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There's blood on the towels. Which is a shame really because they're good quality towels and Solo hates to see good quality things ruined. In fact, it physically pains him.
But maybe that's just the bullet in his side.
Correction: bullet hole in his side. Well, it really clipped him more than anything, but the wound's bleeding like a son of a bitch on these fine towels and Solo can't stand for that. He's been trying to staunch the bleeding for a minute now, at least, but to no avail. It'll have to be stitched.
Thing is, stitches generally require a hospital and, from said hospital, a doctor. Preferably a surgeon, if he can be picky. Unfortunately, a hospital would require time, an explanation, and money. None of which Solo has in excess at this moment. He doesn't even have a partner to stitch the wound for him.
Within four months of his time working with the CIA, they decided he'd be more efficient if he worked alone. That was just proof to him that all his 'flying solo' puns had worked. (Especially the one after they parachuted into a guarded compound and his parachute nearly failed him. (Which happens to be the very reason why Solo prefers to be the one flying the plane.))
But even if Solo did have a partner with him, he wouldn't have anything to offer to stitch the wound with. That, however, he can fix.
Sacrificing another towel (Solo really doesn't appreciate the way the blood clashes with the pure white cotton), he wads it up and presses it to the wound. There, now neither the wound, the blood from said wound, or the bloody patch on his shirt (which is a shame, because it's a Sulka, but he's sure the CIA will buy him an even more expensive shirt if he whines incessantly enough) are visible, but the towel is. He solves the problem by draping his jacket over his arm, the tear caused by the bullet readily available to be shown to the (hopefully) sympathetic receptionist. He keeps his arm pressed closely to his side. It's not perfect, but it'll do.
With that, Solo leaves his room and manages to make it to the elevator without it looking too much like he's stumbling.
The receptionist is as sympathetic to the plight of his jacket as he'd hoped, and offers to have it sewn up by the hotel staff (free of charge, he might add). But Solo explains that, although he doesn't doubt the quality of the hotel's stitching for a second, he does have a rather pressing engagement and if she could possibly lend him a sewing kit, or even just a needle and thread, he'll tend to it himself. As he'd predicted, she has a sewing kit behind the desk (Solo once went undercover as a bell boy (which was nothing short of embarrassing, frankly), and during that time he discovered that behind the desk of reception is a magical place of unending supplies for one's every want). She hands over the sewing kit with a smile and a 'you're welcome, sir' when he thanks her profusely. He tries to make his strides back to his room not seem too hurried.
It's when he's back in his room and peeling his shirt away from the wound with a drawn out hiss that he wonders what he's going to do with the towels that he's so carelessly bled all over. Solo pushes that thought to the back of his mind and focuses instead on threading the needle and piercing his skin with it. It's ironic, he thinks with an unusal grim humour, that he's putting more holes in himself to fix a much larger one. The philosophical moment passes the second he starts pulling the thread through though, as suddenly all his concentration goes to keeping each slippery edge of his skin pulled together. Not for the first time, Solo's grateful for his dexterous thief's fingers.
He's not sure how long it takes to sew the wound up completely, and then to bandage it with the remains of his shirt (he's nothing if not an improviser). After that all that remains to do is wash the blood from the needle; ignore the shaking of his fingers; pick a new shirt that matches his suit; double-check the bandage to ensure no blood has leaked through; ignore the shaking of his fingers; put on the new shirt; button up the new shirt; ignore the shaking of his fingers; sew up the tear in his suit jacket (which, by the way, is a much easier task than sewing up the tear in his side); put on said suit jacket; tie his tie; and step out the door. He runs a hand over his hair as he shuts the door behind him, and his fingers aren't shaking anymore.
Thank God for alcohol, is all Solo can really say. (He can't actually say it, because he's undercover and now really isn't the time.) His side's still hurting him like a son of a bitch, but the scotch takes the edge off and enables him to smile rather than grimace at his mark.
His mark is an ex-Nazi that now works with Chinese Communist Party intelligence but is suspected of passing their secrets to the remnants of the Nationalists on Taiwan. Solo honestly doesn't know why the CIA cares; last he checked America was grudgingly withdrawing funding for Chiang Kai-Shek and his Nationalists but still recognised them rather than the Communists, so why should they care that Communist secrets may or may not be being handed over to their (kind of) allies? If he was in a more patient mood and less pain, Solo might be inclined to look into it. But he is not, so instead he sits, he talks, he flirts a little (but apparently this particular ex-Nazi is far too repressed to engage with the flirting, so Solo drops that tactic. Mostly.), and eventually he's informed that, yes, this particular ex-Nazi is handing over Communist secrets to the Nationalists. Right. Job done, then.
Solo's side twinges as he stands, but he rather artfully transforms his small gasp into a laugh at a remark his mark makes and no one is any the wiser. All in all, the mission's a success. Solo even goes out of his way to steal the towels from the room next door to his to replace his bloody ones (which he threw in a trashcan a few streets away with a shake of his head). He's pulled aside by Sanders to be debriefed before he can get to a hospital and get some drugs though.
("And just how were you shot, Solo?"
"I believe it was by a gun."
"I was referring to the circumstances."
"I know. I believe this ex-Nazi of yours suspected me, and sent some of his friends after me to find out my true intentions. When they reported that they did indeed hit an American spy, he knew it could not have been me when he met with me because, due to my excellent acting skills, I showed no signs of being wounded."
"Finished?"
"Absolutely. Now, if you don't have any objections, I have a hospital with my name on it.")
So yes, all in all, another success by Napoleon Solo. Emphasis on the Solo.
So isn't it interesting that that mission of, oh, ten- eleven years ago should come to mind now? At that time, Solo had been with the CIA for a year and waiting out the next fourteen years of blackmailed life ahead of him. He'd never have predicted that he'd save the world on multiple occasions, or that he wouldn't even work alone anymore. In fact, he's gone one better than get a partner and is part of a team. Well, doesn't that just make him feel warm and fuzzy inside?
At this moment, he's been a part of U.N.C.L.E for a year, but he's not working right now. Neither is Illya or Gaby. In fact, they've got a weekend off. And where are they spending it? Paris, of course. Where is Solo specifically spending it? The Musée Jacquemart-André. It has two rather lovely little Rembrandts in the Library that Solo's been sitting and contemplating for nearly an hour. Well, he had been, until he'd thought of that old mission.
A flick of his eyes to the doorway reveals the reason for Solo's sudden trip down memory lane. There stands Illya Kuryakin. He's frowning at Solo with all his usual intensity, so Solo smiles right back at him.
"Hey there, Peril," he says, amenably enough. "Didn't know you had the eye for art."
Illya remains standing, silent, staring, and- oh. Since when did Napoleon Solo become such a damn fool? It wasn't the mission in general he was remembering, it was that repressed ex-Nazi. The one that had flirted back with Solo up to a point, until Solo put his hand on his knee in a way that could easily be interpreted as friendly and perhaps a little drunk. But not by this man. No, a second later and he tensed, so Solo had moved his hand to refill both their tumblers and laughed. But in the split-second in between contact and reaction, the ex-Nazi had relaxed. He had wanted that touch, welcomed it.
Still, Illya says nothing, but his eyes aren't quite so shuttered as he watches Solo.
"Have a pew," Solo says invitingly, patting the red satin of the cushioned seat.
And Solo might not be touching anyone now but Illya steps back with the same tense muscles of the ex-Nazi all those years ago.
Good thing I don't take rejection to heart, is all Solo can think as Illya eyes him warily. In need of a new subject, Solo returns his attention to the painting he's already looked at for the better part of an hour.
"What do you think?" He asks, gesturing vaguely toward the picture. "Is the Portrait of Doctor Arnold Tholinx any good?"
It's a stupid, ridiculous, pointless question, but it's all in the name of small talk. Illya's eyes shift momentarily to the portrait, and evidently he finds nothing of interest there as he looks back to Solo.
"Is man," he says with a shrug.
Solo breaks into a laugh. "Yes." He nods. "That about covers it. He's got a better hat than you though, Peril."
"That is your opinion," Illya says slowly, glancing at the picture again. "Your opinion is wrong."
"You don't like the portrait?" Solo sums up, and Illya nods.
Solo stands and walks to the doorway, for a moment Illya tenses like Solo will do something so awful as to ask him to sit down again, but he doesn't. Instead, Solo raises his eyebrows at Illya until he sighs and follows Solo until he is standing in front of the wall.
"What?" Illya asks with a touch of impatience, but his fingers are still and Solo isn't worried.
Instead, he silently nods toward another picture. Not a portrait this time.
"Another Rembrandt," Solo says. "The Supper at Emmaus." He pauses for a second, allows Illya to study the painting with his eyes narrowed. "Rembrandt painted this over and over, there's a version of it in the Louvre, but a lot of people feel very strongly that this is the one he achieved perfection with."
Illya's silent for a beat. "Are you one of those people?" He asks.
Well, Solo's never considered that one before. Not that he gets much time to consider art nowadays, and back when he did, he considered it only in terms of monetary value to others.
"Honestly," he starts, and there's a joke in itself. "I've never seen his other versions," he admits. "But, this was his first attempt. Things are rarely perfect on your first attempt."
That much is true, because for all of Illya's initial ready-to-run tenseness when he first stood at the doorway to the Library, he's now standing right next to Solo. More than that, Solo has been very aware for the last minute and counting that their arms are brushing together. And if Solo's noticed it, Illya's definitely noticed it, and he hasn't pulled away.
"I am surprised you have been here for hours and have not found yourself with sticky fingers," Illya muses.
Solo looks at him with delight. Illya's jokes are few and far between, especially to Solo. It's certainly a moment to be treasured.
"I'm drawn to beautiful things," he admits, eyes resting on Illya's face for a second more before they return to the Rembrandt. "Typical Western weakness and all the rest of it."
Illya's listening to him with surprising attentiveness now, so Solo might as well run with it.
"I only steal to trade. If I want something beautiful for myself, I'll work for it."
Both genders are more likely to be attracted to you if you maintain eye contact; if you have a good, straight posture; if you have a strong gait; and especially if you can carry an open smile at all times. Being tactile and establishing physical contact also rarely fails.
These are the small, nuanced things that Solo has trained himself in. The art of seduction is a trade he's perfected and if someone says otherwise they're lying.
"It's good that you're establishing trust with Illya, even now," Gaby tells him one day.
Solo shoots her a quick frown, eyebrows knitting together. "You think he doesn't trust me?"
"I didn't say that," Gaby replies. "I just think it's good that you remind him you're trustworthy."
Honestly, Solo has no clue what she's on about, he's flattered, but clueless.
"What way in particular?" He asks, slightly reluctantly, as though a little frustrated that she's caught on.
"You always maintain eye contact when you're conversing," she says. "It's a good way to remind him that you're paying full attention." Gaby shrugs, but Solo can tell she has deeper thoughts on this. She has deeper thoughts on everything. "I just think it's a good thing to do."
"I like to think so," Solo agrees, eyes flitting back to his book. To tell the truth, he hadn't really noticed.
"If you sit much straighter you'll put Illya to shame," Gaby laughs.
She, Illya, and Solo are sitting together in a hotel room in Tokyo. Technically, Solo isn't supposed to be there, but he's exhausted his contacts and his lunch date with the heiress isn't until tomorrow.
"Not possible," Illya mutters from his armchair where he stares menacingly at a chessboard.
Gaby sits on the couch next to Solo elegantly, smiling at them both over the rim of her wine glass. She's come to appreciate the finer kinds of alcohol.
"I think so," she counters, eyeing Solo. "His army side is showing."
Solo makes an effort to lean into the couch and drape an arm over the back. "I have no idea what you're talking about," he says with a blithe smile.
Illya finally looks up in order to squint quizzically between Gaby and Solo. "He's right," he says. "His posture is average. Not like the Russian way."
"That a challenge, Peril?" Solo asks before he can resist, because he's a contrary bastard.
But Illya is already focused back on the chess. "You would lose, Cowboy." Is his reply.
Illya has ridiculous, long, loping strides, especially when he's running. It makes him a damned nuisance to keep up with, especially with the inches he's got on Solo. Fortunately, Solo's always been good at picking out shortcuts, no matter how out of his way they might seem. It's the only way, on this occasion, that he arrives back at the rendezvous point at the same time as Illya.
All the same, Illya frowns at him as Solo appears from the opposite direction. "How did you do that?" He asks, and the bastard is barely out of breath.
"I have an excellent gait," Solo tells him in between sucked in breaths. "On occasion I can even keep up with the Red Peril."
Illya regards him for a moment, and then his lips twitch briefly. "Are you sure you don't have a horse hidden somewhere, Cowboy?" He asks.
Solo can only stare at him in wonderment. Until, of course, the moment is ruined by angry Hungarian shouting.
Illya stiffens and looks at Solo without a trace of the humour from a few seconds ago. "Time to use your excellent gait again, Cowboy," he says before he takes off sprinting.
Solo spares a second to give his trousers a saddened look. "Rubinacci deserves better," he sighs, but follows after Illya anyway.
"You have a beautiful smile," the mark tells him, so it's only polite that Solo's smile widens. "It's so… so open," she breathes, forcing Solo to wonder exactly how much champagne she had before he arrived. "Warm… and welcoming…" Her hands find their way to Solo's shoulders, and the perfume on her wrists tickles his nose. Then, suddenly, her expression turns ugly. "What a shame it's a lie," she snaps, and before Solo can react he feels something scratch at his neck.
He stumbles away, one hand reaching for his neck and the other for his gun. There's blood on his fingers from the cut on his neck, but it's not deep so instead he holds his gun with both hands as he aims it at the mark.
She doesn't seem worried as she takes a sip from her glass of champagne, in fact, she seems completely sober now. "I know you're from U.N.C.L.E," she sneers, her lips tightening as though the word leaves a bitter taste in her mouth. "Unfortunately, I don't know much more than that."
Solo feels the gun waver, and he frowns at his hands before reasserting his aim.
"Not to worry," she says, suddenly cheerful. "In a minute or so, you'll be perfectly suggestible. I'll know everything you do, then I'll have no further need for you."
His frown deepens as the scratch on his neck twinges slightly. "Your nails…" He mutters.
Her nails are long, slightly curved like talons. They're painted red- no, scarlet. He fancies that he can see his blood on the nail of her right hand index finger.
"Yes," she says brusquely. "Laced with a little something." Her eyes travel up and down his body as a satisfied smile curls her lips. "I should say you're feeling a little unsteady right about now."
As it so happens, he is. But Solo's been drugged before, quite a few times actually. He's not particularly fond of it either; generally he wakes up with a thumping headache and rather too many gaps in his memory. Or strapped to an electric chair. The thought makes him shudder, but it snaps him back to reality in time to find himself face to face with the mark. When did she get so close? She's taking his gun, he realises, but his mind moves sluggishly and by the time he clenches his fingers she's taken the weapon away and is sitting him down in an armchair.
It's better treatment than he usually gets when he's been drugged, Solo reflects.
It's difficult to tell how much time passes, and it's especially unnerving to feel your body being forced to relaxed. By that point, Solo finds he doesn't particularly care. He feels, in a moment of poetical whimsy, vaguely cloud-like.
"He is late," Illya snaps and Gaby sighs.
"Yes," she agrees. "But Solo's a good agent, I wouldn't worry."
"Not worried," Illya mutters, and that's the end of that.
Until another five minutes have passed and Illya's checking his gun and telling Gabi to call Waverly if he and Solo aren't back with her in twenty-five minutes.
Illya opens the door to the room Solo and his mark are in with his gun raised and aimed. He steps inside and glares at the mark. Defiance flashes across her face for a second, but she quickly realises she has no weapon and no means to combat Illya. She glances at Solo, whose head is lolling forward, an idea forming, but Illya has her restrained before she can make a move.
With the mark dealt with, Illya crouches in front of where Solo sits in the armchair. As Illya catches Solo's head in both hands, he sees that his pupils are dilated and notes a small scratch on his neck.
"Peril?" Solo murmurs, his eyes squint and he frowns at Illya.
"Cowboy," he replies. "You were late."
Solo's frown threatens to shift into a smile. "Did ya miss me?" He asks, as the frown wins out and his eyes drop away from Illya's. "Got drugged. By a woman. Again." Solo looks on the verge of pouting and Illya almost panics. "Happens a lot."
"Because you are a terrible spy," Illya tells him flatly, it does elicit a faded smile from Solo though. "Now I have to rescue you. Very dull."
"Don't usually get rescued," Solo informs him as Illya heaves him upright.
Unsurprisingly, Solo is heavy and packed with the muscle he hides underneath his expensive suits. Illya adjusts to the weight quickly and circles an arm around Solo as he pulls one of Solo's arms over his neck. Solo himself doesn't seem to take much note of what's happening, but seems content to lean on Illya and be steered by him.
"Move," Illya growls at the mark, who does so.
For a brief second, as they all leave the room, things are quiet. But, of course, even being drugged couldn't stop Solo from talking.
"Did I ruin any towels?" He asks, and Illya notices that Solo's words have been progressively slurring more and more together.
For a moment, Illya doesn't know how to answer that question. "No," he says eventually. "None. That I know of."
"Oh, good." And then: "you're not a Nazi, are you, Peril?"
He has to take a second, both to squash the familiar anger that rises up at such a question, and to ignore the look the mark sends over her shoulder at him. "No," he says firmly. "Stupid question. You are stupid."
That, apparently, is enough to silence Solo, who is becoming more limp by the second.
By the time they get back to Gaby, Solo's completely unconscious.
"Twenty-one minutes," Gaby says with a smirk. "You're getting sloppy."
"Was carrying a dead weight," Illya reminds her, adjusting Solo's position.
The mark, having seen the bodies of her guards strewn through the mansion on her walk outside, is more than happy to comply with what they want. She reveals that Solo was exposed to some kind of mixture between a sedative and a truth serum. Illya somewhat stops paying attention after it becomes clear that there will be no lasting ill effects for Solo, and allows Gaby to take care of the rest.
In the end, Gaby calls Waverly anyway, in order to take advantage of a second car to deliver the mark to U.N.C.L.E. Then Gaby takes advantage of Illya still shouldering Solo to claim that she will be driving the car, to which Illya grudgingly agrees. He ends up sitting in the back, balancing Solo with a look of distrust. It would be just like Solo to ruin Illya's day, even when unconscious.
The ride back is taxing, between Gaby's driving, and Solo requiring all of Illya's attention to prevent him from flying out of the window, it's a miracle that Illya escapes the car with his sanity intact.
When entering the hotel, Gaby charms the receptionist with a babbled story of their friend drinking a little too much whilst Illya stands behind with Solo balanced on his shoulder and grimaces.
"He's quite sweet; unconscious and silent, isn't he?" Gaby muses as she studies Solo's prone form on his bed.
"No," Illya says shortly.
Gaby smiles as though for some reason she thinks that he thinks otherwise. "Well, I'll leave you to make him more comfortable."
Either Gaby's developed a sudden sense for boundaries, or else she's acting oddly simply for the sake of it, but she graces Illya with another enigmatic smile and exits Solo's bedroom.
Which leaves Illya alone with the unconscious Solo. With muttered curses in as many languages as he can think of (no doubt Solo could add a few more if he deigned to be conscious), Illya removes Solo's shoes and suit jacket. He manages the waistcoat, tie, and undoes a few of his shirt buttons as well, and refuses to undress him any further (it wouldn't be proper, of course). For a second, he hesitates at Solo's watch, pondering whether it might hold any of the significance that Illya's own does. Then he remembers that the watch is a Patek Philippe and that Solo bought it in Switzerland a few months ago. Finally finished, Illya covers Solo with the duvet and steps to the door.
When he glances back at his partner, sweet isn't the word that comes to mind. This a man that Illya has seen kill, he has seen him bruised and bloodied, he's seen him charm and seduce and manipulate and outright lie, he's seen him verbally torture a woman seconds before her death. But he's seen him save lives, seen him say "no, go to her, I'm fine" in a hundred different ways, he's seen him spend money on himself for the sake of it but spend money of his friends for the joy of it. Illya has seen Solo sat staring at a Rembrandt in Paris for an hour out of sheer appreciation in a way that Illya will never quite understand.
And yet, there lies Napoleon Solo, unconscious and unguarded. His face open, for once, revealing everything with his sharp tongue dormant. A strand of hair has fallen free of its slicked back style and just as Illya feels himself starting forward to push it back he freezes. Then, his movements stiff, he flicks the lightswitch and strides from the room, eyes fixed firmly ahead.
"I'd bet that last night there was more physical contact between us than in the entirety of the last year and a half."
Illya almost chokes on his tea.
Solo has emerged from his bedroom looking, well, better. His eyes aren't glazed over and he's once again able to walk without Illya's assistance. Then again, he doesn't appear to have washed since last night, his hair is a mess, his shirt is untucked and crumpled with several of the buttons undone. Illya has never seen Solo looking so dishevelled, even in his pyjamas and dressing gown.
He quickly averts his eyes and takes a more measured sip of his tea. "It was necessary." Is his only defense.
"Oh, certainly," Solo agrees, turning from the lounge area of their room to the kitchenette. His socked feet pad softly across the carpet.
For a few minutes, the only sound is the hum of traffic outside the balcony and Solo's tinkering.
When Solo reappears, a cup of coffee in hand, he sits on the couch across from Illya's armchair. The curtains are partially drawn across the French windows to the balcony, and the shafts of sunlight that fall irregularly across Solo's face darken the shadows under his eyes. Illya notices the stray strand of hair again and determinedly looks away.
Solo breaks the quiet. "I didn't tell her anything, you know."
Illya had known; the mark had made it very clear that her drugging of Solo had been a waste of time. Still, it was a relief to hear it from Solo himself.
"I would expect nothing less," he tells Solo. After all, a little bit of truth serum should be nothing to a man exposed to Uncle Rudi's torture.
"And I hate to disappoint." Solo flashes a grin, but drops it almost immediately. "And so now you know I remember last night, albeit a little hazily, I should add that I wouldn't normally take you for a Nazi."
A thank you doesn't quite seem the correct response to that, but it's also the closest thing to an apology Illya's ever heard from Solo. He settles for a neutral "good".
Solo leans back into the couch and stares unabashedly at Illya.
It takes two seconds for Illya to glare back at him. "Is there something else?" He asks, with a sharpness that doesn't seem as genuine as it used to.
It's a markedly different situation, there's no scotch, for one thing. No Nazis, for another. They're in a completely different country. And Solo isn't on a mission. So there's really no need for him to say what he says next. Of course, he does it anyway.
"You know, I've been trying to seduce you."
The silence was predictable. Solo allows it to stretch out, he can practically see his opportunity to joke it off disappearing. He watches for the tell-tale tapping of fingers, but Illya's so still he could be carved of stone.
"By… getting drugged?" The question is unexpected, and Solo would laugh but he fears it would ruin the moment.
"No," he says. "For a few months now, actually." He's making eye contact, or he would be, if Illya would look at him. "It didn't seem to be working. Which was surprising, because I'm very good at seduction."
"Seduction of a man… It is unnatural," Illya says, and Solo feels his heart plummet.
"It's legal in Illinois."
Illya's mouth twists. "You want to move to Illinois, then?"
"Listen, Peril," Solo starts. "I understand if you're offended because of the relationship between yourself and Gaby-"
"What relationship?" Illya asks, his forehead wrinkling.
That gives Solo pause. "Well, I wouldn't say relationship, exactly. The, uh, spark, or whatever it is, between you." Illya's face shows no recognition, and Solo glances away for a split second. "Unless that's not a thing anymore."
It's Illya's turn to look away, and when he looks back his mouth is set in a hard line. "Have you always been of such… persuasions?"
Ah, of course the word itself could never be said.
"Yes," Solo says, allowing the sardonic side of his smile to slip through. "Always have, and I assume I always will be."
"And you've been trying to seduce me?" Illya's voice is noticeably unsteady, and Solo can't quite place what his obvious confusion is aimed at.
Solo forces his smile to be relaxed as he considers his answer. "Yes. It's been rather frustrating, I have to admit. You've not been very responsive."
Illya grimaces. "We are not in Illinois, Cowboy. What do you expect me to do?"
"Say we are." Solo sets down his coffee cup and spreads his arms. "Just for a minute, say we're in Illinois. What would you do then?"
To Solo's eternal shock, a small smile creeps onto Illya's face. He leans forward and rests a warm hand against Solo's cheek. His other hand brushes Solo's hair back, and he feels himself rock forward. Their lips brush, and the kiss is so gentle, so quick that Solo would never normally register it. This is no normal situation, though, and it's like being in Uncle Rudi's chair all over again, with a feeling of electricity spreading from his lips throughout his body.
"I would do that," Illya says quietly. "If we were in Illinois."
Solo can't look away from Illya's face, suddenly so gentle and open. He places a hand on Illya's knee, and it's like having an anchor. "And, say we're not in Illinois…"
Illya doesn't back away, he doesn't even look to the door. "I welcome the challenge."