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.

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

Summary: In which Solo Luck strikes again.

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.

Illya looked up in surprise as Napoleon practically
barreled into their hotel room, trying to catch his breath.  They’d been staying in Las Vegas, having just
finished up a mission, and Napoleon had been enjoying their newly-acquired
downtime with a desert walk, aiming to spend the evening at the casinos later.

“What happened to you?” he asked, concerned.

“I was chased because of a rock,” Napoleon said, flatly.

“…A rock?” Illya asked.
“Did you buy a diamond or something?”
He paused.  “…Are you giving me a
ring?”

“Would you like one?”

“Well, I think it would be a waste of money,” Illya
admitted.  “But I would appreciate the
sentiment.”

“And I would gladly buy you a ring,” Napoleon said.  “But in this case, I was being hounded for a
regular rock.  I thought I was being
chased by THRUSH agents who’d recognized me, but no.  I was being chased by rock hunters out in the
desert.”

“…Rock hunters?” Illya repeated.

“I don’t understand it, either,” Napoleon said.  “I picked up a rock because it looked unique,
someone saw me holding it, and then yelled, ‘He’s got one!  He’s got one!’  And the next thing I knew, the chase was on.”

Something clicked in Illya’s mind.

“The rock…  Do you
still have it?”

“Yeah,” Napoleon said, taking it out of his pocket.  It was a glossy rock, but the odd thing about
it was the green coloration to it.  “You
don’t see green rocks every day, so I just picked it up—thought it might make a
nice paperweight.  I still don’t know
what on Earth possessed those rock hunters to start chasing me for it.”

Illya’s eyes widened as he saw the rock.

“Napoleon…” he said.
“It has nothing to do with Earth.”

“What…?”

“You are holding a meteorite.  Those were meteorite hunters chasing after
you, and for very good reason—it is far rarer than any diamond!”

Napoleon blinked.

“So…  What you’re
saying is, I’m the first person in history to visit Las Vegas and strike it
rich in the desert rather than the casino?”

“Will you forget about the money!?” Illya chided.  “Napoleon, do you not understand the wealth
of scientific knowledge you are holding in your hand!?  That rock came from a fragment of leftover
planetary material—perhaps from a moon or an asteroid…  It could tell us so much about wherever it is
from—how its composition differs from Earth rocks!”

Napoleon arched an eyebrow; it was rare that Illya got
passionate about something—science, apparently, did the trick.

“Well…  This has
solved all of my problems.”

“What are you talking about?” Illya asked.

“I’ve been wanting to get you a diamond for a while now,
but I always knew you’d think it to be a waste of money.  But, with this, not only is it more precious,
it’s something that you would genuinely treasure.”

“…What are you saying?” Illya asked, hardly daring to
believe it.

“NASA is going to hate me for giving this to a Russian, but
they’ll have to deal with it,” Napoleon said.
“Illya…  My love for you is as
infinite as the vast expanse of space.
So it seems only appropriate to give you something that fell from that
vast unknown.  I want you to have this
meteorite.”

He handed the meteorite over to Illya, who held it in his
hands with the same reverence that he usually reserved for their cat.

“It is the best engagement present I could have ever
received,” Illya whispered, kissing him.

Napoleon returned the kiss.

“I’m sure you’d like some time to go over that meteorite in
detail,” he said.  “So I’ll let you do
that; I’m going to hit the casinos while my luck is still as high as it is.”

“Da,” Illya
said.  “But, Napoleon?”

“Yeah?”

“Don’t stay out too late; I wish to… properly thank you
tonight.”

Napoleon grinned.

“I’ll bring dinner back with me,” he promised.

He headed to the casino in high spirits.  Right now, he truly did feel like the
luckiest man on Earth, for how often could a man say that the perfect gift just
fell out of the sky?