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Napoleon could tell that Illya was distinctly uncomfortable, and it was far too amusing for him to stop the wide grin from making his cheeks ache. Better yet, it was on Waverley’s orders, who had highlighted the imperativeness that, with their new mission in Monte Carlo in two days time, Illya should look the part. That is to say, Napoleon had been tasked with making sure the threadbare and ill-fitting Russian - except for those exceptionally form-fitting turtlenecks - looked expensive.
Gaby had tagged along just to add input, claiming it was about time she got him back for dressing her in Rome.
“I do not see why I need new suit,” the Russian grumbled, flushing at the appreciative look the store clerk was giving him. Gaby pinched his backside, and he shot upwards and turned to glare at her, the flush reddening further, covering his arse-cheeks with his hands and turning so his back was to the wall.
Gaby chuckled. Napoleon rolled his eyes.
“Because,” Napoleon began, leaning back in one of the armchairs provided, “Everything about your suit practically screams off-the-rack, and no one in Monte Carlo even knows what that means.”
Gaby and Illya both stared at him with the same glazed expression; he knew this one. Sometimes he said things that his two lovely, and wonderfully ignorant, iron-curtain compatriots didn’t understand. Slowly introducing them to a world of small and simple pleasures was truly a delight. Today, Illya’s lesson was in the finer points, and sheer beauty, of a well-tailored suit. It was, as always, a tough lesson to teach the Red Peril, what with his resolute stubbornness to ignore anything beautiful, even if it bit him on the nose.
Personally, Napoleon found nothing wrong with Illya’s suit. In fact, it was simple, and simplicity served Illya in such an understated way that, Napoleon Solo, purveyor of all things beautiful, had coveted the Russian with such want, it had, on occasion, left him utterly breathless. And the man was completely clueless as to how extremely statuesque he was.
Illya looked at a price tag, “This is too much.”
“This,” Napoleon stood and removed the garment from Illya’s hands, “is courtesy of U.N.C.L.E. A good suit can often make a man Peril. It’s about time you owned one.”
Gaby snorted.
“I will never need again,” he bit back.
Napoleon laughed, “One is always in need of a good suit Peril. Besides, it’s good enough quality that you’ll be able to wear it to your funeral.”
“What is wrong with my suit?” Illya asked, not for the first time.
Napoleon’s answering sigh was fraught with thinly veiled impatience, “Because it doesn’t fit you properly. It is made of cheap material, and to people as rich as these, you’re going to stick out like a sore thumb. They're going to know you don't belong there, and that kind of defeats the purpose of us going in the first place.”
Illya grumbled something unintelligible just as the tailor came over.
“How can I help you today?” She asked.
Before Illya could open his mouth to dismiss the woman, Napoleon stood and held out his hand, silencing his companion, once again, by speaking for him. He knew how much it would cost him later, probably a small fist fight, but it was worth it just to see the indignation and quiet fury. Their stoic Russian was quite cute when he was flustered.
“We’re hoping to get my friend here his first, well-tailored suit,” he gestured to the 6’4” KGB giant, “And we have an exorbitant amount of money in which to do it with.”
The woman’s answering beam was blinding, and Napoleon was assured that he had come to the best place and his friend was in the best hands for the job. She ushered Illya into the changing room, closing the curtain behind them, and Napoleon and Gaby exchanged a look as the tailor informed Illya he should remove his clothes.
“You want me to take off all my clothes?” Illya practically growled. Gaby shoved her fist in her mouth to stifle her laughter. Her shoulders shook, and Napoleon was trying not to let the corners of his mouth turn up in response.
“Well, yes sir-”
“Why do I need to take clothes off? This is your job, yes? To make suits for people. So, make suit,” he finished with careful logic that Napoleon was more than willing to cut down.
He stood, “Actually Peril,” he pushed back the curtain, “She needs to be able to take your measurements.”
Illya shrugged, but Napoleon could see the slight tremor in his hands, the gleam in his eye, the uncomfortable blush sitting high on his cheeks. He really was darling.
“So take them over clothes.”
Napoleon reached forward and whipped the Russian’s cap off his head, holding it up, and then behind his back as he stepped away, "What is your issue with taking your clothes off, hm?"
"I have no issue," but his voice betrayed him by cracking half way. His red face turned slightly purple, and Napoleon practically crowed with laughter.
"Well," he wheezed, "It sure doesn't look like it."
Illya frowned, "If it is so easy, why don't you do it then?"
Napoleon lifted an eyebrow and caught the tailor's eye. Her impatience was tinged with amusement.
"Fine," he stepped in and closed the curtain behind him, standing close enough to Illya in the cramped space that their chests were almost touching. Napoleon could see every eyelash framing Illya's blue-grey eyes. Every tight line around his mouth. He wanted to kiss them away. Instead, he settled for removing his jacket and loosening his tie.
Illya's eyes went wide. He reached out instinctively and grabbed Napoleon's wrists, effectively stilling him, "Is not necessary," his whisper lacked the bite Napoleon was sure he was aiming for.
“You have to take your clothes off because the measurements will be more accurate.”
Illya’s answering response was to growl. Napoleon felt the Russian's tightening grip on his wrists.
Gaby felt the need to interfere from the other side of the heavy red fabric, “Since when have you not concerned yourself with accuracy?” sarcasm dripped from her voice like viscous honey. Napoleon could hear her amusement and felt his lips twitch up in response. He removed his wrists from Illya's hold, pushed the curtain back, and stepped away, picking his jacket up as he went.
“What dear Miss Teller means to say, I am sure, is that I do not think our dear Waverley would be very appreciative of how uncooperative you are.”
If looks could kill, Napoleon was sure he would have been murdered in the most brutal way possible. As such, he wasn’t. So he flashed Illya a dazzling smile and closed the curtains, “Clothes off Peril, we don’t have all day.”
He couldn’t help but notice those words would sound far better under very different circumstances, but still with a certain equally as flustered Russian KGB operative.
Gaby and Napoleon could practically hear how uncomfortable Illya was as he removed his clothes and was manhandled into a position the woman could take his measurements. Gaby quickly became bored with waiting for Illya to emerge and immersed herself in the newspaper that was sitting on the coffee table in front of Napoleon, who only heard Illya grumble twice, and the tailor swear 4 times. Far less than he had expected. All tables remained intact so far.
Forty minutes, two newspapers, three cups of coffee, and one exceptionally inappropriate daydream later, the curtain was pulled back to reveal and very well cut suit, with an equally well build Russian occupying it.
Napoleon inhaled sharply at the sight, all of the sudden completely unable to breath, or move, at the exceptional grace, poise, and beauty of the Russian. The suit cut perfectly at his shoulders, sharp and detailed, and the pants were cut and tapered impeccably enough to make his exceptionally long legs look, somehow, longer. The suit cut in at the waist, drawing the eye up to his chest, shoulders and face. He was broad where it mattered, Napoleon decided, and impossibly slender and well defined everywhere else. The charcoal grey made him look distinguished and sophisticated, and spine-tingling. Pure, unadulterated, overwhelming want pooled low in Napoleon’s belly.
“Turn for us,” Gaby demanded from the chair next to his.
Illya, somehow, flushed harder and turned slowly so his team could see the back of his suit.
Napoleon was sure his gulp was audible. Illya’s back stretched out before them like long, broad canvas, and the American could only think of the defined muscles underneath all the layers the Russian was currently sporting. His shoulders pulled the suit just shy of taunt across the back, and Napoleon wanted deep in his chest. The pants were tailored so well that ignoring Illya’s sharp hips and his impossible arse in them to get any work done, was sure to be a hopeless task. It was as if carved in marble; tight and firm, and so perfectly round, reminding Solo only briefly of Bacchus. Oh, but Bacchus was not nearly as well built.
“That really is a wonderful suit Illya,” Gaby smiled, “How do you feel?”
He turned back around, flush finally fading from the apples in his cheeks. He pulled at the collar of the button up, “It is nice suit,” he responded, “I do like it.”
Napoleon wanted to celebrate the admonition, but he was still too busy relishing Illya, in that suit, filling his head with all kinds of things that were significantly inappropriate for polite company.
“What do you think Cowboy?” Illya asked, holding his arms out as if to take a bow, “Would I pass in Monte Carlo?”
Napoleon opened his mouth, and no sounds came out other than a choked noise. It was his turn to blush. He could feel it rising in his neck, and into his cheeks and forehead. Napoleon Solo never blushed. He especially never blushed in the face of highly attractive and significantly unattainable men who were harbouring boyhood like crushes on their female coworker.
But still, he could look.
“Do not tell me I have rendered you speechless Cowboy?” Illya’s amusement was evident, “It is only suit.”
Napoleon couldn’t find the words to explain that it wasn’t really the suit, though that was helping.
He cleared his throat, “Not at all Peril, but as I said, the suit makes the man,” he floundered for something witty to say, “This is probably the manliest I’ve seen you.”
Not his best line.
“Then what is your excuse Cowboy,” the Russian quipped, “Need suit to be a man?”
Napoleon smirked and winked, “I hardly need clothes to do my best work Peril.”
Illya’s face flushed all over again, and Napoleon felt significant gratification for being the cause.
The tailor interrupted, “Alright sir, we need to get you out of those pins so I can finish the sewing,” she turned to Napoleon, “It should be ready tomorrow morning at the latest.”
Napoleon couldn’t help but think how truly unfair life was to withhold something so utterly magnificent from him.
“Very well,” he said, withdrawing the cheque from Waverley from his inside pocket, “Off you go Peril. We’ll be right here.”
Perhaps it was time to use the thievery skills he’d developed in the face of covetousness to his advantage. Illya was stunning, so exquisite it was moving. And Napoleon Solo excelled in thieving beautiful things.