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“She does not think of me that way.”
“Oh, I disagree,” says Solo with a churlish grin from where he is seated on the ceiling. His curls are hanging loose around his face as he picks at the plaster with a clawed finger. “She would give you a kiss, if you asked her...”
Illya sends him a look of bleak disinterest. “I wish you would not speak of her. Not with your black tongue.”
The fae grins in all his sickening glory, mouth a cheshire cat’s curve on a face far too small for it. His teeth are gleaming like icicles, wings shattered panes of glass jutting from his crooked spine.
He pokes out his tongue, just to dispel the idea that it is black. It is, in fact, just as pink as Illya’s.
Illya misses the point in their non-relationship where they had not been on speaking terms.
When Waverly had contacted Illya and Gaby, he had made it abundantly clear that the mission he had in store for them was not going to be achievable without some form of divine intervention.
Illya had suggested a mage.
Gaby had scoffed in a way that sent a faint red flush creeping up the back of Illya’s neck, and said that what they really needed was for the whole septic community of THRUSH to suffer epilepsy and drop dead of their own accord.
And Illya agreed with her.
It was just that it might be good to stick to miracles that were actually liable to come true.
Gaby had said that it would have been the least THRUSH could do to make up for ruining so many lives.
Again: unarguable logic.
Waverly had allowed this for about twenty minutes and had then broke in to say that, while it was a lovely thought and he would most certainly not be opposed to it if THRUSH did one day take that direction, they needed a more attainable solution. And no, it was not a mage.
Which was when the director of the CIA had walked in with his pet monster.
Which was perhaps a little harsh to say, for Napoleon Solo had looked human enough. Save for the slender points of his ears and the way that his fingers had seemed just slightly too long...
... or how his smile looked like it could give you a paper cut if you stood too close.
Little details... all warning of how inhuman this man was. And Illya knew that this was not the man’s true form. Just a front to look more likeable.
Kak budto eto kogo-to obmanet...
Gaby swallowed and leant her head close enough that her breath heat Illya’s ear. Her voice quavered a little when she whispered, “Dämon?”
“Nyet,” hissed Illya back. “Skazochnyy.”
And Napoleon Solo had looked right at them, cocked his head, smiled and said, “I’m actually a Fae. Not a fairy.”
As though that was any better.
“You have courted her, right?”
Illya squints up at Solo, unsure of that word. The confusion must show on his face because the fae says, “Ukhazhival. Ty ukhazhival za ney?”
And Illya cannot keep in his bark of disbelieving laughter. It is harsh, loud, grating and it scratches his throat on the way out. “No one ‘Courts’ anymore, malen'kaya feya,” he says at last. It must still be fae tradition to court... It is almost a laughable thought. Derision is thick in his voice. Or perhaps it is scorn.
There is usually scorn in his voice when he is speaking to Solo. His dislike of the fae apparent. Why should he hide it? This partnership is temporary after all.
Solo’s face ripples with an emotion Illya cannot place- it looks almost like annoyance. But then he is grinning like a fiend once more.
“Pochemu ty dolzhen menya bespokoit'?” the Russian grits out. “Neuzheli nel'zya nayti zanyatiye poluchshe?”
“Because nothing interesting is going to happen before tonight, and no one has ever held a conversation with me before.” There is a barbed edge to Solo’s tease. The shine of truth perhaps- but that is ridiculous. The fae must have held conversations with others before this.
Except... fae cannot lie.
Solo’s on his haunches now, wings rattling like hail on window panes. They really do look like glass... all sharp edges and mirrored shapes. It is making Illya’s head ache- having to look at him while the creature is upside down.
“Never?” Illya asks, unsure of why he is bothering. He does not care.
Not really.
Solo blinks out of sight for a brief moment before he is back- now standing before Illya. He’s shorter than the Russian, something that eases the discomfort in Illya’s gut at how close he is.
“Never,” he confirms. Then wrinkles his aquiline nose and adds, “Well... not since the CIA gig, anyhow. Most people hate me.”
Illya can see why. He is brash and obnoxious. Callous and perhaps slightly cruel-
But... he can also be amusing. Even kind.
Maybe Illya should stop treating him like a monster and more like a teammate...
He lets out a long breath, fisting his hand in a spasm of indecision before holding it out without a word.
Solo fidgets, eyes narrowed, as though he is waiting for Illya to stab him with iron or blow salt into his eyes.
Instead, Illya grunts, “I... apologise for my assumptions. Perhaps we could start over?”
Then Solo’s careful look of suspicion blazes into a wide smile and bozhe- his eyes shine such a brilliant blue that Illya almost swallow his tongue. How has he not noticed the beauty of the fae before?
He knows how.
All he had seen before had been the deadly wings and the imperfections of the American’s true form. The slight crooked line of Solo’s spine, the smile, the claws.
Those claws collapse into pale fingers now as Solo reverts to his other form. His eyes no less dazzling as he takes Illya’s hand. The black curls twist around his pointed ears as he shakes the Russian’s hand.
“Illya Kuryakin,” says Illya. “Welcome to UNCLE.”
A grin, perhaps slightly flirtatious. “Napoleon Solo.” He tips his head, the grin bleeding into a smirk. “And if you haven’t confessed and kissed dear Miss Teller within the next twelve hours, I’m telling her about your pining myself.”
“Ty nemnogo der'mo,” growls Illya, pulling back his hand. He scowls when the fae laughs.
“Oh, don’t be like that, Red Peril.”
“Is Blackmail,” grits Illya, wondering if it is too soon to regret being friendly. “I will tell Waverly.”
“No you won’t,” says Solo with an infuriating air of self-confidence.
Illya seethes because the American is right.
The mission goes off without a single complication. Solo is quick on his feet, saves both Gaby and Illya’s lives in respective order, and then forgets to rub the fact in when Waverly debriefs them.
Somewhere, somehow, behind Illya’s back the fae has managed to integrate himself with Gaby and they act like old friends that night, both looking excited over the prospects of this new team.
It seems Sanders had had enough of his mutinous American fairy and had given custody over to Waverly for the promise of a favour to be repaid sometime in the future.
Illya’s not sure how he feels about this.
He is not sure when Solo reveals he can cook very well.
Nor when the food turns out so be some of the best Illya has ever eaten in his life.
And especially after Solo winks at him and holds up two fingers.
Two hours to go before blackmail is employed.
Illya gives him a finger back. A ruder one.
He does tell Gaby.
She takes his face into her hands and kisses him, and it is all Illya has been dreaming about and more. Her smile fierce and bright, her lips quick and warm.
He pretends he cannot hear Solo’s laughter through the wall.
Bastard.