Written for today’s short affair prompt at Section VII

Summary:
In which Napoleon thinks he’s lost his prized antique ring.

Not crossposting this because I’m lazy again.

It was something to be said about the dangerous nature of
their work when Napoleon’s reaction to waking up in Medical was a groan of “Not
again…”

“Yes, I’m afraid so, Mr. Solo,” Waverly said, as Napoleon
struggled to sit up.  “You successfully
destroyed the THRUSH satrap, and we are interrogating the prisoners now, but
you appear to have sustained a few bruised ribs and a rather nasty bump on the
head—not a concussion, thankfully.”

“Ah…  Well, it was quite a brawl,” Napoleon mused.  “I was trying to stall them as Illya set off
the explosives…”  He trailed off,
realizing there was a missing voice in the conversation.  “Illya!?
Where’s–!?”

“Look to your right, Mr. Solo.”

Napoleon did so, sighing in relief as he saw Illya smiling
back at him in the next bed over.
Napoleon’s own smile faded as he got a good look at his partner—Illya
had a few burns, and he was breathing pure oxygen from a tank.

“It looks worse than it is,” Waverly assured him.  “The burns are superficial, and he did have a
bit of throat damage from smoke inhalation, but the doctors are confident that
he’ll recover completely.  He won’t be
able to talk until his throat heals, however.”

“You got caught in your own explosion?” Napoleon asked,
giving Illya a sympathetic look.

Illya shrugged with an It
could happen to anyone look.

“But not to you!
You’re a demolitions expert!  What
really happened in there while I was
knocked out?”  Napoleon looked back at
Waverly.  “I remember the brawl, and I
remember…”. He suddenly groaned, looking at his bare left hand.  “My ring…!
My gold ring with the star sapphire!
If fell off in the fight!”

He sighed now; the slight lapse in concentration at the
loss of his prized possession had cost him the fight—even though, prior to that
moment, he’d been holding his own despite being surrounded.  He had been subsequently knocked out.

“I don’t suppose a sweep has been done of the wreckage of
the satrap?” he asked, glumly.  Deep down,
he knew there was a very good chance that the ring had melted in the heat of
the fire, but he wasn’t going to give up without searching for it.

“It’s ongoing as we speak,” Waverly said, getting up.  “You’ll be informed of what was
recovered.  In the meantime, I suggest
that the two of you recover
posthaste.”

“Yes, Sir,” Napoleon said, as Illya nodded.

Satisfied, Waverly took his leave of them, and Napoleon
laid back on his pillow, sighing as he glanced up at the ceiling.

“Ma gave me that ring before I had to leave for Korea,” he
said.  “It was an antique that someone
gave her to give to me when I was a few days old.  I always considered it my good luck
charm…  That ring was probably the source
of Solo Luck.”

Illya cleared his throat quietly, and Napoleon turned to
him—and then stared as he saw Illya’s hand outstretched, with the ring in his
hand.

“My ring!” Napoleon exclaimed, taking it from him.

Yes, it was the genuine ring—down to the inscription in the
interior of the band: L. M., 6/26/1870.  With a sigh of relief, Napoleon placed it back
on his little finger.

“How did you find it?” Napoleon asked.

Illya shrugged casually, and Napoleon paused as something
sunk in.  The burns and smoke inhalation
that Illya had suffered—he shouldn’t have gotten caught in the ensuing fire of
the explosion by stopping to get Napoleon out of there…  The only way he could have had sustained that
much damage from the fire would have been if he had gone back inside to
retrieve something…

“You…  You… blockhead!” Napoleon exclaimed,
temporarily stealing Illya’s insult of choice.
“You went back for the ring!?”

Illya glanced at him with a soft expression that clearly
read, I know how much it means to
you.  I had to try.

Napoleon’s heart twisted; Illya was in this condition just
because of the ring.

“It’s not that I don’t appreciate it,” he said.  “Because I do.  But don’t you ever do anything like that
again!”  His expression softened now.  “You know you mean more to me than some
antique ring.”

Illya just smiled back and gave him a promising nod;
satisfied, Napoleon relaxed and began to entertain his companion as they both
rested and recovered.

Written for today’s short affair prompt at Section VII

Summary:
In which Illya’s legendary appetite is known well enough for him to get requests to judge a bake-off.  Napoleon just wonders how he does it.

Not crossposting this because I’m lazy again.

Napoleon stared glumly at the gray, overcast skies over New
York.  Their first day off in a long time
seemed to be holding the promise of rain, scrapping the plans for a Central
Park picnic lunch that he had been hoping to arrange for him and Illya.  Their cat, Baba Yaga also looked irked at the
cloud cover, which had preempted her plans of lazing in a sunbeam all morning;
she sat on the windowsill, tail lashing in frustration.

But Napoleon was a resourceful person; he was already
trying to come up with alternatives when he heard a knock on the door.  Out of habit as an agent; he checked who it
was first, and was surprised to see a group of girl scouts from Troupe 144
outside the apartment door.

“Good morning,” he offered, as he opened the door.

“Good morning,” one of the scouts said.  “Is Mr. Kuryakin in?”

“Yes, he’s just finishing breakfast,” Napoleon said.  He turned towards the breakfast nook.  “Illya, you’ve got company!”  He turned back to the scouts.  “I didn’t think it was cookie season…”

“It’s not,” another one of the girls said.  “We wanted to ask Mr. Kuryakin about
something else…”  She trailed off as
Illya arrived.  “Hi, Mr. Kuryakin!”

The girls all greeted him, and Illya returned the
greetings.

“What brings you out here?” he queried.

“It’s time for our annual charity bake-off,” the lead scout
reminded him.  “Remember?  You asked us to let you know when we were
going to have it.”

“Oh, that’s right, I did,” Illya mused.

“We’ve had a bit of trouble getting things set up,” a
second scout said.  “First of all,
because of the storm coming, we had to move it inside the community center near
West Side—the one near the old gym.”

“Ah, yes, next to the old building that smells of chlorine
swimming pools,” Illya said, frowning slightly.
“Not the best place for a bake-off, but seeing as though you’ll be
rained out otherwise, not much of a choice…”

“We’re also out one judge,” the first scout said.  “That’s why we came here to see you—do you
think you can judge the bake-off, Mr. Kuryakin?
We thought of you because we know you appreciate food—you’re the one who
buys most of our cookies each year.”

“You hit the nail on the head there,” Napoleon grinned,
looking at his partner.  “Illya is a
connoisseur of all kinds of foods.”

“Da, I am,” Illya
said.  “When is your bake-off?”

“In an hour,” a third scout said, sheepishly.  “Sorry for the late notice, but our judge
just quit on us.”

“Well, Mr. Kuryakin did just finish breakfast right now,”
Napoleon began, but Illya cut him off.

“I am more than happy to step in as judge for you,” he
said.  “I’ll be at the community center
in an hour.”

“Thanks, Mr. Kuryakin!” the girls chorused, and they headed
back outside where their chaperone was waiting with the car.

“…You literally just ate,” Napoleon said.  “How are you going to be able to judge the
bake-off?”

“I am their best customer, Napoleon; I must help them!”

“…In America, the customer is the one who is served.”

“Da, but I am a
Soviet—we share all burdens and help each other.”

“…You just want to sample those cookies and cakes.”

Illya went slightly red.

“I’ll see you after the bake-off, Napoleon.”

“Ready for lunch, no doubt,” Napoleon smirked, as Illya
darted out the door.  He sighed and
looked to Baba Yaga.  “Where does it all
go?”

“Mrrah?”

“You don’t know, either, hmm?”

“Mreh.”

“Yeah, it’s one of the great mysteries of the universe,”
Napoleon teased.

At any rate, he had an idea for what to do now—Illya would,
no doubt, find a way to be ready for lunch even after judging the
bake-off.  And Napoleon still had plans
for a picnic… but having one indoors.

“A gourmet picnic,” he mused aloud.  “In the comfort of our apartment.  …Honestly, what could be better?”

It was promising to be an enjoyable day after all.

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

Summary:
In which the complexities of Solo Luck show themselves when Napoleon wins two tickets to a luxury cruise that he didn’t really want–but for once, Illya does want to indulge.

Notes:
There are two versions of this piece.  This is the light slash
version (also cross-posted to AO3).  There is a gen version on my
dreamwidth if you’d prefer reading that.
The two blurbs are around 95% similar.

Napoleon sighed to himself as he walked under the night
air, out on the deck of the cruise ship he and Illya were traveling on.  A cruise wouldn’t have been his first choice
to spend his vacation—not being fond of deep waters, Napoleon would have preferred
to avoid boats of all kinds.  But in a
bizarre and yet classic example of how Solo Luck worked, Napoleon had won two
cruise tickets in a door prize drawing—all expenses paid, including food, which
Illya had insisted that they jump on.

“…I’d been hoping to win that European tour…” Napoleon had
sighed.

“What do we need a tour for?” Illya had queried.  “You and I have been all over Europe—multiple
times!”

“True, but that was when we were on duty.”

“I can guarantee you, if we tried to go on a European tour,
Mr. Waverly would find a way to reach us, and soon, we would find ourselves on
a busman’s holiday,” Illya had pointed out.
“Out on a ship, in the middle of the ocean?  …Granted, he could still find a way to get us
on a mission, but it would be far more difficult.”

Between that and the desire to partake in the buffets that
the brochure had promised, Illya had seemed very intent on going—and Napoleon
couldn’t help but agree in the end, knowing that Illya asked for very little,
and these were, no doubt, well-earned comforts.

The stateroom had been luxurious, and the food had been
excellent; Illya had found more than enough to feast upon, and Napoleon had to
admit, it was nice to get away from the pressures of work, and to see his
partner able to lower his guard and enjoy himself.

Illya had been eating a second dessert, and so Napoleon had
taken a stroll on the deck to pass the time.
The tropical air was warm, even at night; his Hawaiian shirt was open,
fluttering slightly in the light breeze as he made his way to the bow of the
ship.

Napoleon leaned almost artistically against the ship’s
railing, as though posing for a painting in the moonlight.

Illya, who had just finished eating, decided to use his
tracking device to find Napoleon, rather than go through the trouble of
searching for him.  He paused as he saw
Napoleon leaning against the railing, and he smirked as he walked over to him,
standing beside him.

“You really can’t
turn it off, can you?”

Napoleon glanced over at him, pausing as he saw the moonlight
now fall on Illya—the silvery light illuminated his partner’s white polo shirt
and yellow hair, make him seem almost like from another world.

“What?” Illya asked, seeing Napoleon staring at him in awe.

“You’re beautiful.
Illya, I’m looking at you, and you look exactly like you did the moment
I realized I was in love with you—the moonlight and everything.”

Illya blushed slightly.

“I was right… you can’t turn it off,” he managed to say,
still blushing.

“Either you’ve got it, or you haven’t…” Napoleon said,
sagely.  “And you sure have got it…”

He gently placed his hand on the side of Illya’s face,
lifting it slightly so he could kiss him.

“Do I look as otherworldly in this light, too?” Napoleon
asked.

“Da, like
something out of my dreams, during the days I could only hope that I would find
true love…. And yet, you are far more beautiful than that!”

Now it was Napoleon’s turned to blush as he grinned.  He drew an arm around Illya as the two of
them now looked out onto the ocean.

“Admit it, Napoleon,” Illya said.  “You are enjoying this cruise, and you are
pleased I insisted that we come here.”

“…Yeah, alright, you win…” Napoleon conceded.  “I’m enjoying it far more than I thought I
would.”

“I’m glad,” Illya said, sincerely.  “It is nice to finally share a vacation with
you and have nothing interfere.”

“And the food is good…”

“…And the food is good,” Illya admitted.  “Such a variety of food—and especially
seafood!  If only Baba Yaga was here…”

“She’d be just as nervous about the water as me,” Napoleon
mused.

“You seem alright now,” Illya said.  “Or are you concerned about it?”

Napoleon thought for a moment.

“You know, I think I am
alright,” he said.

Illya laced his fingers with Napoleon’s and smiled.

“I am very glad to hear that.”

Swing music suddenly started from beneath the deck they
were standing on; the late-night dance had started in the grand ballroom of the
ship.

“Ah, the party scene that you enjoy so much,” Illya
observed.  “Very well, shall we go to the
ballroom and join them?”

Napoleon thought for a moment; his knee-jerk reaction would
have been to say “yes” immediately.  But,
on the other hand, he was enjoying this beautiful, peaceful moment in the
moonlight with his partner.

“In a little bit,” he said.

And so, the two partners continued to stay on the deck and
talk, enjoying their moment of solitude—just them, the ocean, and the
moonlight.

They had no need for anything else.

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

Summary:
In which Napoleon forgets his cold-weather gear on a mission in the mountains, but Illya is generous… and smug.

Notes:
There are two versions of this piece.  This is the light slash
version.  There is a gen version on my
dreamwidth if you’d prefer reading that.
The two blurbs are around 95% similar.

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

“Napoleon, I did tell you that the weather on these peaks
can change in an instant,” Illya said, calmly.

“And I did say that we had to travel light,” Napoleon
replied, scowling in discomfort as a stiff breeze blew around them. He was glad
he was in the lead; Illya wouldn’t have seen that scowl.

“Well done, then,” Illya said, not even needing to see the
scowl to know it existed.  “You are light…
and cold.”

“I am not cold,” Napoleon insisted.  “I just find the temperature range here less
than optimal.”

Just as Illya had been able to know that the scowl existed
without seeing it, Napoleon knew that Illya was smirking without need to turn
around.

“Don’t say it,” he said.
“Don’t even say it.”

Illya just responded with a mischievous chuckle, which
Napoleon realized may have been less desirable than a simple “I told you so.”

“Fine, you can say it.”

“But I won’t,” Illya promised, sympathy creeping into his
voice in spite of himself.  “Here,
Napoleon; you may borrow my sweater again.”

Napoleon looked back now, watching as Illya removed his
black turtleneck and handed it to him.

“You end up doing this a lot,” Napoleon admitted.  He could be stubborn at times, particularly when
testing his limitations; thankfully, Illya was always there to back him up, one
way or another.  “Are you sure?”

“Trust me, Napoleon; I don’t mind at all.”

Napoleon shrugged and put the sweater on; it was a tight
fit, seeing as though he was a size larger than Illya.  The sweater, nevertheless, stayed on,
providing him with the extra bit of warmth he needed.

“Thanks, Illya,” he said, sincerely.

“What are partners for?” the Russian replied.  “…If not for ‘I-told-you-so’s and fawning
over their lovers in tight-fitting sweaters?”

Napoleon smirked.

“So that’s what
your angle was…!” he said, shaking his head in amusement.  “No wonder you never seem to mind lending me
your sweaters!  And here I thought you
were just being generous…”

“Oh, but I am,” Illya said, sweetly.  “It’s just that I get quite a bit in exchange
for what I give.”

“You’re going to get it, alright…” Napoleon mused, drawing
a sweater-clad arm around his partner.  “I’ll
get you for this.”

“I am counting on it,” Illya replied, without missing a
beat.

Napoleon squeezed him into a tighter hug—doubling duty as shielding
him from the mountain breeze as they continued on.  Illya responded with a kiss—one he knew that
would serve as an invitation to more later.

The message was received and understood.  And in the back of his mind, Napoleon made a
mental note to “forget” his cold-weather articles more often.

It ended up being more enjoyable than he would have
expected.

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

Summary:
In which Illya’s vexation at long, boring solo missions are somewhat alleviated by coming home to Napoleon–and his cooking.

Notes:
There are two versions of this piece.  This is the light slash
version.  There is a gen version on my
dreamwidth if you’d prefer reading that.
The two blurbs are around 95% similar.

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

Illya had to admit that coming home to Napoleon’s cooking
was one of the few highlights of a day doing solo missions and tasks, even on a
cold, winter day like the one that had descended upon New York.  Napoleon never failed to surprise him; Illya
hadn’t expected a worldly, well-to-do person like Napoleon to be proficient in
a task like cooking when he could afford to eat food in the finest restaurants.  But Napoleon was a talented chef, and as
Illya announced his return home, he caught a whiff of a tantalizing carrot soup
on the stove.

“Ah, Illya, perfect timing,” Napoleon said, picking up some
of the orange soup in a soupspoon.
“Think you can give me your opinion on the seasoning of this soup?  I hope it didn’t end up too spicy…”

He gently held the soupspoon out to his partner, who took a
taste—it was spectacularly seasoned, as always, and Illya suspected it had been
less about that and more about making sure that he wasn’t uncomfortable from
being out in the winter wind.  If that
was Napoleon’s plan, then it was working perfectly; the warm soup seemed to
course through him, warming up his fingers that had been numb from the cold.

“It’s perfect, Napoleon,” he said.  “As always.”

“Great; then get out of that coat and warm up by the fire;
I’ll get you dinner.  I’ve got a
full-course meal here from soup to nuts!”

Illya grinned as he saw roasted chestnuts, roasted fish,
and a tossed salad on the coffee table in front of the fire.  Baba Yaga was sprawled out by the fireplace
with a piece of fish in her mouth, lazily nibbling on it.

Napoleon now sat down beside him with two bowls of soup,
handing one to him.  Illya now leaned
cozily against his partner.

“How was your day?” Napoleon asked, kissing him.

“Routine—but lonely without you,” Illya said, kissing him
back.  “But coming home to you makes it
all worthwhile.”

Napoleon smiled.

“Yeah, I like working with you, too—these solo adventures
take away from our quality time together.”

“At least they aren’t as often these days,” Illya
said.  He drank several spoonfuls of
soup.  “Napoleon, this is incredible.”

“You really like it?”

“Of course!  This
soup is so much better than anything I could have gotten in a restaurant—for
you make it with love.”

“Of course I do; I want you to have nothing but the best.”

Illya sighed contentedly—a rare sound, and a sound that
filled Napoleon with so much joy to hear.
He drew an arm around Illya, hugging him close to him.

“I can’t believe you’re really here with me…” he said,
sounding amazed.

“There are times when I can’t believe it, either—that I
have finally found a happiness that I had been searching for all these
years—and had not really expected to find, if I may be honest.  I did not think I would find love, and yet, I
did…”  He looked up into Napoleon’s eyes.  “I do not say it as often as I should—I don’t
wear my heart on my sleeve, as you know…. And I feel as though you know it
without my saying it…  But I love you so
much, Napoleon.”

Napoleon smiled and kissed him again.  

“I do know, just as I’m sure you do, too—that I love you,
too,” he replied.

He held up the soup bowl, and Illya held up his, and they
silently toasted with the soup bowls, drinking to each other, and their life
together.

Written for today’s short affair prompt at Section VII

Summary:
In which, during his first spring as a resident of New York, Illya discovers that girl scout cookies are a thing.  Takes place in 1961.

Cross-posted to AO3

Illya’s first spring as a permanent resident of New York,
no longer preoccupied with the Baron of THRUSH case that had take up the
majority of the last year, was able to be spent in a relaxed and casual
manner.  Spring in New York was
lovely—plants returning to bloom, birds nesting in trees, and the sky clear and
blue instead of the wintery gray…  There
was a lot to take in and enjoy.

It was one morning, however, as he sat with a cup of tea on
the stoop of the apartment building (as his kitten, Baba Yaga, chased around
some grass clippings) that Illya was puzzled to see a group of young girls in
uniforms, carrying wagons full of boxes as a chaperone led them from door to
door down the street.  He glanced up at
Napoleon as he walked out onto the stoop, taking in a breath of fresh air.

“Morning, Tovarisch,” Napoleon grinned.

“Morning,” Illya returned.
He indicated the children down the street.  “What exactly is that about?  Some sort of game?”

“Hmm?  Oh, that’s
Troop 144.”

“…What?”

“Girl Scouts.  This
is the time of year where they do their sales pushes.”

Illya scoffed into his tea.

“Sales pushes?
Napoleon, they are children!  Why must your society seek to fill the youth
with capitalistic fervor so soon?”

“Well, for one thing, it teaches them responsibility,
accounting, quick math skills, the value of hard work…”

“Let children be children, I say,” Illya insisted.  “They should be playing games, reading books,
climbing trees, having fun—not being forced into the world of grown-up matters
so soon!”

“No one’s forcing them to do anything!” Napoleon
insisted.  “It’s extracurricular
enrichment—they’re learning valuable life skills, and, believe it or not, are
having fun in the process.”

“Hmm, if you say so,” Illya said, with a shrug.  “And just what is it they are selling,
anyway?  Trinkets from Tiffany’s?”

“Nope—cookies.”

Illya paused, his teacup stopping on its way to his mouth
as the kitten batted at it.

“…What kind of cookies?”

“Oh, multiple kinds… shortbread, peanut butter, chocolate
mint…” Napoleon began, and he grinned as Illya downed the rest of his tea in
one gulp, handed the cup and saucer to him, got up and approached the chaperone
down the street to talk to her.

Illya then handed over some money to the girls and walked
away with two boxes of each kind of cookie, which he carried in a precarious
stack as the girls excitedly celebrated their big sale.

“…Contributing to the… what was the phrase you used?  Capitalistic fervor of our youth?” Napoleon
asked.

“Nyet, to the…
what was the phrase you used?  Da—extracurricular
enrichment.  The chaperone assured me
that the proceeds go to funding the scout program, thus allowing the children
from poorer families to join.  I can live
with that.”

“…And all the cookies don’t hurt, either, hmm?”

“Not at all,” Illya said.
He leaned in.  “They said they
will have more cookies in the coming weeks; excuse me, Napoleon, but I must
determine which of these are the best.
And I would like your opinion, as well.”

“I’ve always been partial to shortbread, myself…”

It would be difficult attempting to keep a straight face as
Illya took his sugary treasure inside with Baba Yaga bounding in behind him,
but Napoleon would do his very best to do so.

Written for today’s short affair prompt at Section VII

Summary:
In which Agnes Dabree returns yet again to bring Napoleon over to THRUSH–this time, convinced that Illya won’t be able to help.  She’s wrong.

Not cross-posting this as I’ll be expanding this in the future.

Napoleon wasn’t sure for how long he was unconscious, but
he began to come awake, recognizing the beeps of a heart monitor, registering
his pulse.  At first, he assumed he was
in Medical—but it soon became clear that he was not when he tried to move and found
that he could not move on account of being restrained.  He could not, therefore, be in Medical, in
spite of how many times they’d threatened to tie him and Illya down from trying
to leave the recovery ward prematurely.

He forced his eyes open, wincing as bright lights shone all
around him, directly into his face.  He
attempted to turn his head as best he could and saw that he was strapped to an
operating table.

“Ah, Mr. Solo, we meet yet again,” a familiar voice taunted
him.

Napoleon groaned as he realized Agnes Dabree was speaking
to him.  Years after he and Illya had
thwarted her attempt to perform brain surgery on Waverly, she had captured
Napoleon once before, several months ago, with the intent of using harsh
brainwashing tactics to switch his loyalties to THRUSH.  A combination of his sheer will and Illya’s
great timing had prevented her from being successful, but something was
wrong—they had taken her into custody last time, so how…?

“You’re wondering how I got free, hmm?” she asked, seeing
his confusion.  “I have a friend in
U.N.C.L.E.—a mole who has gone undetected all this time.  This mole knows as well as I do that you are
a threat that needs to be dealt with.
But, for some reason, you seem to be immune to hypnosis and any other
forms of suggestion or mind-control.
Even our attempts to drug you and change your brain chemistry have
failed.”

As she spoke, she was putting on a pair of purple surgery
gloves, and Napoleon had a horrible sense of dread as he began to put the
pieces together.

“You… you’re going to…?”

“Do what I should have done last time,” she said.  “Perform the brain surgery that I had
intended to perform on Waverly on you instead.
In hindsight, you are a better candidate than him—the old man rarely
gets out of that office.  You, on the
other hand, would be a most valuable pawn in THRUSH’s hands.”

Napoleon was now frantically looking around—looking at the
door.

“You’re waiting for your Russian partner to find you and
rescue you like last time?” Dabree mused.
“I have already taken care of that—well, the mole has, at any rate.  Kuryakin was convinced that he was to meet
you.  The mole will have dispatched of
your partner—swiftly, I’m sure.”

The fight left Napoleon in an instant; even though the
anesthesiologist was trying to hold him down, he was no longer attempting to
resist.

“I wouldn’t worry, Solo,” Dabree continued.  “You will not remember being that close to
him by the time we’re through with you.”
She looked to the anesthesiologist and nodded.  “Put him under.”

Again, Napoleon did not resist as the anesthesiologist
placed the mask for the anesthetic gas over his face.  Illya was gone—and, worst of all, every
cherished memory would be gone or altered with the brain surgery.  He would wake up thinking he was always a
THRUSHie, and Illya, the one he cared about most in the world, would be
gone—and Napoleon would have no knowledge of why, or even remember how close
they were.

His body was trying to suppress a sob—and to his surprise,
the anesthesiologist gave his shoulder a quick, comforting squeeze.

As a few more minutes passed, it became clear that Napoleon
wasn’t falling unconscious.  Slowly,
Napoleon glanced back up at the anesthesiologist—the majority of his face was
hidden by a surgical mask and his hair under a scrub cap—but his blue eyes were
still visible, as well as a few blond hairs from beneath the scrub cap.

Napoleon looked away—he daren’t believe it…

“Dr. Dabree,” the anesthesiologist said—in a familiar but
disguised voice.  “The gas doesn’t appear
to be working; I need to use an injectable anesthetic.”

“Fine; it’s in the cabinet there,” she said.

Napoleon watched as the anesthesiologist got a syringe and
loaded it—and then injected it into Dabree’s neck.

She dropped like a stone, and the anesthesiologist removed
the scrub cap and mask briefly to reveal his identity.

“Illya…!”
Napoleon breathed, as Illya resumed his disguise and now freed Napoleon from
the restraints.  “How did you escape the
trap?  How did you know it was a trap!?”

“Simple; I knew that you would never ask me to meet with
you near the riverside; you avoid deep water whenever possible.  I had Mark go for me so that the mole
couldn’t alert Dabree to the fact that I was not dispatched.”

“…Smart Russian,” Napoleon murmured.

“Smart… but worried,” Illya said.

“Well, I was a bit worried myself,” Napoleon said, dryly,
as Illya helped him off of the operating table.
Together, they placed the head electrodes to Dabree, locked her to the
table, and threw a sheet over her.

“Put on those scrubs, and we will take her with us,” Illya
instructed, tossing him a set.  “And yes,
Napoleon, I know you were worried.  I saw
the look in your eyes when she said I was dead.
I was troubled to see that you lost all drive to fight back.  Napoleon, if I am dead, I would expect you to
avenge me, not give up and allow yourself to be used as THRUSH wishes!”

“…Good point,” Napoleon sighed.

“More than that, I was worried—terrified—of losing you to
THRUSH in such a way,” Illya confessed.
“That I would find you completely different from who you are… and that
you would not know me the same way again…”

He trailed off and suddenly hugged him—a very rare display
of emotion for him, but one he felt that he had to get across.   Napoleon tightly returned the hug.

“Thanks for the rescue,” he managed, after a moment.

“And thank you for holding on just long enough for me to
help you,” Illya returned.  “Come,
Napoleon; we must go back—we have to interrogate the mole and Dabree to find
out how deeply this infiltration has gone.”

Napoleon nodded and they headed back towards HQ, together
and ready to face what lurked once again.

Written for today’s short affair prompt at Section VII

Summary:
In which, after a successful mission stopping THRUSHies at Loch Ness, the conversation inevitably turns to whether or not Nessie exists.

Not cross-posting this as I’ll be expanding this in the future.

Napoleon and Illya were wrapping up a successful mission
near Inverness, Scotland; THRUSHies had been running afoul around the ruins of
Uruquhart Castle on the shores of Loch Ness.
It didn’t take long to throw a wrench into THRUSH’s works; pandemonium
erupted, which Napoleon and Illya took advantage of and successfully rounded up
the THRUSHies as though it was routine.

Relaxing after a job well done, Napoleon and Illya idly
wandered the shores of the Loch, enjoying the warm, summer day and the
beautiful view of the white clouds in the blue sky above the water.

“I must admit, it is quite a relief that we were able to
stop THRUSH before they caused any further damage to those ruins,” Illya said.

“Me, too,” Napoleon said.
“This place is over 700 years old.
We’re lucky that there hasn’t been any permanent damage done.”

“What convinced THRUSH that trying to come up with such an
unbelievable scheme would even work?” Illya wondered aloud.  “This is a tourist destination—they wouldn’t
have lasted here long!”

“Well, you know how THRUSH is—half the time, it’s about
making a statement,” Napoleon sighed.
“It’s a show of their power—trying to lay claim to anything and
everything in the world that they think is their birthright to rule.  And, who knows—maybe they thought they could
harness the Loch Ness Monster for their nefarious purposes.”

Illya responded with a loud scoff.

“You don’t believe in Nessie?”

Illya gave him a look.

“I am open to the possibility of there being some as-of-yet
unknown species of aquatic animal living in there.  But I draw the line at believing that it is
some sort of ‘monster’ that has remained alive for centuries.  Sheer nonsense!”

“…So, what you’re saying is, you think Nessie is a dolphin
or something?”

“That is more believable than a plesiosaur,” Illya
countered.  “Sightings of this creature
have been reported since the sixth century.
You cannot expect me to believe that any animal has a life expectancy of
over 1400 years!”

“…You know, you seemed to have researched this a lot for
someone who claims that it’s all nonsense,” Napoleon observed.

Illya blushed.

“…I am a scientist; research is essential to coming to an
accurate conclusion,” he insisted, prompting Napoleon to grin.

“You did try to
look for Nessie!” he realized.

Illya’s blush deepened.

“No!  Why would I
waste my time–?”

“You looked for her and got disappointed when you couldn’t
find her!”

Illya gave him a long look until, finally—

“…One time,” he
admitted. “Just once!  I was young and foolish, doing my studies
here….  Why do you have that look on your
face?”

“Because, Tovarisch, you and I are going to rent a boat and
see if we can find Nessie and find out what she is!”

“…You aren’t serious…?  
…You are serious.  Napoleon–!”

“Well, Dr. Kuryakin, as a scientist, you should know that
one attempt can hardly be considered conclusive!”

And Illya had to admit, he had a point…

“Fine, then,” he conceded.
“For science.”

Regardless of whatever they found, it would, at least, be a
fun endeavor.

Written for today’s short affair prompt at Section VII

Summary: In which a repressed memory from the Korean War returns to Napoleon in full force–and unleashes a rare anger in him as Illya tries to help.

Not cross-posting this as I’ll be expanding this in the future.

       Well, I was there and I saw what you did, I saw it with my own two eyes,
               So you can wipe off that grin, I know where you’ve been,
                                      It’s all been a pack of lies.
                                  — Phil Collins, “In the Air Tonight”

Napoleon was always grateful when Illya accompanied him—even
on errands that he didn’t even need to waste time on.  An old acquaintance had summoned Napoleon for
help, claiming that he and Napoleon had served in Korea together and was now
the head of a growing business.

“Derek Smith…” Napoleon said, repeating the name for the
umpteenth time, trying to recall the owner.
“I can’t, for the life of me, remember who he was.”

“Well, in your defense, that is an incredibly common name,”
Illya pointed out, as they headed into the luxurious office suite where he had
asked to meet them.  “Perhaps your mental
block will lift upon seeing him.”

“Maybe…” Napoleon mused.
He trailed off as a man approached them, looking at Napoleon with
recognition in his eyes.

“There you are, Solo!” he said, ignoring Illya completely.  “Wow, you look well after all this time!”

“Derek Smith…?” Napoleon asked.  Seeing him wasn’t ringing any bells, either,
much to his frustration.

“Yeah, that’s right—Korea, 1951.  You were just a young corporal then,” Smith
mused.  “Look, I’m sorry for how
unprofessionally I’m dressed; I just got off the golf course, but I really do
need to speak with you.  See, climbing up
the corporate ladder isn’t easy—you make a lot of enemies doing this, but they
tell me you’re a crackerjack agent for U.N.C.L.E. who has protected the lives
of many diplomats…”

Napoleon suddenly noticed something—a gold pendant with
Korean letters etched on it, resting around Smith’s neck.  And, suddenly, something in Napoleon’s memory
sparked; he recalled seeing that same pendant back in 1951, covered with
crimson blood—but it wasn’t Smith who had been wearing it…

It had been a
stormy night outside of Uijeongbu, and Napoleon had been heading back to camp
after going on patrol.  A Korean woman,
carrying a bundle that was unmistakably an infant, was approaching another
solider, calling for help.  She had been
wearing the pendant—but then, the soldier she had been approaching raised his
gun…

Napoleon
remembered now—how his horrified shout had been lost in a crack of thunder and
gunfire as the other soldier had shot the woman.  The baby had begun to cry even as his mother
fell, lifeless.  And the soldier, not even
flinching, had merely reached down and snapped the pendant off of the body,
pocketing it for himself as spoils of war, ignoring the crying infant.  And as the soldier turned to go, Napoleon had
seen his face in an instant, illuminated by a flash of lightning…

Napoleon snapped back to the present.

“How about it, Solo?” Smith asked.  “Will you take the job as my personal
bodyguard for this fancy party?”

Napoleon’s face turned down into a fierce scowl—something that
took Illya by complete surprise.

“Never,” he growled.

Smith was taken aback; he hadn’t expected Napoleon to
refuse.  Illya was more stunned by
Napoleon’s tone; anger was a very rare emotion for his partner, so Illya knew
that whatever it was that had sparked it now must have been serious.

“I…. I don’t get it,” Smith said.  “They told me you were the best.  Solo, I’ll be a sitting duck at this venue; I
need someone to protect me!”

“That woman who approached you back in Korea wanted
protection, too!”

Smith froze, stunned; all these long years, he had assumed
that he had been alone that night.

“What… what are you talking about?”

“Korea, 1951,” Napoleon hissed, pointing to the pendant
Smith was wearing.  “A woman, wearing
that pendant, was coming to you, asking for help in getting out of the storm
she had been traveling in.  You shot her at
point-blank range and stole that!  You did
a good job of washing the blood off of that pendant.  But you will never be able to fully wash the
blood off of your hands.”

“I…” Smith stammered.
“Look, that woman was holding something—it could have been a bomb or–”

“She was holding a baby!” Napoleon roared.  “She was holding a crying baby—I know because
I was there!  I saw you kill her and
leave that baby there to die after you looted the body!  I carried that baby to the orphanage myself!”

Illya cursed loudly in Ukrainian; having lost his parents
violently to war, as well, this had struck a nerve.

“I should have had you arrested that night itself, but I didn’t
know your name then.  Well… anyway, this
banquet is the least of your worries,” Napoleon went on.  “But I know just how I’ll solve your problem—you’re
under arrest for murder and war crimes.
Maybe your enemies will have a harder time trying to get to you in
prison.”

He ignored Smith’s protests and practically dragged him
back to U.N.C.L.E. HQ, but was slightly surprised when Mark Slate ended up
interrogating Smith, when he had been fully prepared to.

“I had asked Mark to handle the interrogation, Napoleon,”
Illya said.  “As you are the witness, it
would be less objective if you also did the interrogation.”

“Oh.  Good point…”

Illya hesitated.

“I… also thought it would be better if Mark handled the
interrogation after seeing how you reacted in Smith’s office,” he
admitted.  “Napoleon…  I know you are furious with Smith because of
what happened—you have every right to be.
And I fully support you testifying to make sure he is given the harshest
punishment the law can give for that heinous crime.”

“…But…?” Napoleon prompted.

“But,” Illya agreed.  “…Napoleon…
Please understand when I ask you to promise me that you will not lose
yourself—who you truly are—in your quest to ensure justice.”

“I don’t understand…”

“You mind suppressed this horrific sight for so long,”
Illya explained.  “Now that it is back in
your consciousness again, there’s every chance in the world that it can affect
your entire personality—it already has.  I
have rarely seen you angry, Napoleon—and though your anger is justified, I beg
you…. Don’t let this change who you are.
You are unique because you are kind and loving, and to lose that…”  Illya shook his head.  “If you changed your personality like that,
it would be like losing you.”

Napoleon exhaled, forcing himself to calm down; he managed
a soft look as he glanced back at Illya.

“You won’t lose me,” he promised.

Illya nodded, satisfied, but also hoping that Napoleon’s
words would be true.

Written for today’s short affair prompt at Section VII

Summary:
In which Napoleon has a hangover.  Thankfully, he’s got a helpful partner, too.

Cross-posted to AO3

It wasn’t often that Napoleon got drunk; he knew that, as
an agent, even when off-duty, one had to keep one’s senses at their peak, lest
one get sneak-attacked by a THRUSHie and all the trouble that entailed.  However, when his old grade-school friend
Takeshi ended up arriving in town for a destination wedding, Napoleon had,
inevitably, been invited to Takeshi’s bachelor party.  Though Takeshi had also extended the
invitation to Illya, he understood that Illya preferred to shy away from such
things and did not mind that Illya declined the invitation.  Illya did, however, arrive at the end of the
party to collect his rather smashed partner—a prearranged agreement between the
two, as Illya would be staying sober and, therefore, able to look out for
Napoleon if he indulged.

Napoleon had clearly enjoyed the party and had attempted to
tell Illya all about it before falling asleep midsentence.  Illya had just shrugged and put him to bed,
where he slept like a rock all night.

The following morning, Napoleon was still in a deep sleep,
and Illya opted to let him continue to rest, and set about making breakfast.  Though not as good a chef as Napoleon, pancakes
were more or less foolproof, and Illya soon had a stack of them on the table,
one of which was immediately pilfered by the cat.  Illya had just put the copper teakettle on
the breakfast table when Napoleon hobbled in.

“Good morning,” Illya offered, putting a couple pancakes on
a plate for him and setting up a teacup and saucer.

“…I guess so,” Napoleon mumbled, wincing at the
sunlight.  He fumbled with the curtains,
closing them, and then placed a hand to his head as he sat down at the
table.  “Oof.  I definitely had a few supernovas too many…”

“…What?” Illya asked.

“Well, you know Takeshi works for NASA; all of the drinks
and food were space-themed,” Napoleon said, as he fumbled with the teakettle
and the syrup bottle.  “I ended up liking
this one called the supernova.”

“A supernova is an exploding star, Napoleon.”

“…That would explain a lot,”
Napoleon said.  “Well, at any rate, by
the time the party was over, we were all seeing stars.”

Illya nodded, and then stared for a moment.

“Napoleon, I think you need to rest some more.”

“What makes you say that?”

“Well, for one thing, you just poured yourself a cup of
syrup and you’re now pouring tea on your pancakes.”

Napoleon looked down.

“…Oh.”

Illya shook his head and got Napoleon a new plate of
pancakes, serving the syrup and tea himself.

“I think I will rest some more after breakfast,” Napoleon
sighed.  “Oh, and Illya?  Do me a big favor—don’t ever let Ma know that
I got hungover.”

“Why?  Do you really
think she’ll be disappointed in you?”

“Yes, but not for the reason you’re thinking,” Napoleon
said.  “We’re talking about a woman who
drank bathtub liquor during Prohibition without flinching; she will never let
me live it down…”

Illya tried very hard not to snark into his tea.

“Very well, Napoleon; your secret is safe with me,” he
said.  “And don’t fret too much about it;
you obviously had to take after your father in some respects…”

Napoleon managed a wan smile.

“…Thanks.”

And Illya continued to look after him–all the while idly wondering
just how many supernovas Cora Solo would have been able to down.

Some mysteries, he decided, were better off unsolved.