[written for the man from u.n.c.l.e. gift exchange 2022]
Illya loves his job. Usually.
Usually, it plays right into his strengths. Breaking and entering, photography, martial arts. He loves the thrill of the chase, the bitter taste of adrenaline seeping into his lungs. The sting in his hands after a good fight. The satisfaction of a plan clicking into place like a bullet in the chamber of a gun.
But today? Today Waverly has called a meeting, organization-wide, about some budget thing or another. Annual report. Whatever it is, it’s unimportant. Illya doesn’t care. But he had been the unlucky one, the one who had pulled the short straw.
“I am always unlucky,” he mutters, wrangling shut the buttons on his shirt. It’s too new, and still stiff.
Across the room, Napoleon laughs. “Stop being dramatic, Peril, it’s just a meeting. You won’t even have to do anything.”
“That is the problem,” Illya growls. He turns to stare at his partner.
Napoleon leans against the bare metal headboard, smiling lazily at Illya, the corners of his mouth turned up in a way that’s just shy of predatory. He’s still in his undershirt, pale against his skin, his bare shoulders blurred with a haze of bruises. The cream sheets kiss against his scarred legs. He looks relaxed, all of his angles melted to sunny ease. Unlike Illya, he doesn’t have anywhere to be this morning.
Illya sighs, his tie abandoned around his neck. He walks over to the dark shape of Napoleon on the bed, and waits.
“You want me to get your tie?”
“Please.”
And it’s strange, really, the way this has become familiar, the magic of Napoleon’s fingers flitting around his neck. Only a year ago Illya would rather have died than expose his throat to an American. But now…
Illya closes his eyes into the soft touch. Napoleon moves slow, purposeful, like he’s trying to get Illya to stay as long as possible.
Waverly be damned, Illya’s about two seconds away from ripping off the tie again and diving back into bed with his lover.
“You’re all good,” says Napoleon. He pulls back, hands brushing against Illya’s hip, his chest. Illya smiles down at him. Napoleon curls his hands into Illya’s pockets, leans his head against Illya’s stomach. Illya feels the heat of Napoleon against him, spreading like the sunrise, a conflagration in the pit of his stomach. It feels like love. He wants to stay here forever.
His watch beeps.
“I have to go now,” he tells Napoleon, pulling back. “Can’t be late.”
“Oh come on, Peril, why can’t you?” Napoleon whines. “Being a few minutes late won’t kill you.”
“It is behavior unacceptable of a spy,” says Illya, but he throws a smile over his shoulder all the same.
Watch, keys, sleeve knife, gun. This shirt is too damn stiff. Illya wishes he could be wearing one of his turtlenecks instead, wishes he could stay in the soft and familiar. Behind him, he can hear the sheets rustle as Napoleon gets up.
“I’ll walk you to the door, how about that.”
“We are in hotel room,” Illya points out. “There is not far to go.”
“Still,” says Napoleon.
Illya toes on his shoes, ties them with movements sharp enough to gut a fish. The morning shines in front of him. He might still be asleep. Shoe knife, calf knife, extra bullets. Flashlight in the heel of his shoe. He stands, and the way the fabric pulls against his skin is … wrong.
The shirt is new, but that can’t be it — something with his jacket and pants. He’s worn these before for sure, so why — ? His holster is adjusted the way it always is, snug across his chest and shoulder. It does press on last mission’s bruises a bit, but that is to be expected. Pockets — something missing? He must still be half asleep, because something is definitely missing.
“Forgetting something?”
He turns to see Napoleon, rumpled with sleep at the foot of the bed, and whatever he’s missing flies out of his mind. This is what he’s missing. How could he have forgotten? He takes a step to Napoleon, wrapping an arm around his lover’s waist.
Napoleon lets out a little squeak as Illya leans in. Illya feels him melt into the kiss. Even though it’s brief, it’s perfect as it always is — the steady heat of Napoleon against him, the taste of his lover like sunlight on his lips. A perfect good luck charm to carry him through the drudgery of this meeting.
“There,” says Illya, stepping back. “Now I have to go, Cowboy, or I will be late.”
Napoleon looks a little shocked. There’s a faint pink blush dusted over his sharp cheekbones. Illya wants to kiss there until Napoleon turns frostbite-red.
“When I asked if you were forgetting something, I meant this,” says Napoleon, holding up Illya’s wallet.
Illya blushes. He doesn’t say anything.
Napoleon smiles, slipping the wallet back into Illya’s pocket. “What I got was even better.”
He entwines his arms around Illya’s neck, hot against the soft parts of him. “Just stay here, Peril. We’ll make Gaby go.”
“Waverly will be angry,” Illya says, dipping his head down to Napoleon’s neck.
“Waverly can go to hell. We’re still recovering from the mission. We damn well deserve a day off.”
Illya grins at the smile in Napoleon’s words. He knows he should protest, should already be heading out the door, but his lover’s swift fingers come up to tangle in his tie and he loses all rational thought.
Napoleon tugs him backwards by the tie, pushing him down onto the bed. Illya reaches up to kiss him again. He loves this. He loves Napoleon. Here, bracketed by strong arms and the scent of hair oil, he feels soft. Safe.
“Just tell Gaby to go in your place,” Napoleon says, flopping down.
“She will kill me, you know. And you.”
“I don’t doubt it. What’s it matter, anyways?” Napoleon’s eyebrows quirk in that way of his, mischievous and serious and suave all in one.
Illya buries his face in Napoleon’s shoulder. “Don’t want to leave to tell her.”
Napoleon laughs, and it is the most beautiful song Illya has ever heard. “Just bang on the wall. She knows Morse code.”
Illya says, “Hnghfffd.”
“Fine,” Napoleon groans, light and playful. “I’ll get her to go. You stay here.”
And he’s pulling away and Illya swears he’s never felt more bereft in his life. He instinctively curls into the warm patch where Napoleon was, blinking up at the dark shape of him. He watches Napoleon grope around for his robe. Illya knows it’s probably on the floor somewhere, probably behind the narrow sofa where Illya had flung it last night. Napoleon manages to locate it — exactly where Illya thought — and he flicks his head in happiness when he finds it.
And Illya thinks, not for the first time, that this is the most in love he’s ever been. This is a love so deep it’s familiar — has been since the very beginning. With the life he’s had, Illya does not believe in destiny. Or at least, he didn’t. But Napoleon’s crooked smile patches some small broken part of Illya, some part he never knew existed before. Napoleon warms him every time. If destiny exists, Illya thinks, then surely Napoleon is his.
Because Napoleon is his .
Illya watches Napoleon walk out the door, letting his eyes linger on his partner’s hips, his broad back. He can hear Napoleon’s voice, muffled through the wall. Gaby’s voice joins in, peaking with annoyance, and Illya laughs quietly to himself. He loves his partners, both of them. He really does.
Their voices quiet. Illya wishes Napoleon would come back already, shatter the silence and take Illya in his strong arms again. Illya busies himself with putting all his concealed weapons away again.
His shoe knife and sleeve knife go back in the case, and he slides the tiny calf knife back into its well-worn sheathe. His gun he places under the pillow, dark and sleek next to Napoleon’s clunky American-made handgun. He smiles at that — the contrast is so fitting. Lethal and beautiful together.
He raises his head at the click of the door. Napoleon shuts it behind him and promptly flings his robe right back over the couch again. “She’s going to kill me,” he says, laughing a little.
Illya smiles. “Better make the most of your last days, then.” And he grins as Napoleon tackles him back onto the bed.
“I’ll never,” Illya says, breathless under Napoleon’s lips, “forget to kiss you ever again.”
“I hope you do,” mumbles Napoleon into the bruise on Illya’s jaw. “Means you’ll come back. Come back to me every time.”
“Of course,” says Illya, his heartbeat pressing against Napoleon in every way it can. And then he feels Napoleon smile into his neck, and he forgets all speech.
Napoleon closes his teeth around the pulse in Illya’s neck, and Illya gasps at the thrill of the bite. He feels small under his lover. Vulnerable and protected under the great mass of him. Illya thinks he would be content to suffocate here. And perhaps he already has — for this, surely this, is heaven.
back to my fics