payment.”
“Yes,” breathes the Russian. He taps the collar of his shirt, wound tight with nerves.
“I’m going to need your name, mister …”
This time, he answers. “Illya.”
Napoleon takes that information and tucks it away. The host is talking to someone else, now, and the man from before is sitting at a table a little closer than before. He peers around the room from under his half-rimmed glasses, deliberately not looking at Napoleon.
The man across from Napoleon, Illya, says, “How much?”
“I think 75,000 American dollars would suffice.”
Illya huffs, crossing his arms. “That is too much. 30,000.” His gaze slips past Napoleon, out of their corner, and Napoleon knows he’s seen the man.
Napoleon inches closer to Illya, close enough to smell his shaving cream. He has to time this just right. The man is staring openly, now. Waiting.
“65,000 dollars. I can deliver anywhere.”
Illya meets his eyes with blue steel. “50,000. That is the highest I will go.”
Out of the corner of his eye, he watches the man stand up. He normally wouldn’t settle for anything so low, but he’s running close to the wire here. The one thing he hates about high society — it’s harder to make an escape.
“Deal,” he says, shaking the Russian’s hand.
The man inches closer, stepping through the crowd with a mechanical grace. Napoleon spots another, a woman in an orange dress, cutting through the crowds on the other side.
Illya smiles, the tension bleeding out of him with the money. “I will have it delivered to you where we discussed.”
“Perfect.” Napoleon smiles. It’s a little sick but he loves the way his heart races as the man and woman draw closer. The perfect night — golden finery, the thrill of the chase, and, if he plays his cards right, a little fun.
And Illya is looking at him, really looking, in just the way Napoleon likes.
“Now that our business is over,” says Napoleon, “I have another proposition for you. Do you happen to be … a member of the club?” He pulls at his tie with a practiced hand. He wants the hollow of his throat to be visible, wants the handsome Russian to fix his eyes there and agree.
Something changes in Illya’s eyes, and for a heart-stopping second Napoleon is terrified that he got it wrong.
But Illya smiles, taps his collar, narrows his eyes in a way that can only be described as catlike. “Of course,” he says.
Napoleon grins. He’s learned, time and time again, that the agents always leave two men alone. A disgusted look, maybe, but they always seem content to leave two deviants to their covert affairs. Not their department. Not the worst crime. Napoleon eyes the man, approaching their table, and leans in.
This time, it doesn’t work.
He feels the cold metal of the gun in stark contrast to the warmth of Illya’s perfect lips, pressing into his oiled hair, definitely messing it up.
Fuck .
Illya pulls back, swiping a hand across his mouth. He looks cruel, satisfied. There’s an awful half-smile on his face.
The worst of it is, it was a damn good kiss.
“Stop tapping your mic, Kuryakin. You’re going to give me a headache.” The woman in orange smirks down at Napoleon. “And you — Mister Napoleon Solo, right? That was easier than we thought.”
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