Inktober for Writers, h/c edition, Day 2

Prompt: Bag over head

Summary: Illya was just in the wrong place at the wrong time…

Cross-posted to AO3

Illya had been bound hand and foot, dragged around the
countryside—not by THRUSH, shockingly enough, but by a group of bank
robbers. It was a vexing case of being
in the wrong place at the wrong time—accompanying Napoleon to the bank for an
errand was something that the two of them did all the time.

It was just bad luck that the bank robbers had chosen that
day to commit their crime—and it was also bad luck that, upon seizing as much
money as they could carry, decided that they wanted to take a hostage for
insurance. And it was further ill luck
that they wanted to take “that weird blond guy” as their hostage.

And so, to protect the innocents still in the bank, Illya
went with them without a fuss—despite his cooperation, they covered his head
with a money bag and threw him into the back of a getaway car.

This sort of thing
would
happen to me, he thought semi-furiously.
He winced as he was bounced and jostled around in the back of the
car. He could feel the bruises forming
on his face; he certainly wasn’t going to look like a prize by the time this
was over. But, with any luck, the
bruises would mean that Napoleon’s retribution would be all the more satisfying
to watch—it took a lot to get Napoleon Solo angry, but bringing harm upon Illya
was a surefire way to succeed.

Indeed, his captors soon started complaining about a car
following them, and then, a moment later, noticing that all four tires had been
shot out in a blink of an eye, for even though THRUSH had been co-founded by a
marksman, Napoleon, when sufficiently angered, could have a razor-sharp aim
that would have sent Sebastian Moran himself running for cover, had they ever
met.

The thieves complained loudly—there were no police cars
following them, so how had their tires been shot out?

They then decided to use Illya as a shield to get away;
they dragged him out of the car, and one of them removed the bag that was
covering his head. Illya greedily drew
the fresh air in for a moment.

“Shut up and just come along quietly,” one of them hissed.

Illya rolled his eyes; it was almost comical, how these
four bank robbers were trying to hide behind him.

“I don’t understand how someone managed to follow us!”

“Because you took an international police agent as a
hostage, you fool!” Illya finally snapped at them.

The moment of sheer, abject horror on the robbers’ faces
was worth it as, one by one, they were tranquilized and dropped to the ground,
leaving Illya standing, still bound.

Napoleon appeared a moment later, cutting him free and
looking at him with a tender expression before turning his wrath on the fallen
robbers—as Illya looked on in satisfaction.

Inktober for Writers, h/c edition, Day 1

Prompt: On their knees

Summary: A THRUSH captor wants to prove that he can break Napoleon Solo. Napoleon has to figure out why

Cross-posted to AO3. Light slash; gen version posted at dreamwidth.

Napoleon flinched as the THRUSH interrogators continued to
beat him with sticks. He struggled to
his knees; it took everything just to stay like that.

“You can end this suffering, Solo,” the THRUSH executive
said, standing in front of him. “Just
give me what I want.”

“There is nothing I have that could interest you,” Napoleon
said, struggling to focus as everything around him started to go out of
focus. “You won’t get any U.N.C.L.E.
secrets from me. Lesser THRUSH agents
than you have tried and failed…” He trailed
off, his focus lessening.

The THRUSH executive snapped his fingers, and Napoleon
shuddered as a bucket of cold water was dumped on him.

“Information?” he repeated.
“Whoever said anything about information? There is nothing I need to know about pathetic
U.N.C.L.E.—my inside men have already found out everything I needed to
know. How else was I able to have you
brought before me with such ease?”

Napoleon blinked, trying to stay conscious.

“Then… why am I here…?” he asked, his voice slightly
slurred. “What… what do you want… from
me…?”

“I want to prove that Napoleon Solo is breakable,” the
executive said. “There’s nothing I need to get from you, Solo. I just need to prove that I can.”

Napoleon winced as the executive’s hand, cold with the
metal from the silver rings he wore, smacked him across the face. The hand then stopped in front of his face.

“Kiss the ring on my hand,” he ordered. “A simple show of surrender and fealty is all
I need.”

Even through the cloudy haze of pain and dizziness,
Napoleon hesitated.

“Oh, go on, Solo,” the executive said, waving his flunkies
out of the room. “There, it is just the
two of us now—no one else will be witness to your humiliation, if that’s what
you’re worried about.”

Napoleon blinked.

“Then why… go through all this…?” he murmured. “What’s the point…?”

“To prove that I can!” the executive said. “To prove that I can break the unbreakable
Napoleon Solo!”

“But if no one else will know, then why…?” Napoleon
asked. “You’re not… doing this for
yourself…” He trailed off, his glance
falling onto the mirror in the room, taking up most of the wall space on the
far wall. “…Who’s back there, watching
us through the mirror?”

“What difference does it make?” the executive snarled. “Do you want this suffering to continue!? I am asking you to do one simple thing—one
simple thing that will not bring any harm to your precious U.N.C.L.E., so why
do you hesitate!?”

“Because you’re so insistent…” Napoleon murmured. “Who is watching us? Other THRUSH executives? …No.
They wouldn’t sit by and watch you try to do what they’ve been trying;
they’d be in here, trying, too… The only
benefit to having me do this is to destroy the morale of my…” He trailed off, his eyes widening. “…My partner.”

Of course… THRUSH
somehow had found out about Napoleon breaking during the Summit Five Affair,
and how that had affected Illya. What
better way to break him than by breaking Napoleon in front of his eyes again?

A fierce fire lit in his eyes as he got off of his knees
and struggled to his feet.

“Do your worst.”

He nearly regretted that statement; the frustrated
executive hit him several more times until he screamed at his underlings to
throw him back into a cell.

Illya was soon thrown in the cell, as well, and after
cursing their captors out in Russian, he tended to Napoleon’s wounds.

“Once you had figured out what was going on, you could have
just done an act and pretended to surrender,” Illya softly said. “I saw the look in your eyes through the
two-way mirror; I would have understood.”

“Well…” Napoleon said, keeping his eyes closed as he
rested, flinching slightly as Illya disinfected his wounds. “…You know I’ve got a stubborn streak.”

“…I do, indeed.”

“Besides… I’d rather kiss you anyday.”

Illya paused, looking at him with a tender expression
before gently kissing him. Napoleon
managed a smile, relaxing as Illya continued to treat his wounds.

And as they were eventually rescued a few hours later by
Mark and April, recovering together in Medical, Illya had to admit that he was,
secretly, glad that Napoleon hadn’t broken and that, if nothing else, his
partner’s pride was still intact.

Another MFU blurb

Written for today’s short affair prompt at Section VII

Summary:
In which Napoleon and Illya discover that a seemingly odd choice of target for THRUSH may be far more serious than they imagined.

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 as I’ll be expanding this in the future.

Napoleon wrinkled his nose at the smell of old paper as
they entered the old U.N.C.L.E. warehouse.

“So this is where they keep the old personnel files,” he said,
looking around at the rows and rows of files.
Aside from a few support pillars, there was literally nothing else but
filing cabinets as far as the eye could see.
“An old facility out in the middle of the desert?”

“So it would seem,” Illya said. “But, perhaps there are more than just old
files in here—there have been reports of THRUSH attempting to break in.”

“That’s right—and that’s why we’re here,” Napoleon
said. “To find out what they could
possibly want.”

“It couldn’t possibly be any of the old files,” Illya
said. “Unless they were trying to seek
revenge on agents who retired or resigned…”

“Wouldn’t Victor Marton’s file be in here?” Napoleon
said. “Since he’s no longer an active
U.N.C.L.E. agent and one of them now…?”

“An awful lot of trouble for a file of someone they could
easily grab ahold of and question themselves,” Illya said. “You know how readily they turn on each
other—torture would be the quickest way for them to find out information from
Marton than rooting through old files that don’t even cover the last decade anyway.”

“…Good point,” Napoleon admitted.

“That’s why I think that these old files are just
camouflage,” Illya said. “THRUSH clearly
thinks so, as well—they have made several failed attempts to break in, but the
electronic defenses have always succeeded in repelling them.”

Napoleon frowned.

“If they are going to try again, then I think we should be
prepared for an attempt at sabotaging the electronic defenses,” he said. “And the quickest way to do that is cut off
the power to the entire building–”

He was cut off as the lights in the warehouse suddenly shut
down, plunging the entire interior into inky blackness.

“…I just had to
say it, didn’t I…?” Napoleon groaned.

Illya quickly activated the distress signal on his tracker
as he and Napoleon knelt down behind some filing cabinets.

“Backup is coming, but this is an out-of-the-way location;
it may take them time to reach us,” he whispered.

“Then we’ll have to rely on our one possible advantage—that
the intruders getting past the security system don’t know that we’re here,”
Napoleon whispered back. “We have to
find whatever it is they’re looking for first!”

“…It would help if we knew what we were looking for,” Illya
murmured. “What do you think it could
be?”

“Can’t be weapons—it better not be,” Napoleon said.
“U.N.C.L.E. protocol is to completely and thoroughly destroy confiscated
weapons and doomsday devices after they are no longer considered evidence—this
is done to prevent THRUSH trying to steal them back.”

“But… what if it was a weapon that cannot be destroyed, no
matter how hard we tried?” Illya.

Napoleon frowned.

“The only kind of weapon like that I can think of is…” A sinking feeling grew in the pit of his
stomach. “Oh no. Oh no.”

Illya gripped Napoleon’s hand.

“You’ve found the answer?” Illya realized. “And it isn’t good.”

“Yes and no, it isn’t,” Napoleon said. “They are
looking for files, Illya.”

“…Of agents from decades past? How is that bad–?”

“You mentioned weapons that can’t be destroyed, and that’s
when I remembered, during our Medical training in Survival School… They told us about reporting signs of illness
immediately because of a case back in 1918—a group of U.N.C.L.E. agents on
assignment in Greenland had ignored symptoms that ended up being that of Spanish
flu–”

Illya gripped Napoleon’s hand tighter.

“I remember now,” he said, shuddering. “The survivors suffered in agony, and the
ones who had died had to be buried in Greenland.”

“You’re the pathology expert,” Napoleon whispered. “The ground is pretty frozen up there—would
bodies at that temperature still hold samples of the virus that could be
activated if warmed up?”

“…It’s… possible,” Illya said. “The exact answer, I don’t know…. It’s
something too horrific to think about…!”

“That’s why they’re here,” Napoleon said, trying to see if
he could spot the intruders. “They want
those files about the agents who died in Greenland in 1918 to get the exact
burial locations!”

“And if they unleash a global pandemic on the scale of the
one in 1918…” Illya began. “The only
word to describe it would be…”

“…Devastation,” Napoleon finished.

Rows upon rows of filing cabinets, and one of them held the
potential of global disaster within it.

And only the two of them stood between it and THRUSH.

Suddenly, Illya reached up, touching Napoleon’s face and
then drew him into a kiss. So much was
said in that kiss—how much he loved him, and how worried he was for him now
that this plot was into the light.

Combatting THRUSH
and their weaponry is something within our power, he silently transmitted.
But against a deadly virus, we are
helpless.

Then we have to
stop them, Napoleon transmitted back.

The kiss deepened.

…I don’t want to
lose you, Napoleon.

And I don’t want
to lose you, either. So… We’ve… We’ve got to keep fighting against
this.

The temptation to quit was strong—to quit this and flee to
a safe, secluded region of the world, staying like this, in each other’s arms,
reassuring the other of how much he loved his partner…

Illya sighed as Napoleon’s arms invited him to sink further
into his embrace. He wanted to stay like
this, forever. And judging by how
Napoleon was gently caressing his face, he wanted it, too.

But, in order to ensure this would last, they would both
have to fight.

Reluctantly, Illya pulled away from the kiss before it
could escalate further.

“Da…” he whispered.
“Let’s try and put a stop to this.”

Napoleon nodded, but he still held on to Illya’s arm as
they snuck around the rows of cabinets.

They would fight this together, as they always did.

The Heart of the City (MFU oneshot)

Title: The Heart of the City
Rating: G
Summary: It’s the fall of 1986, and after being requested and cajoled to return to active duty for U.N.C.L.E., Napoleon and Illya learn that you can, in fact, go home again.
Notes:
this is a little ficlit I wrote on the occasion of David McCallum’s 85th birthday
today. This is meant to take place in
1986, and follows my headcanon that Napoleon and Illya left U.N.C.L.E. together
in 1972 after Napoleon reached the 40-year-old mandatory retirement from field
duty (I don’t consider the Return movie canon, simply because it was so out of
character for Napoleon to leave without Illya, for Illya to let him go, and for
them to have not spoken to each other for 15 years).

If you prefer reading on FFN, you can read it here: https://www.fanfiction.net/s/13070195/1/The-Heart-of-the-City
If you prefer reading on AO3, you can read it here: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16040378

So much had changed, and yet, so much had stayed the
same. Manhattan had always been a
constantly-changing world, even in the twelve years that Illya had lived there,
though the 60s and the beginning of the 70s.
It was the fall of 1986 now, and places that had been staples of his and
Napoleon’s life in New York were apparently lost to the mists of time—the
Purple Unicorn was gone, along with several other hole-in-the-wall eateries
that the two had entertained each other in.
Napoleon’s favorite high-class eatery, the Casablanca Club, still
remained, though having moved up to Midtown, just off of Times Square.

Their favorite bagel haunt was, thankfully, exactly where
they had left it, and Napoleon had proceeded to order their “usual” (an asiago
bagel with hot pepper cream cheese for himself, a plain bagel with plain cream
cheese for Illya, and a serving of lox for their cat, Baba Yaga), and then
proceeded to take the meal to go to their new residence, a furnished apartment
in a new high-rise, just across the street from the new location of U.N.C.L.E.
HQ.

“You know, I almost miss that other apartment we had,”
Napoleon said, as he began to unpack.

“So do I,” Illya said.
“This one is unnecessarily larger.
What are the two of us going to do with all of this extra space?”

Baba Yaga let out a meow and began to intently explore the
larger space; clearly, she had no complaints.

“There’s your answer,” Napoleon teased. “We can get a whole bunch of cat trees and
let her run wild.” He glanced at her,
thoughtfully. “…You know, she’s awfully
spry for being 26 years old…”

“We have looked after her very well,” Illya said, picking
up the cat and cradling her as she purred away in his arms.

“…I still say it’s because she’s the daughter of Bastet,”
Napoleon insisted.

“So you have told me…” Illya said, feeding her a piece of
lox. “…I’m almost beginning to believe
it.”

She licked her lips and leaped to the top of the wardrobe,
getting a better vantage point to observe her new kingdom. Illya smiled and opened the wardrobe, hanging
up a black turtleneck—which prompted Napoleon to stop and stare.

“Is… is that what I think it is…?” he asked, pointing at
the sweater.

“The same sweater that I’ve had since 1960? Yes, it is,” Illya said, without missing a
beat.

“…I haven’t seen that for a while; I was beginning to think
it was long-gone,” Napoleon said, staring at it in wonder.

“Well, considering that we have been spending the last 14
years in Hawaii, a sweater was not something that I used while we were there,”
Illya said, smirking at him.

“…I’m also trying to figure out how that thing is still in
one piece,” Napoleon added. “When I
think about all the suits I had to get reimbursed because they got damaged on
missions…” He ran a hand over the
sweater. “What is this thing made of,
anyway? Indestructible mithril?”

“Apparently,” Illya said.

Napoleon smirked, as well, and looked to his partner, happy
to see him looking so content.

“You’re in a good mood,” he observed.

“Well, it has been a long time since I felt autumn in New
York,” Illya said, opening the window now.
“I have enjoyed Hawaii, but… I
can’t deny that a part of me has really missed this. We have arrived at the right time, too—soon,
the trees in Central Park will be changing color–”

“…And then we’ll get the first snow…”

“People will start putting out pumpkins and start making
things with nutmeg and cinnamon…”

“…And then there’ll be even more snow…”

“Soon there will be chestnuts and gingerbread before we
know it!”

“…And did I mention lots of snow?”

Illya looked back at Napoleon, rolling his eyes.

“Never fear, Napoleon; I will lend you my indestructible
mithril sweater.”

“…And there was a time when that could have fit me; now,
I’m not so sure,” Napoleon mused, staring at his waistline, which had grown
slightly along with his age. “But I
appreciate the thought.”

Illya paused for a moment and then attempted to put the
sweater on. He managed to fit into it,
but it most definitely accentuated his waistline, as well, which it had not
done back in the ‘60s.

“…Oh, well…” he shrugged.
“At least it still fits. All of
your rich, gourmet cooking wasn’t enough to make it useless.”

“Don’t blame my cooking; you’re the one who eats three
servings of each thing at mealtime,” Napoleon teased.

“You should consider that a compliment,” Illya
returned. “…Ah, and that reminds me; I
wonder if those all all-you-can-eat restaurants that blacklisted me have
forgotten about me by now…”

“If they have, I guarantee you they’ll remember once they
see the look in your eyes as you stare at the lunch buffet…” Napoleon mused.

“Surely some of
them are under new management after 14 years!” Illya said. “I think it is worth looking into…”

“Not tonight,” Napoleon said. “Tonight, I want to take you to the
Casablanca Club. It is a special day,
after all.”

“Ah, yes, our return to New York and our old lives as
U.N.C.L.E. agents,” Illya sighed. “It is a cause for celebration…”

“Well, it is, yes,” Napoleon said. “But it wasn’t quite the reason I had in
mind.”

“But what else could possibly…?” Illya began, but he
trailed off as Napoleon pulled a small, wrapped box from his pocket, and Illya
chuckled sheepishly. “…I lost track of
the days and forgot it was my birthday again, didn’t I…?”

“You did,” Napoleon said.
“It really makes shopping for your presents very easy. Well, anyway, you can’t be blamed this time;
we’ve been traveling for hours, across multiple time zones.”

“And we will be doing a lot more of that, being with
U.N.C.L.E. again,” Illya said. “At least
that will remain the same.”

“You think we did the right thing? Agreeing to come back, I mean,” Napoleon
said. “With our private investigation
service in Hawaii, we got to choose what we did, how we did it, and stayed in
control of whatever danger we got ourselves into… Back with U.N.C.L.E. again, we’re going to
have to follow orders, even if we don’t like them—probably means a lot more
solo missions and time apart.”

“I know,” Illya sighed.
“Mark was talking about long-term undercover assignments being in store
for us. I didn’t like the sound of that
too much.”

“Yeah, neither did I,” Napoleon sighed. He glanced at his partner. “…So, why did we say yes?”

Illya turned from the window and glanced back at him.

“We have a duty of care, I suppose,” he said. “After all the work we put in to preserving
peace back in the 60s, we don’t want to stand aside and risk things going wrong
that we could have helped to prevent.
You, in particular, saw preserving peace as your ultimate mission back
then. Deep down, that has not changed in
you, in spite of how much you enjoy relaxing on the Hawaiian beaches.”

“And you wouldn’t let me come back here alone,” Napoleon
added.

“Of course not.”

Napoleon smiled.

“Well, alright then,” he said. “We’ll give this a try—and someday, we will return to that little Hawaiian
bungalow.”

“We will,” Illya promised.
“We survived the worst of what THRUSH had to offer; we can get through
this, too.”

“You bet,” Napoleon said, and he handed over Illya’s
present. “Happy Birthday, Tovarisch.”

Trying not to appear too eager, Illya opened it, slowly. He blinked in surprise to see a black bow tie
with golden elephants embroidered in it.

“Oh, it’s charming!” Illya said, grinning. “See, this is the kind of thing I
like—there’s no need to spend lavish amounts of money on expensive things!”

Napoleon let out an embarrassed cough, prompting Illya to
arch an eyebrow. Removing the bow tie
from the box, Illya sighed in amusement as he saw, hidden beneath the tie, a
pair of gold cufflinks with a black opal set in each one.

“…Of course, you couldn’t resist the flashy, expensive
thing, too…”

“They just seemed so… you, when I saw them.”

“Let me guess—Macy’s?”

“Where else? I just
thought they’d look good on you.”

“No doubt they will,” Illya said, embracing his partner—a
gesture which Napoleon cheerfully returned.
Illya couldn’t help but smile.
“Thank you, Napoleon. I shall
wear these to dinner tonight.”

Baba Yaga, still perched on the wardrobe, meowed at the
word “dinner,” her ears up and alert.

“Yes, of course, Dearest; we shall bring you something from
the restaurant, as well,” Illya assured her.

“Nothing but the best for our daughter of the cat goddess,”
Napoleon insisted.

Satisfied, Baba Yaga curled back up on the wardrobe,
purring again, and Napoleon turned back to Illya.

“Shall we?”

Illya nodded, attaching the cufflinks to his sleeves and
tying on the bow tie. He paused in the
mirror on the way out to admire how he looked; Napoleon had been right—they did
look good on him…

“Can I pick ‘em, or what?” Napoleon grinned, his reflection
appearing in the mirror behind Illya now.

“Yes. Yes, you can,”
Illya said, with an amused shake of his head.
That, too, had stayed the same.
“Now, let’s go.”

They headed outside to hail a taxi, curious to see how the
rest of the city had changed in their 14-year absence.

One thing was for certain, though—their partnership would
be as strong as it had been in the ‘60s, if not more so now.

And even if Napoleon missed the warm Hawaiian breezes and
the days he could waste basking in the sun, the heart of the city was just as
much home again as it had been in the ‘60s—for Illya was with him, and that was
all that mattered.

MFU blurb

Written for today’s short affair prompt at Section VII

Summary:
In which Napoleon learns the hard way that the old “travel through the air vent” trope doesn’t always work out. Thankfully, Illya is there to lend a hand–and snark all the while.

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

Illya hadn’t known what to expect; Napoleon, on trail of a
way to find out how the killer had killed their informant, had suspected the
trained capuchin belonging to the victim’s son’s fiancée when he had seen the
capuchin crawl in and out of the air duct in the room where the body had been
found.

“There might have been a way to get the monkey to bring
some sort of poison through the vent,” Napoleon had said. “It might lead to a place accessible only by
a secret passageway—where more poison is stored. I’ll have to take a look…”

Before Illya could protest, Napoleon had squeezed into the
air duct and had begun to crawl his way through it. Shrugging, Illya had used a combination of
Napoleon’s tracker and their communicators to try to follow him from room to
room when he suddenly heard a yelp from Napoleon, followed by a splash.

Illya took off running, following the signal to a wine
cellar beneath the mansion. He stared
for a moment at a large wine vat that was gushing red wine all over the place,
as though something large had fallen in it.
A glance above the vat showed the open air duct, and Illya tentatively
looked into the vat in time to see his partner emerge from the wine.

“…Napoleon? Are you alright?”

Napoleon gave him a look and gestured furiously to the air
duct.

“What were the odds, huh!?”

Well, we are in Napa Valley…” Illya said. “And look on the bright side—there are far
less tasty things you could have fallen into.”

Napoleon gave him another look.

“This suit is a lost cause; I don’t know if even Del Floria
can revive a suit soaked in red wine!”

“So, file for a reimbursement; you’re no stranger to that,”
Illya smirked. “And besides, this will
do wonders for your skin. You’ve heard
of champagne baths? You’ve got yourself
a wine bath!”

“Oh, really? Good,
then I’ll pull you in with me!”

Illya deftly stepped back, chuckling.

“Well, your unexpected wine bath has given some credence to
your theory,” he added, pointing to the racks of bottles. “One of these bottles of wine could be
poisoned—the poisoner obviously knows which ones are safe and which ones aren’t,
and they can administer the poisoned wine at their leisure. This may not be the case, but, at least, it’s
an angle for us to investigate.”

“Right,” Napoleon said.
He waved his arms. “Now get me
out of here!”

Illya did so, and the two partners continued their
investigation—after Napoleon took a shower, of course.

Yet another MFU blurb

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

Summary:
In which Napoleon and Illya’s rental car breaks down in the desert, but Napoleon’s hidden depths save the day yet again.

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 99% similar.

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

Illya knew that U.N.C.L.E.’s further budget cuts meant that
their rental cars and other equipment would have to be obtained from cheaper
sources—but there was a limit to these things, and Napoleon had certainly had
reservations about renting their car from the company that Waverly had
instructed them to contact.

Well, reservations was putting it mildly; Napoleon’s exact
words, in an undertone, had been “I’ll bet this place has more lemons than a
citrus grove.”

And, sure enough, as they drove through the Mojave Desert,
the car that they had eventually chosen (the least disastrous-looking one of
the lot, which wasn’t saying much) broke down, surrounded by nothing but desert
plants and red and brown sand as far as the eye could see.

“Well, now what?” Illya asked. “Should we follow the road and try to find a petrol
station or someplace with a phone?”

“They are even fewer and more far between than you’d expect
out here, Tovarisch; there probably
isn’t one for miles,” Napoleon said, as he walked to the front of the car and
propped the hood up.

“Then we shall call headquarters—ask them to get us a
replacement vehicle or some other means of transport?” Illya asked.

Napoleon tilted his head slightly as he looked at the engine.

“Actually, I don’t think we need to; this isn’t as bad as I
thought. I can fix this.”

“Oh,” Illya began, and then he paused. “…What!?”

He stared in befuddlement as Napoleon removed his
suitjacket, tie, and shirt, placing them inside the car so as not to get them
dirty, and then moved to begin working on an engine with a wrench he had found
in the toolbox in the trunk.

“…Exactly what do you know about fixing a car engine!?”
Illya queried.

“It’s just stuff I picked up,” Napoleon said. “I was able to hot-wire the family car when I
was fifteen.”

Illya stared at the immaculate shirt, jacket, and tie that
was folded on the seat inside before watching Napoleon work on the car in utter
fascination. How had it come to be that
Napoleon Solo, gourmet-loving jetsetter who loved all of the finer things in
life, could cast that aside in an instant and work on a car engine like he had
been a mechanic all his life?

“I think I got it,” Napoleon said, after a little
while. “Try starting it now!”

Illya did so, and they both exchanged triumphant glances as
the engine roared to life once more.

Napoleon grinned as he poured some water on a handkerchief
and started to wipe the grease stains from himself. Illya once again watched how intriguing it
was to see him slip the shirt, tie, and suitjacket back on and transform once
more into the Napoleon Solo that everyone else in the world saw him as.

It was a flawless transformation—and one that Illya knew he
was very blessed to see, for it was a transformation that precious few ever
would.

Illya just shook his head in amazement as Napoleon returned
to the front passenger seat, savoring this precious bit of knowledge that he
had about his partner as he drove off down the road.

“You must teach me this later,” Illya said.

“Oh, sure,” Napoleon said.
“Just put yourself in my hands.”

Illya’s mind drifted slightly to the thought of Napoleon’s
grease-covered hands.

“With pleasure…”

Napoleon Solo was a very complex person, it turned
out. And Illya knew that, no matter what
anyone said, he was not a shallow playboy that so many people were convinced
that he was.

He was so much more. And Illya was fortunate to have him in his life.

And another MFU blurb

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

Summary:
In which Illya, on his way home, gets stopped by three muggers, but is able to stall until his Knight in Shining Silk Pajamas arrives in time to back him up.

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 usually didn’t mind the late hours that international
assignments came with—as long as Napoleon was with him, that is. When it came to solo missions, however… each
hour was excruciating, especially when dealing with delayed flights and missed
connections that ended up landing him home in New York at 3 in the morning.

He had suspected that Napoleon would be awake, or trying to
stay awake in preparation for his arrival, yet Illya couldn’t bring himself to
have Napoleon drag himself all the way to the airport to pick him up.

He took a cab home and, as per their usual security
precaution, had the cab drop him off down their street, rather than at their
apartment building.

It was a warm night—a busy one, as most Manhattan nights
were. Illya dashed past a woman who was
trying to make eyes at him, and then relaxed once he was out of her line of
sight.

Letting his guard down might have been an unwise thing to
do; as he passed the last alleyway just before his apartment building, a trio
of masked men leaped out of the alley.

“Awright, Blondie,” one of them said, his voice muffled
through the mask as he prodded a billy club at Illya’s chest. “Hand over your wallet and all your cash!”

The streetlamp light reflected off of a knife in the second
man’s hand, and the third was holding a chain.

Illya was mentally calculating his options; his wallet
contained sensitive information, mainly his case aliases and his actual ID,
which he couldn’t allow out of his possession, lest THRUSH somehow get ahold of
them, effectively neutralizing him as a field agent. These street fighters clearly had no guns,
and were just trying to intimidate him.

He could, effectively, “take them,” as the Americans said.

But a glance at the apartment building showed him that there
was a light in the apartment he shared with Napoleon—and the window was open.

Backup was always welcome.

“Forgive me,” he said, loudly, exaggerating his Russian
accent. “I do not follow very well. What is it you ask of me?”

The three thieves glanced at each other, and the first one
pressed his billy club against Illya’s chest again.

“Money! Cash! These things!” he said, holding up a $20 bill
he had undoubtedly seized from someone else.

“Ahh, spacibo!”
Illya said, cheerfully, taking the $20 from him.

The thief stared at his now-empty hand, utterly baffled.

“I can have this, too?” Illya asked, snatching the billy
club as he discerned a silhouette emerging from his apartment window, creeping
down the fire escape. Behind him
followed the silhouette of a cat.

The thieves were oblivious to this, trying to figure out
exactly where they were going wrong with this hold-up.

“Look,” the second creep hissed, now waving his knife in
front of Illya’s face. “We. Want.
Money.”

“Ahh. Here, I give
this back…” Illya said, handing the $20 to him.

“Now give the rest of it!” the third creep said. “Let’s have it!”

“You can have this!” Napoleon’s voice snarled.

The trio turned around; two of them were knocked out simultaneously
as Napoleon punched one and Illya karate chopped the second. The third thief chose to flee, but Napoleon quickly
floored him as he retreated, and their cat, which had followed Napoleon,
proceeded to claw at the fallen assailants.

Illya glanced at his partner, and paused as he saw him
under the streetlight’s glow.

“Ah, so my knight in shining armor is more of an agent in
purple silk?” he mused, glancing pointedly at Napoleon still wearing his
pajamas.

“Well, in the time I would have taken to throw on a robe,
you probably could have beaten them all; I wanted you to admire my grace and
timing.”

Illya chuckled.

“Your grace is something I have always admired,” Illya
said, kissing him under the streetlamp.

“Just my grace?”

“You should know better than to try to fish for compliments
with me, Napoleon; I make efforts not to stoke your ego.”

Napoleon scoffed.

“But help me process these three hooligans, and I will sing
your praises and show my appreciation,” Illya promised, kissing him again.

Napoleon arched his eyebrows.

“I’ll be holding you to that!”

“I’m sure you will.”

Illya couldn’t help but enjoy being able to tease Napoleon
again as their cat now glanced up at them, purring.

It was good to be home.

thesmilingfish:

A small sample of the hundreds of Man from U.N.C.L.E. icons I’ve made over the years. If you’re incredibly bored and want to check them out, you can find them all at my LJ.

Another MFU blurb

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.

MFU blurb

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.