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

Summary: In which Napoleon realizes that kicking a bad habit is harder than it looks–but that having a loyal partner helps a lot.

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.

Illya was watching silently with their cat, Baba Yaga, as
Napoleon proceeded to turn the apartment upside-down as he upended drawers
stuffed with odds and ends in his search for the cigarettes that he had asked
Illya to hide.  He had been trying to
kick the habit and had enlisted Illya’s help for this specific quest, and Illya
had agreed, having wanted Napoleon to kick the habit for some time now.  But the optimistic beginning had given way to
withdrawal cravings—something that Illya had warned him about.

Napoleon had assumed that the withdrawal cravings were
something he could easily handle, in spite of Illya’s reminders that this
wasn’t an evening at the casino (“All the luck in the world won’t change the
body’s natural response…”), and it was only after they had set in that Napoleon
realized the full fury of a body’s betrayal of itself.

His search for the cigarettes that Illya had hidden was
coming up empty, as well; neither Illya nor the cat had moved from the couch as
they watched.  Obviously, Illya felt for
Napoleon, and yet, he knew that if Napoleon relapsed into smoking again, trying
to quit the next time would be even more difficult; it was why Napoleon had
decided to go cold turkey in the first place, feeling as though that trying to
reduce the number of times he smoked would only lead to him putting off the
final day.

At least, that was what he’d thought then; now, it didn’t
seem like such a bad idea.

“Okay,” he sighed, mopping the sweat from his brow.  “Maybe I should have gone with the gradual decrease
method after all.  Illya, give me my
cigarettes.”

But Illya didn’t budge.

“Napoleon,” he said, gently.  “Though I did warn you about the cravings,
you agreed that you would attempt to hold out as long as you could.”

“This is it,” Napoleon insisted.  “This
is as long as I could.  Cigarettes,
please?”

“Napoleon…”

“What do you want me to do!?  Beg!?”

Illya arched an eyebrow, clearing imagining Napoleon on his
knees.

“Oh, my God, you do…” Napoleon groaned, facepalming.  “Illya, please don’t do this to me…  What did you do with my cigarettes!?”

“I considered keeping them in the kitty litter,” Illya
admitted.  “But Baba Yaga would not have
liked the smell, and besides, you would have run out and bought more–”

“…I can still do that now,” Napoleon realized, and he
headed for the door, stopping as he felt his empty pocket.  “…Where’s my wallet?”  He looked back and saw Illya looking back at
him serenely.  “Oh, for the love of–!”

“Relax,” Illya said, pulling both Napoleon’s wallet and his
cigarette case from his own pockets; Baba Yaga caught a whiff and bolted from
Illya’s lap.  “To continue this would be
too childish.  We are both grown
adults.  Not only that, we are both
trained enforcement agents…”  He paused,
briefly, as Napoleon reclaimed both items from him, and immediately pulled out
a cigarette from the case; Baba Yaga, who had still been watching, now
flattened her ears back in disapproval.
“You are one of the best enforcement agents I have ever met, Napoleon.  You are a hero and a good man—that is innate
in you.  But you are also a strong
man—that is from your own training, having shaped yourself to that way.  You have defeated so many enemies thanks to
your inner strength.  That is why I
believe you can defeat this, too.”

His words had the desired effect; Napoleon had been lifting
the cigarette to his mouth while looking for his lighter, and had stopped upon
Illya’s last statement.

“You have an endurance that was ranked among the highest in
your Survival School records,” Illya continued.
“Not just physical endurance, but mental endurance, as well; you were
able to completely resist all of the known forms of hypnosis and brainwashing
in THRUSH’s bag of tricks.  Do you not
realize the amount of mental strength that is required to achieve that?  THRUSH once succeeded in brainwashing me, and
yet they have failed with you!  Even when
they use fear gas or other substances to play on your emotions, you still
manage to remain true to yourself!”

Napoleon continued to stare at the tiny, white object in
his hand.  It was true; he had great
mental strength against the very worst that THRUSH had to offer.  So how was this tiny cigarette able to
control him so well?

“Even with the nicotine withdrawal having made you
irritable, never once did you raise your voice to me,” Illya continued.  “Even when I was being purposefully
difficult—you begged and pleaded and showed your exasperation, but you refused
to show me any hostility for my part in your frustrations.  I have heard tales of others suffering from
the withdrawal symptoms who have driven their loved ones to tears from their
irritability.  So, you see, you are
already more in control than you realize.”

He gently tugged on Napoleon’s sleeve, pulling him down
onto the sofa beside him.

“I can help you,” Illya said.  “I know you think the world of me.  If I gave you an ultimatum—that the lips that
touched cigarettes could never touch me, I could get you to drop that cigarette
right now.  But I only wish to use that
as a last resort—for there are other ways to help you that can rely on your
inner strength.  For example, I can word
that ultimatum differently and make it an invitation instead.  Napoleon… I can show you something else you
can do with your lips…”

He suddenly pulled Napoleon in close and kissed him.  Napoleon hesitated a moment, and then dropped
both the cigarette and the case, which spilled its contents on the floor.  He didn’t notice, instead wrapping his arms
around Illya and kissing him back.  As
they carried on, Baba Yaga sniffed at the cigarettes, hissed at them, and, with
several swipes of her paw, sent them under the couch.

Some time later, as the cat was contentedly attacking her
scratching post, the cigarettes still remained forgotten as Napoleon and Illya
continued to distract themselves on the couch.

Napoleon was stronger than he realized.  And he had Illya lending him his strength, as
well.

He would get the
best of this.

Written for today’s short affair prompt at Section VII

Summary: Napoleon is out of the action with a minor bug, and Illya has to (reluctantly) take his place as security detail at a fancy party.

Cross-posted to AO3.

Napoleon groaned in frustration after letting out another sneeze
that seemed to cause the room to shake.
He sniffled into a handkerchief, cursing whatever bug had decided to
attach itself to him—the same bug that had attached itself to Illya the week
before.  In all fairness, Illya had
warned him to keep his distance, but that was an impossible task as far as
Napoleon was concerned.

And so, he was tucked in bed, grumpy with the knowledge
that the world was continuing to go by, and that included Illya; Illya had
requested time off from work to look after Napoleon as Napoleon had done for
him, but an emergency security detail was needed at a fancy international gala,
and no one else from Section II was available.
It was the sort of thing that Napoleon would have loved to have
attended—but that was quite out of the question now, as was any hope of Illya
staying home that evening.

And so, Illya, dressed in a striking black tuxedo with
matching bow tie, stopped in to the bedroom to give Napoleon a mixture of lemon
water and honey to help sooth his throat and to offer his apologies for leaving
him.

“Are you sure you will be alright without me?”

Napoleon just grunted again, once again sniffling into his
handkerchief before drinking the mixture.

“I’ll be alright,” he promised.  “Baba Yaga will look after me.”

As if understanding, the cat meowed, and Illya gave her scritches
behind the ear, which she gratefully accepted.

“Yes, I trust her to look after you,” Illya agreed.  “Are you feeling any better, by the way?”

“…Not really,” Napoleon admitted.  “At this point, my nose just feels like a
dead weight…”

“That feeling will pass in another day or so,” Illya
promised, sympathizing with him.  “And,
perhaps, next time, when I tell you I am contagious, you take my advice and keep
your distance!”

“…Probably not…” Napoleon admitted.

Illya rolled his eyes.

“Well,” he said, his expression softening.  “You know how much I dislike being at these
parties—you can be sure I will return as soon as I can.  And I’ll make Mother’s chicken soup recipe
for you—she made sure I got down every little detail of it.”

Napoleon managed a chuckle at this.

“She probably would have mailed it if she could have…” he
mused, as Baba Yaga’s ears perked up at the mention of chicken soup.

“That, I don’t doubt,” Illya mused.  “I left the number of the hall by the phone;
if you desperately need my attention, let me know.”

“I–”

“Let me rephrase that; if you desperately need medical attention, let me know.”

Napoleon put on a mock-offended look, but then managed a
smile as Illya gave him a sympathetic look.

“I will see you soon,” Illya promised.  “Try and get some rest.”

Napoleon nodded and closed his eyes as Illya took his leave
and Baba Yaga kept a close eye on him from her basket.  Illya, true to his word, had returned and had
been by his side when Napoleon later awoke, the hot soup ready in hand.

With his partner to look after him, Napoleon was feeling
better already.

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

Summary: Takes place post-retirement.  In which Napoleon takes “Dance like no one is watching” to heart–not realizing that Illya is watching.

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.

Life in retirement from U.N.C.L.E. meant a lot of time on
Illya’s hands.  A lot of it was spent
traveling on adventures with Napoleon and their cat, Baba Yaga, for
globetrotting was an indulgence they could never get enough of.  But a lot of the time was also spent at their
Hawaiian bungalow, watching time go by.

It was always a stark contrast to the fast-pace life they
used to know; there were times that it felt very foreign, even as time went
on.  Illya still yearned for the rush of
adrenaline and the flirting with danger—he could tell that Napoleon did, too,
in spite of how at home he seemed here in the tropics.

Illya had been watching TV with Baba Yaga one morning when
the he decided that it was time for snack; Baba Yaga let off an offended meow as
he stopped petting her and got up, and grumpily followed him to the kitchen,
bumping into his leg as Illya suddenly stopped short in the doorway.

Illya had stopped upon seeing a most unusual sight in the
kitchen.  Napoleon was preparing a stew
that smelled like it would be another culinary masterpiece for lunch—but
Napoleon himself, wearing an apron decked with tropical flowers and lush green
leaves, was dancing to the music on the radio as he worked on the stew.

It was “September,” by Earth, Wind & Fire—and Napoleon
was very clearly into the music, stirring the stew in time to the music.  He did a pirouette, which allowed him to grab
a pinch of spices from the cabinet and then gracefully toss it into the stew.

Illya watched in utter fascination as Napoleon now sampled
the stew, and then used the spoon as an impromptu microphone as he continued to
dance, seemingly without a care in the world.

It took Napoleon another pirouette to notice that he was
being watched; he stopped in mid-twirl, blushing bright red and looking rather
embarrassed as he noticed Illya watching in fascination and Baba Yaga watching
in utter confusion.

“Er…” Napoleon said, indicating the radio.  “I was just…
I mean, ah…  Lunch will be ready
in about five minutes.”

“The song will be over by then,” Illya noted.  He walked into the kitchen, smiling.  “Shall we dance until then?”

Napoleon blinked in surprise; dancing wasn’t something that
Illya did often—and certainly not to this kind of music.  Waltzes and the foxtrot, yes—on rare
occasions, the tango…  But… disco?

And yet, he extended his hand to Napoleon, who smiled and
took it; the two of them danced together there in their little kitchen.  Baba Yaga stared incredulously at the both of
them for a moment before deciding to dismiss the whole thing and give her
attention to her scratching post instead.

But Napoleon and
Illya continued to dance together, enjoying one of many cherished moments
together—moments that they had fought for so long and so hard over many years
of dedicated service.  Yes, it was
different from the adrenaline-filled life they had known before, but that
didn’t make it any less enjoyable—especially when they still had each other,
after all this time, still full of happiness and joy—and full of the same love
they had felt for each other even then.
That was one thing that had never changed—and something that they knew
never would, no matter how much time had passed.

And as they looked into each other’s eyes, stealing kisses
as they danced across the kitchen floor, they had to agree, it had been worth
it all just for this—the promise of a happy future together.

Written for today’s short affair prompt at Section VII

Summary: Takes place during *that* scene from “The Children’s Day Affair.”  Napoleon knew he was throwing away his chances of escape by stopping to help Illya.  Part of him was counting on it.

Cross-posted to AO3.

Contrary to what Mother Fear had thought, Napoleon Solo had
known exactly what he was doing when he had found Illya moaning in pain in that
THRUSH cell and decided to stop and help him.
Napoleon had known that he was forfeiting a chance of escape to help his
wounded partner.

Nothing else mattered right now other than helping Illya.  How THRUSH could even think that Napoleon
would have considered abandoning his partner, even for a minute, would have
been laughable had the situation not been so dire.  Did THRUSH really not know anything about
him?

He wasted no time, of course; he used explosives to open
the cell door and reach his partner’s side.

“What’s the matter?” he had asked, softly, and Illya hadn’t
even been able to reply.  All the Russian
could do was to look up weakly, glance back at him, and have a faint look of
relief cross his face at last as he lay back down on the cot to let Napoleon
treat him, clearly exhausted by his ordeal.

Slowly, Napoleon lifted the back of Illya’s shirt, frowning
as he saw the purple bruises from where Illya had been hit with fists, and bleeding,
open wounds from where he had been whipped.

Napoleon didn’t say a word as he began to clean Illya’s
bleeding wounds.  Illya winced, but
didn’t resist or insist that he was fine, as he usually did.  That was Napoleon’s second clue that
something was very wrong—his partner’s moaning had been the first clue that the
normally unshakable Russian had been suffering.

In addition to that, what had struck Napoleon most was the
brief flicker of fear in Illya’s eyes before he realized that it had been
Napoleon with him.  Illya didn’t frighten
easily, nor did he normally try to let on that he was in any pain; so, what had
he been through to react in such a way—unable to keep from expressing the fear
and pain he would normally be able to suppress?
What had they done to him!?

With each moment that ticked by, Napoleon knew that there
was no chance of him getting out of here; oh, he would try, and he would try to
take Illya out of here with him, but he knew that they wouldn’t get far.

At this point, there was a part of him that didn’t want to get far—it was a part of him
that only rarely showed itself, and, subsequently, it was a part of him that
frightened him the most about himself.

For even the most kind and good-natured man like Napoleon
had his limits, and THRUSH had crossed them by hurting his partner like
this—not just his physical self, but his spirit, as well.

Nevertheless, he wanted to get Illya out of here, and so he
made an attempt—helping his partner to his feet and trying to ease him out of
the cell—only to be met by the THRUSH guards ready to take him prisoner now, as
well.

Again, Napoleon didn’t say a word as he was taken captive
with his partner.  THRUSH thought they
were trying to teach lessons in this academy of theirs?  Fine—they were about to be schooled.

He would spare the children, of course—and hope there would
be a way to undo the THRUSH brainwashing.
But the adults?  They would not
see the mercy that Napoleon normally showed his enemies.

His love and compassion for Illya was not a weakness.

And THRUSH was about to learn that the hard way.

Written for today’s short affair prompt at Section VII

Summary: A high-society wine-tasting party leaves Illya perplexed, and Napoleon determined to find a way for Illya to enjoy the joys of it.

Cross-posted to AO3.

Illya was more than perplexed when it came to how wine
tasting parties seemed to be a big, fancy thing in the United States.  Not having been much of a people person,
Illya hadn’t engaged in social drinking before meeting Napoleon.  Napoleon, clearly, had been to these before,
judging by the way he repeated the actions of the others perfectly, swirling the
crimson liquid in their glasses before daintily taking a sip of their drinks.  It seemed so… choreographed, almost, and, in
addition to perplexing, Illya found it fascinating to see how Napoleon fit so
flawlessly into this.

Then again, should he have been surprised that his partner
would fit so well into high-class scenarios?

Illya did his best to imitate him, tasting the wines and
offering his opinions along with Napoleon and the others.  Halfway through the tasting, however,
Napoleon offered his apologies to their hosts and announced that he’d had
enough for the night, and he and Illya left the party, taking an evening walk
in the night air, departing the hotel and heading back towards their apartment.

“You didn’t have to leave the party because of me,” Illya
said.

“You didn’t seem to be enjoying yourself,” Napoleon
said.  “There’s no fun in it for me if
you can’t enjoy it, too.  …In hindsight,
I should have realized there’d be too many people for you…  Sorry.”

“It’s fine, Napoleon,” Illya insisted.  “And it wasn’t the number people—well, that
wasn’t the only factor.  It was all very…
awkward, don’t you think?  The
choreographed sniffing and swirling and sipping…”

“Yeah, there’s a certain social grace to wine tasting
parties,” Napoleon said.  “I remember on
my eighteenth birthday, Ma took me to one—it was incredible.”

“Of course, you’d think so…” Illya mused.  “But did it not strike you as odd how
high-class society seems to have rules for every little thing?”

Napoleon paused for a moment, thoughtfully.

“Well, I suppose when you put it that way, it does seem a
little weird to someone on the outside looking in,” he admitted.  “I never really gave much thought to it,
though.”

“You don’t really need to,” Illya admitted.  “You fit in so well with all of these high
society things.  Sometimes, I wish I did,
too, so that we could enjoy these things together, rather than things like this
happening…”

Napoleon paused in his tracks, clearly having an “aha”
moment.

“Maybe there’s a way we can,” he said, as a grin crossed
his features.  “Illya, you go on back to
the apartment.  I’ll join you there in
about half an hour.”

“…What are you planning?” Illya wondered.

“You’ll see,” Napoleon said, as he cheerfully hopped into a
taxi.

Illya stared as the taxi pulled away; after a moment, he
shrugged, and walked the rest of the way back to the apartment, where Baba Yaga
greeted him, almost questioningly, as though expecting him back later.

Illya sighed and picked the cat up, relaxing on the couch
with her.

“Oh, I ruined another outing,” he sighed.  “How Napoleon’s patience can be so infinite,
I’ll never know…”

Baba Yaga meowed at him, as though trying to explain
something obvious.  Illya’s mind was
elsewhere, though, but he was brought back to reality as Napoleon came in,
carrying a couple of paper bags.

“Where have you been?” Illya asked.

“You’ll see,” Napoleon said.  He got two wineglasses from the kitchen and
placed them on the coffee table, and then proceeded to place five bottles of
wine on the table.

“Napoleon…!” Illya exclaimed.

“See, there is a way we can enjoy a wine tasting party
together!”

Baba Yaga looked at Illya with a satisfied expression and
then looked back at Napoleon, meowing at him.

“Of course, my dear, I didn’t forget you,” Napoleon
insisted, pulling out a catnip toy.
“There—now we can all indulge.”

The Mau eagerly accepted the catnip toy and proceeded to
roll around on the floor with it as Napoleon and Illya enjoyed their own,
private wine-tasting party, with no rules other than their own.

It was one of the most enjoyable nights Illya ever had.

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

Summary: In which Illya discovers a secret garden in the resort where he and Napoleon are spending their vacation.

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 90% similar.

Napoleon was curious as to where Illya was leading him; he
had paid for a luxury resort vacation for the both of them with their two weeks
off.  Initially he had been concerned
that Illya wouldn’t want to spend his vacation in a tropical region, but after
tossing the idea around casually, Illya hadn’t seemed to mind at all.  And so, Napoleon had booked the resort
vacation, and was both surprised and pleased that Illya, despite his
heat-shunning, introverted ways, was enjoying himself playing golf and table
tennis with Napoleon during the day, and then keeping him company in the casino
during the evening when Napoleon took everyone else for a ride during the
nightly poker games.

Illya did slip away for brief periods during the poker
games—usually to get extra food, but sometimes, he would go for a walk in the
evenings to explore the resort grounds and see some of the natural beauty of
the tropical plants.  Napoleon had
deduced that Illya was leading him to somewhere he had discovered during his
wanderings.

Napoleon hadn’t expected a garden gate to be their
destination, but he shrugged and followed Illya through the gates, which he
noticed had a key in the lock of the gate.
The path, lined with flowers of all colors—red, orange, yellow, and
white—led to a crystal-clear pond with water flowers floating on the
water.  Large willow trees shaded a
small, grassy area—perfect for sitting down and watching the animals visiting
the pond

“What’s this?” he asked, amused.  “A Secret Garden?”

“I believe that is exactly what it is,” Illya said.  “A beautiful garden in a faraway corner of a
resort that most of its patrons usually don’t waste time getting to?  And yet, they keep the key in the lock, as if
they’re rewarding those who do drag themselves away from the sports and casino
games.”

He sat down on the clearing beneath the willow tree, and
Napoleon sat down beside him.  They
watched a pair of mallards on the water; the two ducks regarded them with
interest for a moment before going back to swimming.  Illya chuckled at the birds, and turned back
to Napoleon.

“This seemed like the kind of place you would like,” he
continued.  “Beautiful, like something
out of a book…  Just the sort of thing
for you to wax poetic about.”

“…Is that an open invitation?” Napoleon asked.

“Absolutely.”

“Ha!  See, I knew you
secretly approved of my poetic nature!”

Illya gently placed his hand on top of Napoleon’s.

“Of course,” he said.
“I just have to pretend not to in order to keep you grounded to Earth.”

“Thanks… I think…” Napoleon smirked.  He looked over the pond and the garden.  “It really is a beautiful Secret Garden—the
greenery of the plants compliments the clear waters and the blue sky—just like
your blue eyes are complimented by your blond hair.”

Illya blushed as Napoleon now
kissed him.

“I could stay here forever with you,” Napoleon added,
gently wrapping his arms around him.
“Well, really, I could stay anywhere in the world with you, but this
place…”  He smiled at the setting.  “It’s almost as beautiful as you are.”

Illya gave his hand a squeeze.

“You put this place to shame with your beauty, as well,”
Illya said.  “I know the casino will be
opening soon for the evening; we can head back after we eat the picnic I
brought.”

But Napoleon now kicked back on the grass, still holding
onto Illya’s hand, and Illya laid back on the grass with him.

“Actually…” Napoleon said.
“I think I’d rather stay here with you.”

“Really?”

“Why would I need to try to prove my luck when I know I’m
the luckiest person in the world to be here with you?” Napoleon asked.

Illya smiled, and the two of them enjoyed their evening
together in the Secret Garden.

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

Summary: In which Napoleon struggles to keep up with Illya in the Arctic–and Illya looks after him in return

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 90% similar.

Napoleon didn’t like to admit whenever he was reaching the
limits of his endurance; it was a matter of both pride and the need to cover
his partner’s back.  He and Illya had
been together for nearly two years now; he wanted to prove to his beloved that
he was ready for anything.  And so, as
they continued their trek across the Arctic, Napoleon kept his complaints about
the cold to himself, ignoring the numb feeling in his feet.

Illya, naturally, didn’t seem to even flinch at the cold;
he was leading the way across the snow, glancing up at the Northern Lights
every few moments.  Napoleon had to admit
that the lights were pretty and helped distract him from his numb feet and
increasing tiredness—the greens and teals gave way to blue and purple.

The colors were so beautiful—so entrancing.  Napoleon could feel his head getting lighter
and lighter as the colors swirled overhead.
It suddenly dawned on him how exhausted he really was, and yet, he
didn’t want to bring it up.

He continued to push forward, but Illya was no fool; as he
looked back to check on him, he immediately sensed that Napoleon was not at the
top of his game.

“Napoleon!” Illya chided.
“Why didn’t you tell me you needed to rest?”

“I don’t need rest,” Napoleon insisted.  “I’m fine… I’m…”  He trailed off, trying to shake off his
weariness, but his leg buckled under him, sending him crashing into the
snow.  “Well, maybe a little rest…”

Illya was by his side in an instant, checking him over and
tutting.

“Exhaustion,” he diagnosed.
“And I think you have mild frostbite on your feet.”

“…So that’s why I can’t feel them…” Napoleon responded,
dryly.

Illya shook his head and now attempted to transfer Napoleon
to his back.

“I’ll have to take you back to the U.N.C.L.E. outpost,”
Illya said.

“No, don’t do that,” Napoleon said.  “We might lose the trail of that THRUSH
agent.  Radio back for reinforcements and
go on without me.”

Illya gently placed a hand on Napoleon’s face; it was
almost magical, how Illya’s hand was still warm, even in the bitter cold.  And the lights of the aurora illuminating him
made him look like something from another world.

“Napoleon,” he said, gently.  “I have lost count of the number of times you
have cast aside our objective to ensure that I was safe after an injury.  I love you, Napoleon, and you are more
important to me than anything else in the world.  I dare not risk a chance that the help you
want me to call will find you before you freeze—I can see that you can barely
keep your eyes open as it is.  No,
Napoleon; I will not leave you—no more than you could ever leave me if our
conditions were reversed.”

He gently kissed Napoleon and once again moved to carry his
partner on his back; this time, Napoleon only complained quietly, but
eventually went along with it.  Illya
eventually had him in bed, tucked under blankets with his frostbite—thankfully
mild—being treated.  The cocoon of warmth
was once again lulling him to sleep—but Napoleon struggled to keep his eyes
open long enough to say what he had to say.

“Illya… thank you…”

Illya just smiled, continuing to keep his warm hand on
Napoleon’s face as the Northern Lights from the window managed to continue
casting that otherworldly glow on his face.

“Rest, Dorogoy,”
he instructed.  “Regain your
strength.  We will continue our endeavors
soon enough.”

Napoleon nodded and let himself sink into slumber, all the
while thinking about how lucky he was to have Illya as his partner.

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

Summary: In which Napoleon and Illya celebrate New Year’s Eve in Times Square, 1961.

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 90% similar.

Times Square was normally not a place that Napoleon or
Illya found themselves in outside of missions, but New Year’s Eve was always an
exception, assuming they were in town for it.
It was the one night where the crowd would be happy and energetic, waiting
for the ball to drop at midnight and signal the arrival of the New Year.  And 1961, Napoleon and Illya’s second year as
partners, had brought them many successes.

It had also brought them closer than ever before, having
started a relationship back in January.
In addition to successes, the last year together had been wonderful,
getting to know each other in new and exciting ways.  And they were happy—happy in their work, and
happy in their relationship.  The last
year had proven to both of them that they had, at last, found what they were
looking for in a life companion.

And so, when Napoleon had asked Illya to spend New Year’s
Eve in Times Square with him, Illya had accepted, despite his hatred for crowds
and noise.  He knew that Napoleon usually
enjoyed attending the festivities, but hadn’t been able to last year as he had
still been recovering from a mission where he’d ended up falling from Niagara
Falls.  Napoleon had expressed interest
in going this year, and when he’d offered Illya the chance to come along, Illya
considered it before eventually accepting.

It was clear that Napoleon was enjoying himself as they
watched the glittering ball, illuminated with the bright, white lights, sparkle
overhead, and despite the unfathomable number of people, Illya found himself
enjoying it—and he insisted it during the numerous times Napoleon stopped to
ask and make sure that Illya wasn’t feeling uncomfortable in the crowd, though
Illya appreciated him asking.

At last, midnight drew near, and the duo watched, along
with the rest of the revelers, as the giant, glittering ball descended, and
once it had completed its descent, the crowd erupted into joyous shouts to
welcome 1962.

Napoleon turned to his partner with a grin.

“Happy New Year, Illya,” he said, warmly.

Illya smiled back.

“Happy New Year, Napoleon.”

They both paused as, somewhere, a band began to play “Auld
Lang Syne,” accompanied by someone on a microphone, singing the lyrics.  The partners’ eyes locked, briefly, and after
looking around to ensure that they were more or less invisible to the crowd,
who were either still too busy shouting greetings to 1962 or indulging in a New
Year’s kiss, Napoleon and Illya quickly indulged in a New Year’s kiss of their
own—a moment that they had wanted to steal in public, and finally snatched the
chance to do so.  The thrill of their
stolen moment, despite being in full view, was practically sending electricity
through them.  They pulled away from each
other after a moment, the both of them grinning ear to ear.

And it was with triumph that Napoleon now gently held
Illya’s hand, once again unnoticed by the crowd, looking on as Illya softly
began to sing along—

“And there’s a hand,
my trusted friend/And give a hand o’ thine…”

Illya’s voice was bewitching, and Napoleon gave a slight
shake of his head that clearly said, “That
should be you singing on that microphone.”

Illya read and understood the look, and let out a snort
through his nostrils before gently gesturing for Napoleon to sing along with
him.  After a brief “Who, me?” gesture, Napoleon shrugged and did so, the two of them
enjoying the peace and joy that they both had helped to ensure—and would
continue to do so.

“We’ll take a cup of
kindness yet for Auld Lang Syne.”