Work Text:
Birdsong roused him. An enchanting unfamiliar melody. A perfect complement to Illya's voice reading aloud in Russian. It was an idyllic afternoon.
Napoleon opened his eyes slightly to squint up at his partner's face. Illya, reclining against a tree, rapt in his dictation, did not appear to notice. He was in a sublime rhythm. Napoleon was just managing to keep the gist while admiring the precipitous crags and valleys of the Russian tongue. The smell of the remaining ham sandwiches and whiskey they'd carried out here wafted through the polleny smell of the long grass. He basked in the syrupy warmth of the sun on his face, on his eyelids.
Napoleon had never quite taken to Russian as he had French. The Russian language was more obstinate to Napoleon's comprehension. So seductive but so damnedably foreign. Not unlike the Russian-born man on whose deceptively comfortable lap Napoleon had been dozing.
Yet Napoleon, surprisingly, was understanding most of the story Illya was reading. More and more of it as he listened closer. It became, with a bit of concentration, like Illya was reading in English. He squinted open his eyes again to see if the Blond was having him on, but Illya paid no notice, his steely blues riveted to the page, his reading pace growing fevered. Napoleon was following the story now without even trying. Content, he relaxed back into the story and his partner’s lap.
Presently Napoleon noticed something in the grass where his hand had strayed off the gingham blanket. It was smooth like veneer and round. He lifted the object out of the grass. It was an egg of course– It must have been overlooked by the children on their egg hunt. This clearing was a good ways off the path after all. Though… now that he looked closer, it was egg-shaped but not an egg at all. It was a Russian nesting doll! But the shell didn’t bear a babushka with a bright headscarf, rather it was a man; A white man in a black suit with dark hair and a mole on his left jaw.
Illya’s narration was growing more explicit and Napoleon couldn’t remember where he’d ever even learned any of these erotic Russian words. Despite his growing arousal, Napoleon began to feel troubled. He used both hands to pull the doll apart. What was inside? Or who?
And then Napoleon woke up. Home, in his own bed. And the sun really was warm on his face as he had overslept. He sprung up at once to shave and shower for work.
What a bizarre dream, he mused to himself in the mirror. He’d only met Kuryakin a few times around headquarters and didn’t realize he’d even registered the Russian agent’s given name. But the very meeting for which Napoleon was running late was with Kuryakin in Waverly’s office. The two were presumably being assigned together abroad. Winking at his reflection, Napoleon jogged to the door. It wouldn’t do to keep his partner waiting.