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.”

For @ksturf

Summary: In which, during a mission, Napoleon and Illya find themselves in the middle of nowhere during the holidays–and Napoleon is a bit disappointed and homesick.  Light slash, no gen version.

Cross-posted to AO3.

Napoleon sighed as he and Illya made themselves comfortable
in the old cabin.  It wasn’t unusual that
they were on a mission during a holiday, but it was difficult for Napoleon to
accept sometimes.  The hardest part was
calling home to tell his parents that he and Illya wouldn’t be able to visit
them again; Cora and Leopold’s disappointment was evident, though they tried to
hide it.  And Napoleon’s own
disappointment was evident, as well.

Illya was of mixed emotions.  In the past, he never celebrated Christmas,
but once he had met Napoleon and had gotten close to him, he found it
impossible to not celebrate with Napoleon—Napoleon’s enthusiasm for the holiday,
as well as his parents, had been endearing to Illya.  And besides that, Illya loved Napoleon, and
anything that made his beloved happy was something he would enjoy, as well.

And so, Illya knew that he would have to do his best for
his partner to help with his disappointment.
This was going to be a challenge—particularly in a cabin in the middle
of nowhere, trying to hide from THRUSH.
Napoleon was roasting fish over the fire—the only source of protein he had
been able to acquire since their provisions had begun to run low in the forest.

Very well, if
Napoleon shall provide the feast, then I shall provide everything else, Illya silently declared.

And while Napoleon was preoccupied with making the fish
perfect, Illya was able to accomplish what he had sought out to do.  At last, Napoleon transferred the fish to two
plates, which he had garnished with a few herbs.

“Well, it’s not much of a Christmas dinner,” he
sighed.  “But at least we’ll be eating
well tonight.  There isn’t much of a
dining room here, either; where do you want to eat?”

“How about by the Christmas tree?” Illya offered.

“Christmas tree?  We don’t
have a…”

Napoleon trailed off as he noticed Illya standing beside a
large branch he had taken from a fir tree, which had enough smaller branches to
look like a miniature tree.  Illya had
propped the tree upright with some rocks, and had then decorated the tree with
the ribbon of a worthless decoy audio cassette tape that they had taken in the
hopes of finding THRUSH data on it; more than a little frustrated that the cassette
tape had been a dud, Illya had consoled himself by pulling the ribbon out of the
tape.  It seemed now he’d found a
practical use for it—replacement tinsel for their replacement tree.

Illya had further decorated the tree with a few
brightly-colored pebbles to serve as replacement ornaments, held in place with
small amounts of the industrial-strength adhesive that was part of their
equipment.  A small piece of quartz
served as a makeshift star.

“What do you think?” Illya asked.  “I know it isn’t much compared to the tree we
would have had at your parents’ place–”

But Napoleon had already put the plates of fish down in
order to take Illya in his arms and kiss him.

“It’s beautiful,” Napoleon said.  “…But nowhere near as beautiful as you are.”

Illya smiled shyly.

“You flatter me.”

“Maybe a little…” Napoleon admitted.  “But I still mean it.”

Illya smiled, and the two of them soon feasted on the fish—and
it was the most appetizing fish they’d both had in a long time.

Once dinner was over, the duo spent the rest of the night
in front of the fireplace, Illya gently snuggling against Napoleon as he
wrapped a blanket around the both of them.

“Illya?” Napoleon asked.
“Thanks.  For everything.”

“I am always glad to make you smile, Dorogy,” Illya whispered back.

And Napoleon was smiling indeed—and still was as they continued
to snuggle against each other as the fire crackled on.

The cabin was warm—and so were their hearts.

Written for today’s short affair prompt at Section VII

Summary: Undercover in a Napa Valley mansion, Napoleon and Illya prepare to make contact with an informant.

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 98% similar.

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

Being undercover with false identities was
always an interesting time as U.N.C.L.E. agents—it helped that, this time,
Napoleon and Illya were undercover together, hoping to meet with a retired Army
scientist who had, during the course of the Second World War, developed a
potent truth serum and potential mind-control drug that he had realized was
better off in U.N.C.L.E.’s hands rather than in the hands of any world
power.  And so, Napoleon and Illya had
been sent—separately—to meet in the major’s Napa Valley mansion, with Illya
going undercover as one of the major’s many weekend guests, and Napoleon as a
shoe salesman who had gotten caught in a bad storm on the way back from a sale.

It had taken all of Napoleon’s charm to
convince the butler to at least ask the major if he could seek shelter for the
night; mercifully, he did, and the major, of course, agreed, and once Napoleon
had gotten himself settled in a room, he proceeded to sneak around upstairs
while the major and the other guests were downstairs.

His first choice of room to break into,
however, was simultaneously the best and worst—worst, because the occupant just
happened to be there at the moment, but best as the occupant turned out to be
his partner—who, after taking a moment to threaten the “intruder” with what
looked like a piece of lead pipe, rolled his eyes and placed it aside.

“There are easier ways, you know, to sneak
into my bedchambers.  Invitation, for instance…”

Napoleon rolled his eyes now.

“With all of the guests staying here at this
mansion, what were the odds that yours would be the first one I’d break into?”
he asked.

“Your legendary luck strikes again, for I doubt
that any of these other fools would be so receptive to an intruder,” Illya
said.

Napoleon caught his partner’s tone of voice.

“Driving you bats already, hmm?”

“Let’s just say that I cannot imagine how you
live as an extrovert,” Illya said, with a nod.
“They’re still carrying on downstairs; I snuck away here to clear my
head.”

“You ought to be getting back down there,”
Napoleon said.  “I have the excuse of not
knowing anyone.  But ‘Dr. Mallard’ is
supposed to be an acquaintance of the major; they’ll be wondering where he is.”

“And hear more of my stories about pathology?”
Illya asked, as he adjusted his purple bow tie in the mirror.  “I don’t think so…”

Napoleon winced.

“You didn’t…”

“Well, I couldn’t think of any better way to
get people to leave me alone,” Illya said, with a shrug, pleased that his cover
identity had a profession that he himself dabbled in during fieldwork downtime.  “You’d be surprised how quickly into an
autopsy story you can get someone to leave you alone.”

“I think I can imagine,” Napoleon said,
forcing a smile.  He never could stomach
Illya’s autopsy stories, either.  He, too,
decided to change the subject.  “Just
tell me something.  Why did you
choose a cover name that was a duck!?”

“Well, I could ask you why you chose your
cover name,” Illya countered.  “Albert
Stroller?”

“Hey, it’s not a pun,” Napoleon
insisted.  “Even if I am strolling along
through here.  You know Ma wanted to name
me Albert, but Dad beat her to the punch with Napoleon.  And Stroller was her maiden name.”

“There you are, then,” Illya said.  “You know my mother used to call me Kachenya—which
means ‘duckling’ in Ukrainian.”

“Ah…”  Now
it made sense…  In fact, he should have
guessed…

Illya now put on a tweed jacket, making him
look very distinguished indeed.

“That’s a good look on you, you know,”
Napoleon said.  “The biggest challenge
tonight won’t be trying to meet with the major alone—it’ll be trying to keep my
passions from going into overdrive.”

Illya smirked, but then sobered.

“Then do your best, and stay alert,” he said,
slipping his Special into the jacket.  “I
did catch the major alone in the hall once this evening—only for a moment
before we were interrupted…  Napoleon, he
seems terrified for his life, and I think his fear might be stemming from one
of his own guests.”

“He thinks one of them might try something?”
Napoleon asked, frowning, making sure he had his own Special on him.

“It’s possible,” Illya said.  “And we’ll be in the thick of that crowd—no telling
who it might be…”

Napoleon now gently touched Illya’s arm.

“Be careful,” he instructed, softly.

“You, too,” Illya responded.

They paused for a moment, and then kissed,
briefly.

“We should go downstairs,” Illya said.  “Separately; I’ll go first, you can join us
in about fifteen minutes.”

“Right,” Napoleon said.

He headed back to his room and waited as
Illya went back downstairs; after fifteen minutes were up, he headed to the
lounge, as well, catching Illya’s eye briefly before the other guests, surprised
by this new arrival, crowded around to meet him.

It was going to be a very interesting
evening, indeed…

Written for today’s short affair prompt at Section VII

Summary: Napoleon and Illya attempt to make their escape from a gold-obsessed collector who insists on keeping Illya as his collection’s centerpiece.

Notes:
This is a continuation of a drabble I wrote some time ago, but everything in that piece is summarized here.

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

Illya desperately gripped Napoleon’s shoulders as Napoleon
stood in front of him, trying to shield him from the gold-obsessed collector
that had covered him in gold paint.  The man,
demanding to be called King Midas, had wanted to add Illya to his collection of
gold, but Napoleon had succeeded in rescuing him.

Unfortunately, their escape had been cut short due to the
discovery of the rescue (or, as Midas saw it, the “theft”).  Midas, now growing increasingly more hostile,
confronted them in the hall of the mansion as they tried to make their escape.

“I demand that you return my centerpiece to me at once, Mr.
Solo,” Midas sneered.  “He is the star of
my collection, and I demand you return him.”

“He isn’t a thing to be owned and put on display!” Napoleon
snarled.  “I wouldn’t let you do this to
anyone, but especially not to my partner!”

“I will have my centerpiece back,” Midas commanded.  “I will not allow you to hide him away from
the world just because you want him for your own selfish reasons!”

“…What!?” Napoleon demanded.

“As if a being of pure gold could ever be deserved by someone like you, Mr. Solo,” Midas sneered.  “I deserve him–to showcase his beauty to the world!”

“Don’t start with me,” Napoleon hissed.  “If you want a centerpiece so badly, then let him go and take me instead!”

“You!?  You are mere silver—second-rate!”

“Napoleon is not second-rate!” Illya fumed, his eyes
flashing with anger, prompting Napoleon and Midas to stare at him in surprise.  “Napoleon is the CEA of U.N.C.L.E.—a man who
has performed more heroics for the sake of helping others than anyone else I know.  Second-rate!?
He has always been a better man than I!”

“Illya…”

Illya now stood in front of Napoleon, trying to shield him,
knowing that Midas wouldn’t dare to shoot for fear of hitting his “centerpiece.”

“He and I are leaving this place,” Illya said, backing
away, and causing Napoleon to back away, too.
They were almost at the door.  “I do
not belong to you.”

He gripped Napoleon’s hand in his with one hand, and used
his free hand to open the door behind him.

“What do we do, Your Majesty?” Midas’s guards asked.  “Do we fire on them?”

“No!” Midas barked.  “You
will not fire upon my centerpiece!”  He
swore as Napoleon and Illya darted out of the door, fleeing.  “I will get my centerpiece back, just
wait!  And Solo will pay!”

Outside, the duo retreated to the cover of the gardens on
the grounds.

“We can try to make our way over the back wall,” Napoleon
was saying.  “That was how I got in here.”

“Good idea,” Illya said, and then he paused.  “I meant what I said, Napoleon.  I meant every word of it.”

“I know you did,” Napoleon said, managing a wan smile.  “And I just want to say that you’re not
second to me, either.  I’ve always considered us
as equals, no matter what our ranks at work may be.”

Illya had known that, but it had upset him to hear Napoleon
being insulted.  Nevertheless, he was
grateful for Napoleon’s words, as well as the rescue, as the two of them headed for the back
wall of the garden to make their escape.

Written for today’s short affair prompt at Section VII

Summary: An early days fic in which Illya is ill and Napoleon steps up with the miracle cure–soup.

Cross-posted to AO3.

Illya had to grumble as he attempted to rest in his
bed.  Somehow, he had picked up a persistent
bug on his last mission—one that had knocked him off of his feet after it had
sufficiently invaded enough to provoke an immune response.  It wasn’t a dangerous bug, but he had
contracted a fever, which was enough for Medical to send him home and order him
to stay in bed.

He was more vexed and annoyed than anything else; Napoleon
was due to return from a solo mission of his own, and any plans that Illya had
been hoping to have with him—including working together on the Baron of THRUSH
case—were going to have to be put on hold until his illness had passed.  And that concerned Illya; he was supposed to
have been an asset for Napoleon to help him in this case.  Now, he was in bed, useless.

He groaned, trying to relax and getting more and more
agitated as he continued to lie there, and then frowned as he heard a knock on
the door.

“Who is it?” he called from the bedroom, and then flinched
as his sore throat protested at the effort.

“It’s me,” Napoleon called.
“You feeling up to having a visitor?”

“Come on in,” Illya said, lying back on the bed.

He heard the key turn in the lock as Napoleon let himself
in, and managed a wan smile as Napoleon turned up, holding a paper bag.

“Hey, I came here as soon as I heard,” Napoleon said.  “How are you feeling?”

“I have had better days,” Illya grunted.  “But I am feeling better than I was before;
thank you for asking.”

Napoleon nodded.

“Well, that’s good you’re not green around the gills,” he
said, gently feeling Illya’s forehead with his hand.  He frowned.
“Hmm.  Well, it’s not a horrible
fever, but I’ll see what I can do for that.”

He placed the paper bag on the table and left the room for
a moment to soak a cloth in cool water; he folded and placed the cold cloth on
Illya’s forehead and then pulled a plastic-covered styrofoam bowl from the
paper bag.

“What’s that?” Illya asked.

“Some hot soup,” Napoleon said.  “I had lunch on my way back from the airport,
and when I’d heard you were sick, I picked up a little extra for you.  This will help, trust me.”

Illya, feeling slightly hungry at the sight and sound of
the soup, managed to drink it, and even managed to enjoy it.

“Well, that’s a good sign that your appetite is coming
back,” Napoleon said, in approval.  “I think
you should rest for a while now, though—you need a lot of it.”  He placed a glass of water by Illya’s bedside
table, sat down in a chair beside the bed and picked up a notepad and pen,
making himself comfortable.

Illya blinked in surprise.

“You’re not going to Headquarters?”

“Nah; I told Mr. Waverly that I’d work on the mission
report from here so that I could look after you.  You just take it easy and rest—and be sure to
let me know if you need anything, okay?”

Illya gave a nod, nestling back in the bed.  Napoleon cheerfully began to write out his report
by hand, and Illya had to admit how moved he was by his partner’s thoughtfulness.

Napoleon… thank
you, he silently transmitted.

And he drifted off to sleep, feeling better already.

Written for today’s short affair prompt at Section VII; continuation of last week’s piece.

Summary: Now it’s time to ask about Napoleon’s eyes–and Illya has stories to tell about him, too.

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.

Asking around U.N.C.L.E. HQ about Napoleon’s eyes gives you
a generally unanimous consensus.
Napoleon is a very popular fellow, and very well-liked and admired
throughout the agency.  Most of the ones
you ask will give you “warm” and “friendly,” and you’re sure to hear “charming”
a lot.

Napoleon does have a few detractors in the agency, however,
but you’ll have to look really hard to find them.  They do exist, though–those jealous of his
popularity and how well he’s liked; they’ll tell you his eyes are filled with
nothing but “deviousness,” “smugness” and “arrogance,” though that is simply
just not true—and if you speak to Illya Kuryakin, he will tell you just how
untrue it is.

Illya is an interesting person to speak to where Napoleon
is concerned—in front of Napoleon, he’s all snark and teasing, and certainly
sees no need to stoke Napoleon’s ego that way.

But catch Illya alone and question him about Napoleon, or
even tell him what those few detractors have said, and you will see the
righteous fury spark in his eyes.  He
will, however, take a look around to make sure Napoleon isn’t within earshot,
and then begin to talk at length about just what rests in Napoleon’s eyes.

He’ll stumble over the first word, since the American
saying is not that familiar to him—

“Streetwise.”  

Illya’s smarts are proven by his degrees—he is Dr.
Kuryakin, though he doesn’t go by that for reasons of modesty.  Napoleon has no titles before or after his
name, but he knows the ways of the world and how to influence people far better
than Illya ever could.  Napoleon has
talked them out of more jams than Illya could ever count—jams that could have
resulted in violence if Illya had been forced to find a way out on his
own.  Even when Illya’s knee-jerk
reaction is to put a hand on his Special, all he needs to get him to relax is
to see a reassuring wink from his partner’s brown eyes, and he knows that
Napoleon has already figured a way out of the crisis du jour.

“Crafty.”

That’s another word Illya will use, but he means it in only
a positive sense.  And he has a memorable
story to back it up.  Being a Russian
living in the States under the global climate of the Cold War, Illya has, alas,
run into his fair share of those who consider him second-class merely because
of his origins or his name.

One memorable time it happened was in a casino where he and
Napoleon had just finished up a mission at.
A drunk gambler had very loudly yelled at Illya as though he alone was
responsible for the current state of worldwide events.  For a moment, Napoleon had looked as though
he was going to punch the man in the nose right then and there, but a moment
later, a look in his eyes had made it clear that he had thought of something
much better.

Momentarily pretending not to know Illya, he steered the
creep towards the poker table.  Illya had
been recovering at the bar with a drink and didn’t see exactly what had
transpired, but he could surmise what had occurred when Napoleon came strolling
up to him an hour later with a wad of cash that he handed over to him, claiming
them to be reparations.

“Dedicated.”

Illya has to admit that for all of Napoleon’s desires to
live the good life, he is very dedicated to what he does—and he is also very
dedicated to Illya, too.  He would never
try to let U.N.C.L.E. or Illya down, and he has put his reputation and life on
the line more than once to protect both, without hesitation or regret.

“Kind.”

It inevitably comes up, just as Napoleon brings it up when
describing Illya’s eyes.  And Illya has
just as many stories about Napoleon as Napoleon has about him, but what sticks
most in his mind is the unconditional trust and kindness that Napoleon showed
him from day one of their partnership.

“Concerned.”

That, as well, comes up, for just as much as Illya worries
for Napoleon, so does Napoleon worry about him.
Illya isn’t usually as lucky as his partner in getting out of scrapes
unscathed, and no matter how many times it happens, no matter how much he
assures Napoleon that he will be fine, Napoleon’s protective gaze will never
waver until he is satisfied that it is so.

Illya doesn’t ramble on like Napoleon does; Illya isn’t a man
of that many words, so he doesn’t waver from the conversation.  It also means that, at this point, he will be
tight-lipped, because he has one more word, but it is not for you to hear.

“Loving.”

He will never tell you how Napoleon loves him, how every look
the American gives him is one of admiration and adoration, how the nights with
him are warm and wonderful, and how he never dared to hope that he would win
the heart of the man who could have won the heart of anyone in the world he
desired.

He will never tell you that.  But if you listen between the lines, you can
hear it—and know that these are truly the two most devoted partners you will
ever meet.

Written for today’s short affair prompt at Section VII; there’ll be a part 2 next week.

Summary: Depending on who you ask in U.N.C.L.E. HQ, you’ll get a different description of Illya’s eyes; Napoleon has descriptions–and stories to go with each one.

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.

Depending on who you ask around U.N.C.L.E. HQ, you will
always get a different description of Illya Kuryakin’s eyes.

You’ll get the usual epithets—pretty, blue, mysterious.  And you’ll also get a recurring theme of
“cold” and “ice” from a lot of people.
Illya himself encourages that description; he enjoys being seen as a
standoffish ice prince.

Ask Napoleon Solo to describe Illya’s eyes, however, and
you’ll get another story entirely—a lot of the time, you’ll get multiple
stories.

“Resourceful.”

That means you might hear the one about the two of them
successfully managed to communicate an entire escape plan to each other while
tied up at opposite ends of a THRUSH cell merely by blinking at each other in
Morse code.

“Transparent.”

That means you might hear the one about the Gurnius Affair,
and how Illya was superbly able to maintain the mask of Colonel Nexor while simultaneously
reassuring Napoleon with just a glance that he could trust his life in his
hands.

“Loyal.”

Then, you’d hear the one about the Summit Five Affair, and
how, even after Napoleon had confessed to being a traitor and had nearly the
entire organization believing it, Illya’s faith in him never once wavered.

“Kind.”

That could mean any number of stories—the numerous times
Napoleon woke up from unconsciousness and the first thing he saw were Illya’s
eyes looking down upon him in concern, the way Illya looked after their cat, the
numerous times Illya would support him after a long and weary day, his patient
words when the occasional failed mission could ground Napoleon’s spirit…  If Napoleon says “kind,” then you might as well
pull up a chair; you’re going to be there for a while.

“Concerned.”

Again, that is a multitude of stories, but, usually, it
means the first time he saw tears in the Russian’s eyes—after Napoleon had
taken a bullet for him on a mission during the second year of their partnership
together.

At that point, Napoleon will launch into all sorts of
unrelated stories about his partner; attempting to bring the conversation back
to the topic of describing Illya’s eyes will lead to just one more word–

“Everything.”

You won’t get a story behind that; those stories are very
secret, and kept close to Napoleon’s heart.
Illya means the world to him—more than the world, in fact.

He won’t describe how he can see the entire universe in
Illya’s eyes—not to you, anyway.  He
reserves that for Illya alone, when it is just the two of them, side by side in
bed in the darkness of the night.

But at that point, you’ve already realized what Napoleon is
trying to say—that true love exists, and that he’s found it in Illya—eyes and
all.