Another MFU blurb

Written for today’s short affair prompt at Section VII.

Summary: Napoleon and Illya had to deal with worse lodgings in their younger years, but now, two old spies contend with a motel room that makes a THRUSH cell seem almost inviting. [Inspired by last week’s NCIS episode where Ducky complained about his motel room bed–and, as we all know, Ducky is totally Illya]

Notes: this is light slash; gen version is on dreamwidth.

This version crossposted to AO3.

“Well,” Napoleon sighed, as he opened the door to the motel
room.  “It’s not exactly the luxury
suites that we’ve been in since retirement, but it’s… something.”  His expression was one of disapproval as he
saw how barely put-together the room was; the room was a bland, powder-blue,
with a beaten-up TV on an equally beaten-up stand, and a bed that looked like
it was made of lumps.  Baba Yaga was now
prowling around the room with an air of a cat that was on the trail of
vermin.  “I’m beginning to think we
should have opted for an actual hotel and a luxury suite.  Look
at this dump…!”

“It’s closest to the airport; we couldn’t have planned on
the flight getting cancelled,” Illya responded.
“And everywhere else was full; it’s pointless to find somewhere
else.  And anyway, we’ve had worse
lodgings in decades past, courtesy of THRUSH.”

“…I don’t know, I think some of those THRUSH cells just
might have been an upgrade compared to this,” Napoleon said.

“Well, it’ll do just fine for tonight,” Illya said.  “We’ll catch the first flight out in the
morning and be on our vacation before we know it.”

“Mmh,” Napoleon grunted.
He placed his suitcase aside and sat down on the bed to take his shoes
off—and then yelped as he sunk down into it.
“What the–!?”

“What’s the matter now?
Something wrong with the bed?”

“This isn’t a bed—it’s a quicksand pit!”

“Oh, really…” Illya said, rolling his eyes.  “You still have that old habit of exaggerating—good Lord…!”  He was cut off as he sunk down into the
mattress upon sitting down on it, crashing onto Napoleon.  “…Right, maybe you weren’t exaggerating.”

“…You think…?” Napoleon said, his eyes now barely an inch
from Illya’s.

Illya gave a slight shrug.

“Perhaps we have put on some extra pounds in our older
age–”

“I’m pretty sure the mattress has malfunctioned,” Napoleon
said.

“Right, and those old silk pajamas of yours still fit,”
Illya said, sarcastically.  “Don’t think
I didn’t know that you ordered some in a larger size.”

“…What are you saying…?”

“That we are now showing the effects of those gourmet meals
of yours.”

“Strange, you never showed any regrets when you were eating
them…”

“Well, they were good,” Illya said.  “And they seem to have some property that has
extended the life of our cat—whoever heard of a cat living 58 years?”

“Bastet might have something to do with that more than my
cooking did,” Napoleon said.  “…But, ah,
we need to figure out a plan to escape this pit that we’ve seem to have gotten
ourselves into…”

It wasn’t easy, but the two of them slowly managed to
extricate themselves from the mattress.

The moment they had managed to escape, Baba Yaga leaped
onto the bed—and meowed loudly in confusion as she sunk down in it, too.

“See, there’s the problem,” Napoleon said.  “It can’t even hold a cat!”

“Oh, leave it be, Napoleon; I still say we’ve had worse to
contend with.”

“…We were younger then.”

“Don’t be so dramatic,” Illya chided.  “A night on the floor using the comforters as
cushions will be fine, even at our age.”

“Great, and how do you intend to keep warm if we’re using
our covers for a mattress?”

“Well, I assume that, even after all these years, you are
still my ‘little comforter,’ hmm?” Illya asked, smirking.

“…Okay, you win.”

And so, they set themselves up on the floor, which,
compared to the hideous excuse of a mattress, proved to be comfortable.  Baba Yaga managed to find a corner of the
mattress that didn’t sink as much and made herself at home there.

“You remember the last time we had to do this?” Illya
mused.

“Yeah, the Girls of Nazarone Affair when we found those
poison needles in our beds,” Napoleon said, smirking at the memory.  “Can you believe that was 53 years ago?”

“Truly remarkable,” Illya agreed.  “But here we are—still here.  Still together.”

“I’ve enjoyed every moment of it,” Napoleon said, drawing
him into a hug.

Illya returned the hug.

“So have I,” he said.

They looked into each other’s eyes again, and then kissed.

A little snafu in their itinerary was but a small obstacle
after everything they’d faced—but, like everything else, they would face it
together.