Chapter Text
“Come on, Solo. You're being ridiculous.”
Napoleon sighed, doing his best to ignore Gaby's stern glare, knowing it wasn't going to disappear anytime soon. His best friend hated when things didn't go her way, and unfortunately for Napoleon, she could be very, very resilient.
“Gaby, for the millionth time. I don't do blind dates,” he said, meeting her eyes, but almost immediately looking away. “I barely do dates at all.”
“And you're just gonna keep sleeping your way through all the singles in New York City?” she asked, and she was definitely very frustrated. That didn't bode well for Napoleon.
Still, because he had no instinct of self-preservation whatsoever, he shrugged and downed the last of his whiskey, smiling over at the bartender and giving her a wink, which she returned. Gaby kicked him under the table, hard.
“Ouch!”
“Napoleon Solo,” she hissed, and that was when Napoleon knew he was really in trouble. Gaby using his first name could only mean one thing: disaster. “I'm asking this one, and only one more time. And you're going to say yes, or so help me-”
“Gaby-”
“Shut up,” Gaby said, her gaze murderous as she looked at Napoleon. “My old friend Illya just moved to New York. He's nice, he's hot, and he's single. And you're going to take him on a date. And you're going to have fun, and be a perfect gentleman for him, understood?”
Napoleon frowned and pouted in a way that was definitely not sexy. He hoped the bartender wasn't looking at him right now. He glanced at her, and thankfully, she was busy dealing with a few customers at the counter.
“If this Illya is so hot, and nice and everything, why don't you take him out on a date?”
Gaby didn't even bat an eye.
“Been there, done that,” she said, and Napoleon's eyes widened.
“You're setting me up with your ex-boyfriend? You have to be joking.”
“I'm not joking,” Gaby said, rolling her eyes. “Illya and I went on a couple of dates ages ago, it wasn't a serious relationship or anything. We only ever had sex once.”
“Only once? Ah, that certainly changes everything,” Napoleon said sarcastically. “I don't understand why I need to take your scraps.”
“Illya is not my scraps,” Gaby said, scowling at Napoleon. “I don't understand what's the problem. I'm not asking you to marry him, for crying out loud. It's one date. No one will force you to go out with him again if you don't like him.”
“Somehow, I don't trust you not to try and pressure me into agreeing to a second date, or a wedding,” Napoleon said – and honestly, even Gaby had to admit he had a point. He had said no to this date at least five hundred times, in every language he knew – and he knew many – and still, here Gaby was, refusing to take no for an answer.
“Funny,” Gaby said dryly. “I won't try to pressure you into anything. In fact, I think I won't need to. Because Illya is exactly your type, and you're exactly his type, and when you two get married, I'll give a speech at the reception, and the only words that will leave my mouth will be: I told you so.”
“Now, that sounds like someone who's not about to pressure me,” Napoleon said, raising his eyebrow.
He sighed, looking down at his now empty glass. He had a feeling there was no way he could get out of this one, because Gaby was definitely dead-set on setting him up with this Illya. And if she was really going to stop herself from pressuring him into going on a second date... well.
He had no trouble finding people to pick up himself. No trouble going on a date with someone, if he felt so inclined. He had always been quite lucky both with the ladies and the gentlemen, and it was rare for him to go back home alone after a night out. He didn't need Gaby to find people for him.
But if this Illya was as attractive as she had promised he'd be... who knew? Maybe he'd be up for some fun. Maybe he was being forced into this date thing as much as Napoleon was, and they were going to laugh about it over a glass of red wine and a truffle risotto. Maybe one thing would lead to another and...
Just because Gaby had decided they would be perfect together and was already organizing their wedding didn't mean Illya wouldn't prefer a no strings attached thing like Napoleon. And Napoleon knew that saying yes to Gaby would get her off his case.
He glanced at the bartender, and saw that she was looking at him again. He wondered if Gaby would be terribly upset, if he decided to go chat her up immediately after agreeing to a date with this Illya guy. She probably would. Killjoy.
“Alright,” he said, sighing once again as he tore his eyes away from the pretty bartender. “One date.”
The triumphant look in Gaby's eyes made Napoleon wish he still had some whiskey in his glass.
The night of his blind date with Illya, Napoleon put on his best dress pants with a matching waistcoat, and of course his favorite blue shirt, because that one brought out his eyes in a really nice way – no tie tonight, he thought that might be too much. He didn't want Illya to think he was trying too hard.
Napoleon might've been forced into this thing, but still, that didn't mean he wasn't going to put some effort. Napoleon was the kind of guy who committed, when he had to do something, forced or not – and besides, Gaby was going to murder him if he didn't at least put some effort into this. Not to mention, every occasion was a good occasion to dress up nicely, as far as Napoleon was concerned, and who knew? Maybe this would actually be a fun night out. Maybe he and Illya were going to get along – and hopefully end the night in Napoleon's bed.
Napoleon checked himself in the mirror one last time and nodded approvingly, giving his reflection a grin before he made his way out of his apartment. Matching clothes and a winning smile. Nothing better to charm a (supposedly) handsome Russian.
Napoleon flagged down a cab, got in, and it was only a matter of minutes before he was finally in front of the restaurant where Gaby had made reservations for him and Illya – and yes, apparently her meddling wasn't limited to forcing her friends to agree to dates. She had to organize the whole thing, too.
Gaby was already there by the front door, talking to a man Napoleon presumed must be her friend.
He looked at Illya, and immediately registered three things.
First, Illya was tall. Napoleon wasn't a short man, at 6'1'', he had always considered himself to be rather tall. Yet, Illya had to have at least two or three inches on him – he was a freaking giant.
Second, Illya also happened to be just as hot as Gaby had promised he'd be, and some. Blond, with blue eyes to die for, and what was sure to be the body of a Greek statue under those clothes. Napoleon had to admit he hoped he would get to see just how defined his muscles were, in a few hours.
And third, Illya was incredibly stern – and Napoleon didn't know if Gaby was talking about something or someone he didn't like much, or if that was his normal face, but he was sure most people would find him intimidating. Luckily, Napoleon wasn't most people, and he wasn't easily intimidated.
Gaby might have actually been right this time, because yes, Illya looked like he was just Napoleon's type.
It was a pity that – and that was the fourth thing Napoleon noticed – Illya didn't seem to have any sense of style at all. His navy turtleneck made his eyes pop at least, but... it was a turtleneck! And his pants and belt didn't even match, and that jacket...
Oh, well. Napoleon supposed no one could be perfect.
Realizing he had been staring at Illya – who was still chatting with Gaby and didn't seem to be aware of anyone watching him – for at least a good minute, now, Napoleon put a smile on his face and made his way to where Illya and Gaby were.
“Gaby,” he called, trying to catch her attention.
Gaby turned, and smiled when she saw him.
“Solo!” she greeted him cheerfully. “We were wondering where you were – come here. So. Solo, this is my friend Illya Kuryakin. Illya, Napoleon Solo.”
“Pleasure,” Napoleon said, holding out his hand to Illya as he flashed a charming smile his way.
Illya, however, didn't seem to be in a smiling mood, and simply gave Napoleon a nod, shaking his hand briefly.
Okay then.
“Well, I'll leave you guys to it,” Gaby said, seemingly unconcerned by Illya's coldness towards Napoleon. “Have fun!”
“Bye Gaby.”
“Goodbye,” said Illya, and for the first time, Napoleon heard his voice. It was deep, and accented – and honestly? All manners of hot. Hopefully Napoleon would get Illya to warm up to him a little, because he was honestly hoping he might have a chance to hear that deep voice screaming his name in bed. Perhaps Illya was just shy.
“Shall we go then?” Napoleon said, flashing another smile to Illya and nodding towards the restaurant. His smile was not returned, but Illya nodded at the suggestion, and soon they were seated at a table, menus open in front of them.
For a while, they were silent, just looking through their menus instead of each other, until Napoleon decided to give it another try.
“They make a wonderful truffle risotto here,” he said conversationally. “You should try it. I was thinking we could share a bottle of red wine?”
Illya glanced up at Napoleon, and Napoleon's smile widened a little when their eyes met. That is, until Illya opened his mouth.
“I don't like truffles, or risotto,” he said, and Napoleon's smile instantly faded. “Or red wine,” Illya added, and Napoleon grimaced.
“Oh,” he said, trying to mask his disappointment. “Then maybe I could suggest...”
“I will get steak,” Illya said, looking back at his menu. “And water.”
“Sparkling?”
“Still.”
Of course they weren't even going to agree on that.
A small huff of laughter escaped Napoleon's lips, and Illya looked up. He raised an eyebrow at Napoleon, clearly confused, and Napoleon grinned.
“It's just a little crazy,” he said, shaking his head. “Gaby claims we're perfect for each other, and exactly each other's type, and look at us. We don't even agree on water. I suppose she thinks opposites attract?”
Napoleon let out another small laugh, but Illya remained serious – at this point, Napoleon wasn't even sure if Illya knew how to laugh at all.
“Is not that funny,” he said, and Napoleon rolled his eyes.
“Alright, I'm sorry, Red Peril,” he huffed.
Illya frowned, suddenly confused again.
“You are strange man, Napoleon.”
It was Napoleon's turn to frown.
“Only my mother calls me Napoleon,” he said. “Stick to Solo. Or whatever else you want.”
Illya seemed to consider Napoleon's words, before he eventually nodded solemnly.
“Okay, Cowboy.”
Napoleon's eyes widened in surprise. A nickname? Well, that was unexpected. Could it maybe be considered... a good sign? A sign that Illya was warming up to him?
...maybe.
Before Napoleon could test the waters, however, Illya flagged down a waitress, and placed their orders, and then the moment was lost, and silence fell once again.
Napoleon thought it would probably be better to be quiet, this time. Wait for Illya to make a move. But when the waitress brought their drinks and left, and Illya still didn't break the silence, the whole thing started to become frankly awkward, and Napoleon decided he should take matters into his own hands again.
“So,” he started, and Illya's eyes flashed to his own, unreadable, yet intense. “Gaby told me next to nothing about you, and I suppose she's told you next to nothing about me, too?”
Illya seemed to consider Napoleon's words for a moment, and eventually gave him a small nod.
“Gaby says you are art curator and you like art and fashion.”
“And good food! I'm actually a decent cook,” Napoleon said with a smile, glad to see that they were finally starting a proper conversation. “But yes, that's right. What about you? What do you do?”
“I am personal stylist.”
Napoleon, who had been sipping on his glass of red wine, almost chocked on it in surprise.
“You... you're a personal stylist?” he asked, coughing a little. Illya raised an eyebrow.
“Is what I said, yes.”
“So you like fashion?” Napoleon asked, bewildered, and before he could stop himself, he blurted out, “How do you explain your clothes?”
Illya frowned deeper than he had before. Which was saying something.
“My clothes?” he repeated, looking down at himself. “My clothes are good, yes?”
Napoleon hesitated. He might not be easily intimidated, but Illya was not particularly friendly, and looked very strong, and he didn't want to risk being punched for saying what he really thought about those clothes. But by God, he had to say something.
“I mean... Dior pants with a Rabanne belt... it doesn't match!” he eventually told Illya, deciding to keep all thoughts about the jacket and turtleneck for himself.
This turned out to be a good idea, because even at that small, fairly harmless comment, Illya's gaze turned downright murderous.
“It. doesn't. have. to. match,” he growled, looking horrified at Napoleon's suggestion.
Thankfully, the discussion promptly ended when Illya's steak and Napoleon's risotto arrived. The two exchanged a look, and almost immediately dove into their food – Napoleon supposed it was a good excuse as any to avoid further discussions. He certainly wasn't going to try to break the silence again, and he doubted Illya would. Illya had been cold and distant from the first moment, and hadn't even actually tried to make this work. Sure, maybe Napoleon should've known better than to criticize another man's fashion choices – though really, Dior and Rabanne...! – but at least he had made some effort, and the same couldn't be said for Illya. Napoleon was upset and annoyed that his night out would not end in his bed, having hot Russian sex, and thought begrudgingly that if Illya was so dead-set on making this date horrible from the beginning, maybe he should've just flat out refused to go out with him in the first place. Alright, maybe Gaby had forced him, but that was not Napoleon's fault! It was unfair of Illya to take it out on him.
Neither of them had said another word to each other by the time they were done eating, and Napoleon excused himself to go to the toilet. To think he'd had such high hopes for tonight...
He sighed and splashed some water on his face, thankful to be away from Illya, at least for the time being. He wasn't going to get a dessert, and hoped Illya wouldn't either. So they could just pay and go their separate ways, and perhaps Napoleon would have time to pick up someone else, so tonight wouldn't be completely wasted, and Napoleon would still get some hot sex. Not Russian, though, regrettably.
Napoleon made his way back to the table, but stopped in his tracks when he saw that Illya was on the phone with someone. He was just about to go back to the toilet for another minute, just to give Illya some privacy, or maybe make his presence known – but when he realized Illya was talking about him, he gave in, and just resolved to eavesdrop.
“...on date. ...no, is blind date. Friend of a friend. ...no, it is very bad date. ...because he is cocky, he criticised my fashion style while wearing a waistcoat, and I think he was even looking at waitress before. ...it is no disturb. I'll see you soon.”
Napoleon frowned deeply, and thought that, well, that was a little unfair. Illya had been distant and cold to the point of rudeness, and Napoleon had at least tried. And yes, their waitress was very pretty, so what? Napoleon hadn't even flirted with her or anything. And even if he had, what did Illya care, since he clearly disliked Napoleon, and could not be less interested if he tried?
And what was wrong with his waistcoat anyway?!
Scowling, Napoleon walked back to the table and sat down, not even trying to hide his discontent. Illya didn't even seem to notice.
“We should probably ask for the check,” Napoleon said dryly.
“I already paid,” Illya replied, standing as he looked at Napoleon. “I have to go. Client called. She has unexpected brunch in the morning and needs advice.”
Napoleon just shrugged, not acknowledging the fact that Illya had paid the bill – he was not about to thank him, much less offer to pay for half of it. Not after he had been treated so unfairly.
“Sure. I suppose I'll see you around,” he said, staring at Illya. “Then again, it'd probably be cocky of me to presume you'll want to see me again after tonight, right Peril?”
Illya met Napoleon's eyes for a long moment, and Napoleon was satisfied to see a hint of embarrassment in his gaze when he realized Napoleon must've heard him talking on the phone. Illya didn't, however, address the comment, and simply put his chair back under the table, giving Napoleon a curt nod.
“See you, Cowboy.”
Napoleon followed him with his gaze as he made his way to the door, watched him open it, and only finally looked away when he closed it behind himself and disappeared from view.
Napoleon sagged in his chair, thinking that, this time, Gaby had been very, very wrong to think he and Illya could even remotely like each other. He frowned deeply, and even ended up ignoring the waitress when she came over to talk to him. She seemed to have sensed that Napoleon's date had been an utter failure, and Napoleon knew that she was trying to test the waters with him, but he was too wrapped up in his own thoughts to respond to her flirting – which he would probably severely regret when he'd end up in bed alone tonight.
Screw Illya Kuryakin.