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It’s post-mission. Napoleon and Illya are relaxing in their hotel room. Gabby left a half- hour ago with the excuse of “I love you both so very much, but I need to get away from you for a while. Please try not to burn the hotel down while I’m away.” It’s quiet. The doors to the balcony are wide open, letting in a warm breeze. Illya sits on the couch playing a game of chess with himself. Even in relaxation, he still looks stiff and in some sort of an approximation of parade rest. Ever the good soldier awaiting the next mission brief. Napoleon is in the chair across from him nursing a glass of whisky. Now he, in his post-mission haze, has abandoned his outer layers and tie. His hair has even started to come loose from its slicked back part.
Napoleon puts his glass down on the table with a click. He gets up from where he was sprawled on the chair moving over to where he threw his blazer. He rummages in an inner pocket pulling out a gold cigarette case and matching gold lighter. He pulls out a cigarette, moves over to the open doors, and lights it up. Illya, previously deep in concentration trying to beat himself in his one-man chess match, scrunches his nose in reaction to the acrid smell of the cigarette smoke.
“Must you really Cowboy,” he says while pointedly looking at the cigarette like it’s offended him in some way.
Napoleon takes a drag and blows the smoke upwards, “No I mustn’t, but I like to.”
“Disgusting,” Illya mutters as he begins to rant, “there is nothing to like about it. The taste. The smell. That smell, it lingers on everything. And I know it hasn’t been proven, but there is no way that is good for your health.”
“Oh Peril, if we only ever did anything that was good for our health life would be no fun and we would be in another profession. Smoking is just like drinking. We don’t do it because we have to; we do it because we want to.” He takes another drag and blows a perfect smoke ring in Illya’s direction.
Illya waves away the smoke, as if that will really get rid of the smell. He stares daggers at Napoleon, while Napoleon chuckles at his reaction.
“Please, do tell me Cowboy what is so good about smoking.”
“Well, since you asked so nicely Peril, I’ll tell you. This,” Napoleon begins as he gesticulates with the cigarette, “is made with quality Turkish tobacco, very expensive. I picked it up when we were last in Istanbul. Turkish tobacco, because of the way it’s cured is lighter in taste than say American tobacco. If you’ll also notice it has a much nicer smell to it.”
“You’re smoking a fancy smelly cigarette, so what?”
Napoleon rolls his eyes. “It’s not that fancy. More care and attention goes into how it’s made and it shows in its taste. Unlike that God awful massed produced, mass marketed Marlboro bullshit in the States.”
Illya smirks at that, “so you say comrade.” He returns his attention back to his chess board and dropping the conversation.
Napoleon rolls his eyes even harder at Illya as he turns back to the open doors to finish the cigarette. Suddenly, an idea flashes to mind. A smile spreads across his face. He walks back over to Illya.
“Would you like a taste, Peril?”
Illya lifts an eyebrow. He looks at the cigarette, then looks back at Napoleon.
“After everything I said, what makes you think I would want to try it?” Napoleon says nothing, but Illya continues, “Plus that has been in your mouth. I would rather not have anything of yours in my mouth.”
With an answer like that how can Napoleon resist what he says next.“Are you so sure of that?”
Illya could really kill him sometimes, “Cowboy…” he sighs with all the air in his lungs.
“Well you didn’t say no. You want to try or not?’ Illya continues to glare at him.
“You won’t let this go if I say no, will you?’
“You know me so well, what do you think?”
“Fine!” Illya makes to grab the cigarette when Napoleon moves his hand away.
“I thought you said you didn’t want anything of mine in your mouth?”
“Then go grab me another one!”
“And have you waste it?! No, no, no. How about we try this another way.”
Napoleon moves around the back of the couch and sits on it facing Illya. To Illya’s great annoyance, he’s left very little room between them. Napoleon is practically sitting in his lap. As Napoleon extends his hand towards Illya’s face, Illya grabs it in midair.
“What are you doing?” he says icily.
Napoleon sighs, “Will you just trust me Illya?” Napoleon rarely calls Illya by his actual name that he relents.
“Very well” he grudgingly says.
Napoleon grabs Illya’s chin and tilts his head a little lower to be on level with his.
“Open your mouth a little.” Illya complies. “Yes just like that. And remember to inhale.”
“Why would I need to remember to inhale?’” he asks confused. What is the Cowboy up to?
“You’ll figure it out.”
Napoleon ashes the still (amazingly) burning cigarette and lifts it to his lips, taking a long drag. He positions his face very close to Illya’s. Their mouths almost touching as he exhales slowly. Blowing the smoke straight into Illya’s mouth.
“Ah,” Illya thinks, “this is what he meant.” He inhales Napoleon’s lungful of smoke. It tastes light and sweet and humid from Napoleon’s breath.
They have never been this close before in the short time they’ve been partners. Illya doesn’t know how to feel about this. On the one hand, he feels exasperated at once again giving into Napoleon’s shenanigans. On the other, he can feel his heart pounding and a churning in his gut. Being this close to Napoleon has set off an unnamable feeling in Illya.
Napoleon finishes his exhale, but doesn’t pull back or takes his hand off Illya’s face. Illya feels him gently caressing his chin with his thumb. He doesn’t think Napoleon is consciously doing it. With his lips still very much close to Illya’s he asks, “Good?”
Illya shakily exhales the recycled smoke. “Yes,” his answer sounding thick to his own ears.
Napoleon pulls back with a look of amusement in his eyes and a smug smile on his lips. As he pulls his hand off Illya’s face he, playfully bops Illya on the nose.
“You really should listen to me tovarisch. I know what I’m talking about. Sometimes.” He puts out the cigarette in the ashtray on the coffee table. He gets up from the couch, grabs his long forgotten drink , and makes his way back to the balcony beyond. All Illya can do is watch him go and think “shit.”