Written for today’s short affair prompt at Section VII

Summary: In which, after Napoleon is whipped by Captain Shark, Illya, the so-called Ice Prince, looks after him.

Cross-posted to AO3

When Illya had been released from Captain Shark’s brig, the
first thing he did was try to find Napoleon.
All he could think about was how he had tried and failed to stop Shark
from whipping his partner—and he knew that, once he had been taken away, there
would have been no stopping it.

Napoleon, forgive
me, I have failed you…

He had found Napoleon in the room that Shark had assigned
them, lying facedown on his bunk, recovering.
The whiplash marks, looking vivid and painful, burned bright red on Napoleon’s
back, glistening slightly from whatever ointment that had been administered to
him.  And yet, Napoleon was clearly in
discomfort.

“Napoleon…?”

His partner looked up at the sound of his voice, managing a
smile.

“Hey, how are you?”

“I am fine,” Illya said, his blue eyes looking slightly wet as he continued to look at the marks on Napoleon’s back.  “They only left me temporarily winded and
locked up after my ordeal.  But you…”

“It looks a lot worse than it is, I’m sure,” Napoleon said.

“Don’t try to sweep it under the rug,” Illya said, as he
sat beside Napoleon.  “…Oh,
Napoleon.  Shark knows his way around
that whip.  I shall do my best for you,
but I fear…. I fear there will be permanent scarring.”

Napoleon’s expression was unreadable, but Illya knew what
was going through his mind—the realization that the perfectly-toned upper body
he was so proud of was now forever marred.

“…I had a feeling,” he said, after a while.  “Well… I’m sure there’s something or other
that can cover it up in some way…”

“First, let me clean your wounds to minimize the scarring,”
Illya said, and he proceeded to do just that with a wet cloth and some
disinfectant.

The disinfectant stung, but aside from an involuntary
recoil, Napoleon remained quiet and calm as Illya treated him.

“…How bad do you think it will be?” Napoleon asked, after a
while.

“That depends on how the skin will heal,” Illya said.  “As much as I want to tell you there will be
no scarring, I cannot lie to you.  There
will be scarring regardless, but how badly it will be will be determined by how
it heals.”  He sighed.  “I am sorry, Napoleon.”

“It had to happen sooner or later,” Napoleon sighed.  “I guess I should be grateful it’s not my
face.”

“Nyet… I mean, I
am sorry for not being able to stop it.”

“Well, it wasn’t for the lack of trying,” Napoleon reminded
him.  “I’m grateful for you trying to
stop it.  Really.”

Illya wanted to say something—to say that it wasn’t enough
to have tired, that he had utterly failed in protecting him…

Napoleon continued talking, as though tuned in to Illya’s
thoughts.

“You know, I wouldn’t be here talking to you if it wasn’t
for you,” he said.  “You’ve saved my life
multiple times.  And you always try to
help me when you can.  I don’t think I
tell you enough how much I appreciate it—appreciate you.”

“…Even when I fail you?” Illya finally managed, the
bitterness evident in his voice.

“You didn’t fail me,” Napoleon insisted.  “You wouldn’t be here looking after me if you
had.”

“There must have been something else I could have done–”

“You would have ended up getting whipped along with me,
Illya.  How would that have been any
better?” Napoleon asked.  “I mean, do you
think that you’d be… sharing the burden or something?”  There was an awkward pause.  “…You actually do think that!”

“I know it is foolish to think so,” Illya said, going
slightly red as he continued to clean Napoleon’s wounds and now bandaged
them.  “Such irrationality is not like
me, and yet I cannot help but think it…!”

Napoleon managed a smile.

“You’re fine, Illya.
It’s called having a heart.
Sometimes, I think you actually believe that you are the ‘Ice Prince,’
despite that it’s just a front, and these feelings end up surprising you, too..”

Illya couldn’t find a reply to this, and he changed the
subject as he finished bandaging Napoleon’s back.

“Be that as it may, I wish there was more I could do for
you.”

Napoleon now propped himself up on his arm to look back at
Illya.

“You’re here,” he said.
“That’s all I could ask for.”

And, at last, Illya managed a smile back.

“And by your side is where I will stay,” he promised.

“Great,” Napoleon grinned, reaching for his evening
suit.  “Then let’s head down to Shark’s
party and find a way to stop him.”

Illya nodded in agreement.
They would succeed—together.

Written for today’s short affair prompt at Section VII

Summary: In which Napoleon’s parents throw a party, but trouble arises when one of the guests takes issue with Illya.

Cross-posted to AO3.

It was clear that Napoleon’s parents were just as talented
at throwing great parties as Napoleon was—clearly a talent passed down from
mother to son, as Cora Solo was the driving force of the party that she had
insisted Napoleon and Illya attend.
While Cora spearheaded the endeavor, her husband, Leopold, backed her up
whenever he could; Napoleon and Illya attempted to try and help, but Cora
insisted that they relax as guests.

As more guests arrived, Napoleon, who knew most of them,
began to mingle.  Knowing that Illya was
introverted, he didn’t press him to mingle—something that Illya was grateful
for.  And as Cora and Leopold set out the
food on sterling silver serving trays, he began to cheer up as he ate.  He continued to man this post by the food
table, watching Napoleon and his parents interact with the guests.  A few of the guests casually greeted Illya as
they came for food, but soon left him alone to rejoin the party, and aside from
the times that Napoleon, Cora, or Leopold checked to see how he was doing,
Illya was mostly left alone—just the way he liked it.  It let him hone his people-watching
skills—skills that were important as an agent.

He was privately analyzing each guest—from the shy man who
seemingly had a puppy-love crush on Aunt Amy (who was either completely
oblivious or uninterested) to the young student, daughter of one of Cora’s
friends, who was here when she clearly should have been studying, to the snooty
rich woman decked with jewelry (Illya was secretly pleased to see both Cora and
Napoleon privately rolling their eyes at the amount of jewelry she was
wearing).  Illya watched for a while
before turning his attention to the other guests.

He was refueling with some more food when he heard someone
speak to him rather haughtily.

“I don’t think I’ve seen you before around here…”

Illya looked up, surprised to see the overly-bedecked woman
now standing beside him, looking at him with a judging look on her face.

“…Er…  No, Madam, you
have not,” Illya said, politely.  He
tried not to react as the woman’s expression darkened at the sound of his
accent.

“Are you Russian?”
she asked, as if scandalized by the notion.
“How did you crash this party!?”

“…I am half-Russian, half-Ukrainian,” Illya said, realizing
that this would do nothing to change her mind.
“And I did not… ‘crash’ this party; I was invited by Napoleon’s
parents.  Napoleon and I work for
U.N.C.L.E.–”

“Now you listen to me—and cut the lies!” the woman said,
suddenly standing an inch from Illya’s face.
“Cora Solo would never invite one of the enemy to one of her parties!
Obviously, you manipulated Napoleon into letting you come!  Now, I’ve known Napoleon since he was a
child—don’t you go corrupting him with those un-American ideas; you stay away
from him–!”

“Is there a problem?” Napoleon asked, sharply, suddenly
coming out of nowhere to stand between Illya and the woman.

“Napoleon!” the woman exclaimed.  Her expression changed to an accusatory one
as she pointed to Illya.  “This
incredibly rude colleague of yours insulted me!
I demand an apology this instant!”

Napoleon scowled and was about to tell her off—except that
his mother beat him to the punch.

“I heard everything, Naomi,” Cora said, as she, too,
appeared out of nowhere, radiating as much rage as her son was.  “For your information, I did invite Illya to this party—the three of us did, unanimously.”

“That’s right,” Leopold scowled, and Illya was admittedly
surprised; it just dawned on him that he’d never seen Leopold upset before
until this very moment.  “As far as we’re
concerned, he is family, and he is welcome in this house whenever he wishes.”

“You, however, are not,” Cora added.

“Hmph!” the woman scoffed.
“As if I would want to be in a place that harbors Russians!”

She left, and all three Solos silently dared anyone else in
the room to say anything; when no one did, they now turned their attention to
Illya, apologizing profusely for him having to endure that.

And Illya assured them that it was alright—and he meant it,
for the knowledge of having a loyal family to back him up, no matter what the
situation, was something he’d never thought he’d have again—but he had it now,
and it was all he could ever want.