Chapter Text
“Good morning!” said Napoleon cheerily as he entered the office in U.N.C.L.E. Headquarters that he shared with his Russian partner. Said partner glanced up at him disinterestedly, then did a double take, eyes lighting up at the doughnuts in Napoleon’s hand. He held out his hand for one.
“Thanks for the coffee,” said Napoleon, spotting the steaming cup on his desk as he handed a doughnut over. Illya grunted, the doughnut already in his mouth.
“Mr. Waverly wants to see us at nine,” Illya said indistinctly around a mouthful of pastry.
Napoleon glanced up at the clock on the wall. “We’d better get moving, then.” He leaned over, swiping the last bite of doughnut out of Illya’s fingers and popping it into his own mouth.
Illya scowled at Napoleon. Napoleon grinned back unrepentantly.
***
“This should be a relatively straightforward mission, gentlemen,” said Mr. Waverly, placing two files on the table and spinning it round to them. “It has come to our attention that there are to be highly detailed scientific notes of a new type of weaponized gas exchanging hands tomorrow night, at a fundraising gala held by a Mr. Reginald Stevens.”
“The munitions CEO?” murmured Napoleon, snapping to attention. “Weaponized gas – that’s not really his area, is it?”
Flipping open their files, the two agents scanned the contents, the first of which was a dossier on the man in question. A man who looked to be in his late forties, graying at the temples, not particularly handsome but with striking, intense gray eyes. As the CEO of a prominent weapons firm, he was frequently in the media, as much for his position as for his somewhat controversial views on national security and defense.
“Indeed, Mr. Solo. Mr. Stevens, I am told,” continued Mr. Waverly, “has been lobbying to be recruited into T.H.R.U.S.H. for quite some time. He has diverted a portion of his firm’s research funds into what he has termed ‘highly experimental’ projects, of which this gas is one. Top secret, of course. Besides him, only his closest aides are aware of the existence of these projects.”
Napoleon nodded. “I highly doubt the shareholders would approve if they knew.”
“So, this gas,” said Illya, turning the page of his folder, “is his way into T.H.R.U.S.H.?”
“Quite so, Mr. Kuryakin.” Mr Waverly paused to take a puff of his pipe. “He will deliver the formula for the gas to a representative from T.H.R.U.S.H. Central tomorrow evening, as I said. The exchange is planned for 11 p.m. on the night of his fundraising gala at the newly constructed Grand Belloc Hotel in Maryland. Mr. Stevens will personally be overseeing the security for the event.”
“Also,” Mr. Waverly leaned forward, steepling his fingers, “as the hotel was funded with Mr. Stevens’ money, it contains some...extra security measures...which are not usually built into normal hotels.”
Napoleon frowned. “Rather elaborate setup for a delivery. Why not just arrange a private meeting?”
“It would seem,” said Illya, smirking slightly, “T.H.R.U.S.H. do not quite trust our friend just yet.”
“A reasonable precaution,” agreed Mr. Waverly, “although intercepting a private meeting would have made matters decidedly simpler for us.”
Getting to his feet, he unrolled a large sheet of paper over the table. “These,” he said, “are the details we have of the security for the hotel’s vault, which is where the notes will be stored until the delivery.”
“Two keys to access the safe in the vault,” said Napoleon, “one on the chief guard and one on Stevens himself. We can get hold of those easily enough.”
“Silent alarms here and here, and cameras, of course.” Illya was completely absorbed in the diagram. Absently, Napoleon spared a fond look down at the blond head before returning his attention to the security plan.
“The locks in the corridor leading up to the vault are on a time delay and operated from a separate security room. Section Four will give you the relevant codes before you leave,” Mr. Waverly added.
“I’ll operate the locks,” volunteered Napoleon. He beamed at his partner. “You can go into the vault. I know how much you enjoy cracking safes.”
Illya scowled darkly. “You’re just lazy,” he sniffed. Turning back to the security diagram, he tapped a point, considering. “This utility corridor…”
“Probably put in to comply with the fire code.” Napoleon nodded, finishing the thought. “There are two entrances to the vault, one through the hotel – which will be heavily guarded – and the other is through the utility corridor. That’s our best way in and out.” He grinned at Illya, pleased with how they were so much in sync, as usual.
Mr. Waverly cleared his throat. “You fly tomorrow morning, gentlemen. Your tickets are in these files. Now, if you have no further questions?”
Recognizing the dismissal, the two men left their superior’s office and headed back down the hallway towards their own.
“Dinner?” suggested Napoleon, as they took their seats at their respective desks. “Come over to my place. I’ll cook, and we can work out the details for the mission.”
Illya looked up. “I thought you had a date with Sandy from Communications?”
“I’ll cancel it,” Napoleon shrugged. “She’ll understand.”
“Well, all right.” Illya had to admit, if only to himself, that it wouldn’t have taken all that much persuasion to get him to agree. Spending the evening before a mission with Napoleon, hashing out the finer details of their plans, always made him feel more centered, ready to take on anything. The fact that Napoleon was cancelling a date to spend the evening with him – even if it was only for work – was just a bonus. And that was a whole other issue that he was not going to think about right now.
“I’m overwhelmed by your enthusiasm for my delicious home cooking,” said Napoleon drily. “I’d offer to bring you to a restaurant instead, but I thought it’d be better if we went over some of these details in the privacy of one of our apartments.”
“Of course, Napoleon,” said Illya agreeably. He looked up, his smile sudden and sweet. “And you know I always enjoy your cooking.”
He was half expecting a smart retort, but to his surprise, Napoleon was silent, his Adam’s apple working, then he nodded. “Okay. Yeah. Good.”
***
They left the office together as afternoon shaded into evening, stopping by one of the artisanal grocery stores that Napoleon liked. They picked up some pancetta and ground skirt steak, and Napoleon’s favorite 24-month aged Parmigiano-Reggiano which Illya privately thought was ridiculously expensive but had never actually said anything about, since the pasta dishes Napoleon made with it did invariably taste sinfully delicious.
At Napoleon’s apartment, they reset the security system and did the customary security check before heading to the kitchen to start dinner. As Illya chopped the vegetables at the marble countertop, Napoleon standing behind him browning the pancetta on the stove while humming contentedly to himself, it occurred to him how domestic the whole scene was. His next thought was that that one day, his partner would marry some beautiful woman, then it would be her, instead of Illya, who would stand here in this kitchen cooking with Napoleon. He ruthlessly squashed the hollow pang of loneliness that came fast upon the heels of that thought.
Thus preoccupied, he sliced into an onion, forgetting not to breathe in, and his eyes immediately started to water. He persevered for a few more minutes before wiping his eyes roughly with his sleeve, muttering under his breath as he looked around blearily for a tissue.
“What is it?” Napoleon was by his side instantly. “Oh – ” he started laughing as Illya glared up at him with red, watery eyes. “ – wait, don’t do that, you idiot, you’re still holding the knife – ” he grabbed Illya’s wrist with one hand, snagging a tissue from the box on the countertop with the other. Stepping close, he dabbed gently at Illya’s eyes with the tissue. His other hand was warm and firm on Illya’s wrist.
“There. All better,” said Napoleon cheerfully, then abruptly seemed to notice that their faces were mere inches apart. Illya felt, rather than heard, Napoleon’s soft, surprised huff as a brush of air against his skin. The skin across Napoleon’s cheekbones was faintly pink.
Their gazes locked. Neither man moved.
Napoleon’s lips were parted invitingly. Illya unthinkingly licked his lips, then felt his face grow hot as Napoleon unconsciously mirrored the movement.
The shrill screech of the smoke alarm made them both jump. Napoleon blinked a couple of times, like a man just woken from a deep sleep, then cursed and released Illya’s wrist, hurrying toward the stove to rescue the pancetta, which was now smoking merrily.
Napoleon’s communicator starting beeping insistently. Illya snagged it off the side counter and handed it to his partner, who had turned the stove off and was staring at the charred remnants of his pancetta in disgust.
“Solo here.”
“Mr. Solo, Johnson from Section Six here. Just checking in as we received a message that your smoke alarm went off.”
There was a sound from behind him that sounded suspiciously like a snort. Napoleon glanced around, eyes narrowed, but his friend’s blond head was bent over the chopping board as he diligently worked on the remaining vegetables.
“Ah, thanks for checking in, Johnson. All fine here, just a little...accident...in the kitchen, nothing to worry about.”
Definitely a snicker from behind him this time.
“No problem, Mr. Solo. Have a good night!” chirped the voice before the channel clicked shut.
Putting down his communicator, Napoleon walked around the kitchen island to peer suspiciously at Illya. The blond managed to continue chopping the vegetables for a couple of minutes, expression demure, before he gave in to temptation and raised his head to meet Napoleon’s narrowed gaze, eyes dancing. The two men stared at each other for a moment, then they both burst out laughing.
Holding on to each other for support, they both sank to the floor, shaking with laughter. They ended up leaning on each other, backs against the cool marble side of the kitchen island.
“Really, Napoleon,” said Illya, voice low and husky from laughing. He was still leaning against the kitchen island, head tilted back, looking at nothing in particular, so he completely missed the flash of heat in Napoleon’s quick glance. “By tomorrow morning the whole of Section Six will have heard about how you set your kitchen on fire because you were too busy having sex with one of your women.”
And Napoleon really wished Illya hadn’t said that, because he had been thinking about Illya, and now he was thinking about sex. And Illya. Sex with Illya. Which...to tell the truth, definitely wasn’t the first time he had thought about it. In fact, it had been an alarmingly regular fantasy the past few months. Illya would kill him if he knew. He buried his face in his hands.
“Well,” Illya rose gracefully to his feet, offering his hand to Napoleon to pull his friend up. “Cheer up,” he said consolingly, blithely oblivious to the real source of Napoleon’s despair. “It’s not like it’s ever bothered you to have someone gossiping about you before.”
***
Napoleon woke early the next morning, showered, shaved and dressed, then headed downstairs to Illya’s apartment and rang the doorbell. Illya answered the door almost immediately, in socked feet and doing up the top two buttons of his shirt.
“Let’s go,” he said, haphazardly tightening his tie and slipping his socked feet into his shoes.
“Sloppy,” Napoleon chided his partner, putting his suitcase down and straightening Illya’s tie for him.
“I’m not the one trying to impress the stewardesses,” Illya reminded him tartly, but allowed Napoleon to fuss with his tie anyway. He picked his battered suitcase up in one hand and Napoleon’s in the other and headed toward the elevator, letting Napoleon take care of locking up his apartment.
Downstairs, they loaded their suitcases into Napoleon’s car. Illya eyed the car keys in Napoleon’s hand hopefully. “Can I drive?”
Napoleon grinned. “I’ll let you drive on the way back.”
“You always say that,” Illya grumbled. “And somehow I’ve always sprained my ankle or broken a wrist on the way back, so you end up driving then, too.”
“You get yourself injured way too often.” Napoleon frowned over at his partner as he got into the driver’s seat. “Consider this added incentive to keep yourself in one piece, partner mine.”
***
The flight was short and uneventful, just the way Napoleon liked it. He appreciatively eyed the pert bottom of a blonde stewardess who was leaning over to help an elderly passenger with her seatbelt a few rows up. Next to him, Illya put his drink down on the tray table forcefully, the ice rattling loudly in the plastic cup. Napoleon turned to glance at his partner, but Illya had closed his eyes, leaned back in his seat with his arms crossed, and for all intents and purposes appeared to have gone to sleep.
After the plane landed, they collected their carry-ons and drove the short distance in their rental car to the Grand Belloc Hotel, where the fundraiser was going to be held that night, and checked into their room.
Napoleon turned the key in the lock and opened the hotel room door, peering into the huge room in surprise. “Mm, nice,” he said appreciatively, looking around the spacious, tastefully decorated one-bedroom suite they’d been given. “Much more extravagant than our usual.”
“Don’t get too excited,” advised Illya, dropping his suitcase in the middle of the suite’s bedroom, then flopping onto the large bed. “This is an all-suite hotel, remember?”
“Ah, yes.” Napoleon nodded. “That’s a relief. Mr. Waverly generally only splurges on us when he’s about to send us to certain death. I was a little worried.”
Illya yawned and stretched luxuriously. His white shirt, mostly untucked, rode up a little, revealing a sliver of toned belly. Napoleon eyed it with interest.
“Well,” said Illya, sitting up suddenly. Napoleon hastily looked away, and busied himself shoving Illya’s suitcase into a corner, where neither of them would trip over it.
“Let’s go look around,” Illya continued. He opened up his suitcase and dug through it enthusiastically.
“Sometimes,” groused Napoleon, watching his partner sorting through his gear lovingly, “I think you like all that stuff more than you like me.”
“Some of this stuff is very delicate, Napoleon. It requires a light touch,” replied Illya severely. “You, a little less so.”
***
They spent the next couple of hours reconnoitering, as Illya had suggested. They explored the beautifully-landscaped hotel gardens, wandering down the sun-dappled cobblestone paths, then watched the guards Stevens had posted patrol the hotel while they ate a late lunch on the hotel terrace. There were two sets of guards patrolling at regular intervals, covering the front and back of the gardens. Fortunately, neither of the patrols passed too near the door to the utility corridor that Illya would be using to access the vault, so it was unlikely that he would be discovered as long as he avoided the patrols on his way to the door.
After lunch, they retired to their hotel room, where Napoleon insisted on going over the plan again. They settled down in the living room of their suite, Napoleon on the leather couch, Illya in the armchair at right angles to him, their knees bumping. Napoleon unrolled the plan of the vault and spread it over the coffee table. They tossed ideas back and forth, refining the details of their plan and laying out the gear they needed.
“And remember,” said Napoleon, tapping Illya’s knee, “the two vault doors can only be opened remotely, and they’re on a timer once opened. After I’ve gotten into the security room upstairs and opened the doors, you have three minutes to enter the first door, and another two minutes to get to the second door before it relocks.”
Illya nodded. “Yes, Napoleon, I’ll remember.”
“And,” continued Napoleon, drumming his fingers on the table, “once you’re in the vault, you have ten minutes to get the formula and get out. After ten minutes, the corridor is filled with a paralytic gas as a defense mechanism against would-be burglars.”
“Stop worrying, Napoleon,” said Illya calmly. “I will be fine.”
“I worry about you constantly,” grumbled Napoleon. “Don’t get yourself killed. I’ve just gotten you trained to my liking.”
“I shall do my very best to not cause you inconvenience,” replied Illya, dry as dust. “We have a few hours before we begin. Do you want to shower first, or shall I?”
***
Illya ended up taking the first shower. While Napoleon took his turn, Illya ordered room service for both of them, then stretched out on the couch and flipped through some magazines.
The food arrived before Napoleon was out of the shower. Illya opened the bathroom door and stuck his head in just as the water shut off. “Hurry up, Napoleon, the food’s getting co – oh, sorry.”
Drawing back the shower curtain, Napoleon stepped out, gloriously naked and dripping wet, small rivulets of water still running down muscled arms and thighs. He didn’t seem surprised to find his partner standing right in front of him. “You can eat first if you want,” he said cheerfully, reaching for a towel. “I know how cranky you get when your food gets cold.”
“I do not get cranky,” Illya replied automatically. A drop of water traced a path down Napoleon’s collarbone, lingering lovingly for a moment in the hollow of his throat, then started to leisurely make its way down his broad chest. Illya’s mouth went dry.
Napoleon ducked his head and started to vigorously towel his hair dry. A few glistening droplets of water on his chest gave a little skip at the sudden movement and meandered a little ways down, where they merged into one large drop that lazily drifted lower, wending its way down an expanse of smooth, tanned skin. Illya swallowed hard and hurriedly dragged his gaze back up – only to realize that his partner had finished drying his hair and was now looking at him with a thoughtful expression on his handsome face, head tilted slightly to one side.
“I think I will eat first after all,” announced Illya, cheeks burning, and fled.
***
Evening found Napoleon barefoot in front of the suite’s full-length mirror, in a waistcoat and an impeccably pressed pair of pants, adjusting his bowtie.
“How do I look?” he asked, pulling his tuxedo jacket on in one smooth motion as his partner emerged from the bathroom, dressed in the fitting black turtleneck and pants that he favored on the occasions that he wasn’t required to dress up for a mission.
Illya stared at him. “I believe social convention dictates that some kind of footwear is required.”
“Oh, har har,” grumbled Napoleon, bending over to pull on his socks and shoes. Illya snuck a quick glance at the expensive fabric pulling taut over Napoleon’s very nice behind, mentally gave himself a stern talking-to about temptation and the resisting thereof, and retired to the safety of his lockpicking tools over on his side of the room.
Napoleon glanced up at the clock. “Ready?”
He retrieved the gala invitation that Section Four had procured for him from his suitcase and tucked it into his tuxedo jacket. He wasn’t happy about having to go to the gala unarmed, but security would be tight and he didn’t want to raise any suspicions.
Illya nodded, buckling his shoulder holster on and slinging a small bag of tools over his shoulder. “Let’s go.”
Just before eight o’clock, they synchronized their watches and prepared to set out separately, Napoleon downstairs to the gala, Illya out into the hotel gardens. Napoleon hesitated briefly, touching his partner’s shoulder. “Be careful.”
Illya nodded. “You too.”