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.

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

Summary: Fact 1: Napoleon Solo hates being underwater.  Fact 2: He will do anything to save Illya Kuryakin.  Fact 3: Fact 2 overrides Fact 1, always.

Notes: this is light slash; gen version is on dreamwidth, though the only difference is literally one less kiss.

This version crossposted to AO3.

If there was one thing that Napoleon hated, it was the
sensation of having his face submerged underwater–it felt as though power was
taken away from him.  In a way, it
was—the ability to breathe was what powered the body; take that away… and you
were powerless.  And oh, how he hated
that feeling!

His swimming skills weren’t the greatest, either—further
reason to avoid a situation that would cause him to be submerged.  Somehow, he had slipped through Survival
School without getting his swimming skills tested—some sort of trickery and
subterfuge that he no longer remembered, no doubt.

He suspected the day would come when it would come back to
bite him with a vengeance—he had been dumped in the water several times, but he
still made it out of those with relative ease thanks to his partner, who
refused to betray his weakness.

Nevertheless, he knew, in the back of his mind, that the
day would come when he would regret the deception—and the day came when, after
keeping watch from the motorboat that he and Illya had been using in order to
get Illya aboard a THRUSH freighter, he saw, with horror, two THRUSHies toss an
unconscious Illya overboard the vessel, bound hand and foot—and with a barbell
tied to a rope around his waist.

Illya hit the water and did not resurface, and Napoleon
knew that he had to act quickly if he hoped to save his partner’s life.

There was no question about what he would do, of
course—while he hated the sensation of having his face submerged, the thought
of losing his partner was the one thing he hated most of all.

He leaped out of the motorboat and let himself sink; he
forced himself not to panic and use up his oxygen as he used a knife to free
Illya from the ropes.

That was the easy part; now he had to get him to the
surface—and to safety.

THRUSH would be watching the water; they would have to get
away.  Fortunately, they weren’t too far
from shore; Napoleon dragged Illya along as he made his way in an ungainly
manner, bounding off of the floor of the bay until the water was shallow enough
to allow Napoleon’s leaps to break the surface of the water.  He gasped for breath and pulled Illya up with
him.  But Illya did not gasp for breath,
and it made Napoleon’s blood run cold.

“No…” he said, now dragging Illya onto the shore.  “Illya, please…”

He pulled the soaked, black turtleneck off of his partner
and put his ear to his chest; yes, there was a heartbeat but… he was clearly
not breathing, and his face was starting to take on an ashen hue, having taken
in water while being unable to hold his breath while unconscious.

Napoleon got to work, breathing for his partner while
trying to get the water out of his lungs.
After what seemed like an eternity of artificial respiration, Illya now
coughed as he began to breathe again on his own—and despite that this was
followed by some unpleasant-looking, painful retching from the unfortunate
Russian, it was a relief for Napoleon to see.

He would still require hospitalization and medical
supervision, but as Illya opened his eyes briefly and looked at Napoleon with a
mix of surprise and gratitude, Napoleon knew that his partner would, in time,
recover with the proper care.  After a
quick call for backup, Napoleon returned to reassuring Illya.

“Help is on the way,” he promised, kissing him gently on
the cheek.

Illya managed a weak nod, and then clutched at Napoleon’s
hand as he continued to try to catch his breath.  He couldn’t talk now, but he would make it
clear later as to how much it meant that Napoleon faced his deepest fears and
risked his life for him.

To know the depths of his love and loyalty made the whole
thing almost worthwhile.

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

Summary:
In which Napoleon notices that after living for five years in the US, Illya’s accent has changed.

Not cross-posting this because I’m just too lazy rn.

Illya could tell that Napoleon was in deep thought as he
arrived at the breakfast table to see his partner with his chin on his hand,
ignoring the glass of orange juice in front of him and the many dishes of
breakfast foods.  Baba Yaga was helping
herself to a piece of bacon, with Napoleon oblivious to the theft in
action.  The cat looked at Illya as he
approached, but knowing that he would let her get away with anything, she
continued to indulge in her plunder.

“Morning,” Illya offered to Napoleon, gently petting the
cat.  “What’re you so focused on?”

“You,” Napoleon said, glancing at Illya.  “Your accent is gone.”

Illya, who had now been in the process of piling potatoes
onto his plate, paused with the serving spoon in midair.

“…I realize THRUSH has been mostly inactive and our work
has been unusually slow as of late,” he said.
“But has it come to the point that you’re pondering over things like
this?”

“See?  See right
there?”  Napoleon pointed at him.  “That’s exactly what I’m talking about.”

“You’ve lost me,” Illya said, resuming serving himself the
potatoes.  “I haven’t really noticed my
accent having changed—though I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised.  I have
lived here for five years now, after all, listen to you talk and talk and
talk…”

“I didn’t notice it either until I realized that you’ve
started stressing syllables differently—and you’re using contractions a whole
lot more,” Napoleon said.

Illya, now serving himself bacon and eggs, considered this,
and nodded.

“Guess you’re right,” he said.  “Well, if it means I won’t draw any
suspicious stares from passersby who think I’m a Soviet plant, then why should
I mind?  I don’t plan to go back to
Russia—you know I’m working on getting my American citizenship.”  He smiled.
“It’s more official now, isn’t it?”

Napoleon smiled.

“Guess so,” he said.
“I’m just trying to figure out how I didn’t notice until now?”

“Same way you never notice that your hair is getting too
long, and, before you know it, it’s time for a trim.”

“…Not that you’d know anything about getting a trim,”
Napoleon teased.

Illya smirked, running a hand through his growing, blond
hair.

“So you noticed that I’m growing it out?”

“That, I did notice,” Napoleon grinned.  “…Looks nice, by the way.”

“Spacibo,” Illya
said, deliberately, prompting Napoleon to chuckle.  “There’s no need to worry, Napoleon—my accent
may have changed, but who I am and what you mean to me never will.”

Napoleon smiled.

“And I don’t foresee my accent ever changing, but even if
it did, the same would apply to me, too,” he promised.

“I never doubted it,” Illya said.  “Now, if you are through pondering, let’s
eat.”

“…At least that hasn’t changed…”

And they enjoyed their breakfast together.

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

Summary:
In which Napoleon prepares a disguise for an extremely stuffy, high-class party.

Not cross-posting this because I’m just too lazy rn.

Disguises were always an intriguing part of the job with
U.N.C.L.E.; the process of becoming someone else was a fascinating
metamorphosis.  Clothes made the man,
most of the time—but, often, another touch or two was required.

Napoleon glanced at his reflection as he ran some gray dye
through his hair with the bristles of a hairbrush.  It was as though he had aged ten years in ten
seconds—though the result wasn’t as bad as one would expect.

He chuckled to himself as he glanced at his reflection.

“What’s so amusing?” Illya asked, preparing the
communication equipment he’d be using to keep in contact with Napoleon.  He was determined to avoid the party
scene—the fancy do that Napoleon would be attending would be even stuffier than
the ones he usually attended in his spare time, and it was therefore something
he didn’t want any part of—wasteful extravagance, like gold-dusted foods…  He cringed at the very thought.  And even Napoleon found gold-dusted food
excessive, though his mind was, at the moment, still on his appearance.

“I just can’t help but think that if this is how I’m going
to look ten years from now, then I’ll have aged magnificently.”

Illya rolled his eyes at his partner’s vanity.

“Well, as long as you’re happy…” he said.  “But while your mind wanders to the future,
don’t forget to focus on the here and now.
Speculation is fine, but not to the point of distraction.”

“Duly noted,” Napoleon said.

“…You do look quite dashing, though,” Illya admitted.

“High praise,” the American grinned.  “Well, I’ll see you in a bit—I’ll be in
touch.”

Illya was right; he would have to keep his wits about
him—for as amusing as looking old was, he knew the end goal was, always, to
actually grow old.

Still, with his partner watching his back, he knew his
chances were excellent indeed.

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

Summary:
In which yet another renegade fed thinks he can bribe Napoleon into handing over Illya.  Will they ever learn?  …Probably not.

This version is light slash; gen version is available on my Dreamwidth.

Not cross-posting this because this might be expanded upon in the future.

“Every man has his price, Solo,” the renegade fed
boasted.  “And we know you like to live
large in luxury.  You, too, have a
price—and we’re offering to pay it.  Just
one word from us, and you will live in luxury for the rest of your life.  All you have to do is hand over that
yellow-headed Russian to me.”

The man was either extremely confident or lethally stupid,
for the piercing glare on Napoleon’s face would have sent most people running
for cover as he stood in the doorway of the U.N.C.L.E. safehouse, blocking the
fed from entering.  Yet, the man kept at
it.

“I know that you and Kuryakin have been pursued by THRUSH
for days—and that Kuryakin was wounded in the leg.  He is a liability to you at this point.  I can–”

“I already know what’s been going on,” Napoleon said.  “I know that there is a bounty on Illya by
renegade Bureau agents to get the information of the Soviet launch codes from
him.  You’re not the first.”

“But I am willing to pay more than the others!” the man
said.  “You see, money isn’t important to
me—it’s the prestige.  No price is too
great!”  He smirked.  “I understand that the last offer made to you
was a mere one million dollars?  I have
access to a vault filled with five million dollars.  What do you say?”

“No,” Napoleon said, firmly.

“Still not enough?
No worries—I can go higher.  Just
tell me, what do you want from me?”

Napoleon glared daggers at him.

“To drop dead.”

The renegade’s smug look faded, and was then replaced with
utter fear as Napoleon drew his Special.

“No!  No, please–!”

BANG.

It was just a tranquilizer, of course, but it was still
satisfying to see the man drop.  Napoleon
quickly contacted the backup he had requested to hide in the forest surrounding
the safehouse and, within minutes, they had arrived and carried the prisoner off.

“Are you sure you don’t want Medical to take Mr. Kuraykin
in, Sir?” one of the agents asked.

“Yes, Illya has made it very clear that all he has is a
flesh wound, and he wants no fuss made over it.”  It was true; Illya was more annoyed at his
misfortune in not going unscathed than anything else.  He ate, rested, and complained—all signs for
Napoleon to be reassured that he would be fine.

“Okay; we’ll be in touch again in case either of you change
your minds…”

That wasn’t likely, especially with the promise of more
renegade feds running around—Napoleon figured that he and Illya were better off
here, in the middle of nowhere.  They had
only had one intruder thus far—one who, out of greed of collecting the bounty,
would not have told anyone else about his location.

Napoleon now returned to the bedroom where Illya was
resting, sound asleep by the look of it.
He smiled, brushing some strands of hair out of his partner’s eyes
before changing and getting into bed with him.

“I should be insulted, the way they think I’d sell you out
for money…” he murmured, drawing an arm around him.  “They could never understand that what I have
with you is far more valuable than any cash hoard or treasure in existence.”

He sighed, pulling Illya to him protectively before
drifting off to sleep.

Illya had been awake, it turned out, and had heard the
entire exchange.  It wasn’t the first
time he’d overheard Napoleon turning down large sums of money for him—and he
had a feeling it wouldn’t be the last.

Still, it was almost worth it to know just how deep and how
true Napoleon’s love and loyalty ran.

Illya gently kissed Napoleon on the temple and then cuddled
up in his hold, drifting off to sleep, as well.

“Good night, Dorogoy,” he whispered, before slipping into
slumber.  “And thank you.  You are my greatest treasure, as well.”

It was a treasure that the both of them would hold dear
forever.

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

Summary:
In which their return to New York in 1986 and seeing the latest trends leads Napoleon and Illya to muse about fads and trends from their carefree younger days.

Not cross-posting this because I’m just too lazy rn.  As always, the Return movie is not a part of my timeline.

Aside from the few, white clouds in the air, it was a
beautiful fall day in Manhattan—just as Napoleon and Illya had remembered
them—they had, after all, left U.N.C.L.E. after Napoleon reached 40 that fall
day in 1972, and disappeared to Hawaii for 14 years.  But times had changed—and so had the
rules.  The new management saw the folly
of forcing clever, resourceful, and well-accomplished agents to leave their
positions when they still had so much to do.

After much pondering as to whether or not they should
return to the dangerous lifestyle they had left behind, the duo realized that
the duty of care they’d had in 1972 had never truly left them.  And so, here they were, traversing familiar
streets with their cat, Baba Yaga, who was eagerly sniffing the air at the
smell of fish markets and seafood restaurants—the tastes she had grown up with,
though that wasn’t to say that the tropical fare hadn’t been pleasant, either.

But quite a lot had changed—though Napoleon and Illya had
seen some of the new styles and trends in their time as private eyes, seeing
the crowds decked in ‘80s fashion made them feel very old and overdressed
indeed—to say nothing of some of the conversations they were overhearing.

“…That’s the fifth person I’ve heard saying to ‘gag them
with a spoon,’ and I really, really hope that’s just hyperbole and not some
crazy trend,” Napoleon said.

“You think it might be?” Illya asked.

“Well, our generation was the one where we tried to stuff
ourselves into phone booths, after all, remember?”

“…No,” Illya said, staring at him.  “What on Earth–?”

“…Guess that fad never hit Russia,” Napoleon shrugged.  “What about the Greasers?  Did you know about them?”

“Oh, I knew about them, alright.  In fact, I…”
Illya trailed off.  “Well, never
mind…”

“No, no—please, continue,” Napoleon said, with a smirk.

“Let’s hear about you trying to squeeze into phone booths,”
Illya said.

“There’s not much to say about that—this, on the other
hand…”

“Oh, alright,” Illya grumbled.  “I was 18 when I arrived in Cambridge, and
was in a considerable more lax environment than Russia would have been.  I saw an American film and, very briefly,
wore a leather jacket and slicked my hair back.”

Napoleon stared at him with a grin.

“Are there pictures?
Please tell me there are pictures!”

“I did not keep any,” Illya insisted.

“Fine, I’ll just get in touch with your graduating class
from Cambridge—I’ll have access to the U.N.C.L.E. files again once the
paperwork goes through.”

“You wouldn’t…!”

And as they continued to banter as they walked, it was
beginning to feel as though no time had passed at all as the Manahttan streets
once again welcomed them home.