#napol��on & illya

[cha-melodius]

a tmfu au where illya and napoleon are rival bakers or confectioners, pls.

Oh man, I'm trying to choose between AU ideas and you give me another awesome one lol.

So like, I can see this two ways:

First, a baking competition show setup. Not GBBO, since those are amateur bakers, but something more like Holiday Baking Championship on the Food Network (possible holiday-themed AU idea for this year?? 🤔). The setup here is relatively straightforward, they're competitors, they hate each other, but they end up spending a lot of time together over the weeks of filming and they fall in love. Although I love GBBO-style AUs, I've always felt like they're a little tricky because you have to field a cast of competitors, judges, and a host, and in this fandom that means either major shifts in how some characters relate to each other (if Sanders/Oleg are judges, then they can't very well be "mentors" of Napoleon/Illya), or a whole mess of OCs. That's probably why this particular idea has never quite clicked for me with these characters, although who knows! I'm now contemplating the possibility of a shortish Christmas AU in this theme, lol.

Second way grew a whole plot, of course, so it's all below the cut, but in short: rival bakeries across the street from each other AU. I really love this idea. Possibly even more than the chefs AU.

Illya owns a small but successful bakery, which is beloved by the community and makes delicious baked goods, but they're on the homey, simple, comforting, rustic side of things. People stop by there for muffins in the morning, cookies after school and work, and order cakes from him for special events. Then one day Napoleon moves to town and opens a fancy French patisserie across the street. The butteriest, flakiest croissants you've ever had, perfect macarons, divine eclairs, all manner of tarts... just a work of art on every plate.

Obviously Illya is pissed. He was there first, and even though they occupy slightly different niches Napoleon is definitely cutting into his business. What's even more irritating is that Napoleon doesn't even seem to consider him as competition. Illya assumes it's because Napoleon thinks he's better than Illya, which he does at first, but then his sous chef Gaby brings in some brownies from across the street (she's been visiting to get coffee in the mornings and pick up loaves of bread and such) and they're actually mindblowingly awesome? Napoleon's whole world is upended, and he becomes kind of obsessed, but he always makes Gaby go buy his stuff for him because he know Illya hates him. Or, he goes in when Illya isn't there, and someone else is working (it'd be kind of funny if Illya's employee was, like, Waverly lol... side note he retired early from some lucrative business and just works at the bakery because he likes it). Napoleon also ends up chatting with his own customers about the bakery, and is always recommending people go there.

Illya doesn't know any of this, of course, he's just over there stewing in his loathing. But then little things start trickling in. A customer tells him they'd never been here before but the patisserie owner across the street told them that they had to come get a pumpkin cookie. Illya becomes friends with Gaby, even though she works for Napoleon, and starts to hear more about his nemesis and maybe realizes he's might not be as bad as previously thought. Then one day Waverly says something about the nice young man who always comes in at the exact same time on certain days, and how he seems to be quite taken with Illya even though he never actually visits when Illya is there (because let's be honest, Napoleon has definitely fallen in love by now, and he's not subtle about it). Illya is intrigued despite himself, he hasn't had a relationship in a long time nor has been looking for one but Waverly said his admirer is very handsome, so he's curious. So he switches a shift with Waverly, but the customer that arrives precisely at the right time is... Napoleon.

Now, in some fics this would be the big moment of revelation and they'd get together, everyone's in love, happily ever after. But in MY fics 500 years of useless pining is required, so Napoleon would just blue screen upon seeing him and immediately lie and say it was the first time he'd ever been in. Illya ends up believing that his secret admirer just never showed up that day, and he's a little disappointed, buuuuuut... he and Napoleon do manage to make polite conversation, friendly even. Napoleon might start coming in more frequently when Illya is working to chat, even bringing him something from the patisserie, maybe a new flavor combo he's been working on and he wants Illya's opinion. He comes up with promotions to help both of their businesses together. They become actual friends, and all the while Illya is falling in love with him, and he has no idea that Napoleon has been gone on him for forever.

I can think of a few ways the conflict/angst would go in this (although I don't see this as a story with a major angst component), but I'll hold back on those for now. Gotta leave some surprises in case I actually write this, lol.

Once again I ask the world why I don't have unlimited time and energy to write fics.

[set-phasers-to-whump]

“how long has it been?”

prompt: “how long has it been?”

whumpee: illya kuryakin

fandom: the man from uncle

hi hello what’s up! i am super happy with this fic and i hope you enjoy :D

They’re flying back to London, he and Illya, reunited after a week of separate but concurrent missions, on a small cargo plane that is not really designed to transport passengers. This is nothing unusual - UNCLE doesn’t have the biggest budget in the world, and Napoleon has found that he has unfortunately become quite used to sitting in a cargo hold as though he’s a box. 

What is unusual about this flight is that, not five minutes after they’ve taken off, Illya has fallen asleep with his head on Napoleon’s shoulder. Napoleon has not once seen Illya asleep in any context, and suddenly here he is sleeping on him as though it’s the most normal thing in the world. 

He’s not going to think too much about it, though, because if Illya’s week was anything like his, the man more than deserves his rest. In fact, Napoleon thinks about letting himself fall asleep too, though he’s not sure how successful he’ll be given the overall bumpiness of this flight. Anyway, he figures it’s probably for the best if one of them remains awake - not that anything should happen, but you never know.

It’s a pretty chilly day down on the ground. Up in the sky it’s far colder, despite the plane’s heating system which is clearly working overtime. He and Illya have both kept their thick coats on to insulate themselves from the chill, and it is because of this that Napoleon fails to notice the heat emanating from his partner’s skin. 

That is, he fails to notice it until Illya shifts in his sleep and his forehead brushes up against a sliver of bare skin on Napoleon’s neck. He soon shifts back, but his skin had been hot enough in that brief second for Napoleon to immediately realize that something is wrong. 

He reaches out and shakes Illya’s shoulder until the other man wakes up, pulling away from Napoleon and fixing him with a look that is probably intended to be a glare. It’s completely ineffective, owing to the fact that he looks thoroughly exhausted and can barely keep his bleary eyes open for long enough to focus them on Napoleon. 

“You look terrible,” Napoleon says, quite surprised. Illya had behaved completely normally when they’d gotten picked up. He hadn’t seemed sick at all, but looking at him now, there’s no way he can be anything else. “How do you feel?” he continues, with a softer tone, aware that his previous statement was not exactly the most polite. 

Illya doesn’t say anything. His eyes have closed again, though he doesn’t seem asleep, and he’s leaned his head back against the metal wall of the plane. Napoleon uses this opportunity to more thoroughly look him over. 

Upon closer inspection, he finds himself utterly convinced that Illya hadn’t looked the slightest bit unwell when they’d gotten onto the plane. There’s no way he could’ve failed to miss the feverish flush on his cheeks, the sweat on his skin despite the cold, the way he’s shaking ever so slightly, the general veneer of illness that surrounds him. There’s no way his partner could have been able to hide all this from him, which leaves Napoleon to make the conclusion that whatever this sickness is, it’s only just hit. 

“Peril,” he says, his voice as soft as he can make it while still being audible over the noise of the engines. “I know you’re sick, and I know you probably only just started feeling it. How are you doing?”

It’s no surprise that Illya doesn’t seem to want to answer. He cracks his eyes open, looks at Napoleon for a second or two, then shuts them again with a long exhale. 

“Is nothing,” he says quietly, after a few seconds of silence. “I’m fine.” 

His voice is hoarse, like he’s been coughing. Except he hasn’t been - at least, not around Napoleon. The pieces again rearrange themselves in his mind as he comes to realize that Illya has not said a single word to him since they’d met back up.

“Have you been sick this whole time?” Napoleon asks, reevaluating his prior evidence. He supposes Illya could have been a bit flushed before, though Napoleon naturally would have attributed this to his being out in the cold. The same thing can be said for the shaking, and it’s not as though they’d been close enough for him to even see whether or not Illya had been sweating. The more he thinks about this possibility, the more it makes sense. Illya has never been what one might call forthright with his injuries, and there’s no reason why he shouldn't behave the same about illnesses.

“How long have you been sick?” Napoleon asks. Illya says nothing. 

“You might as well tell me,” he continues. “There’s no point in pretending you’re not sick, and if you don’t tell me I’m just going to keep annoying you about it for the rest of this flight. Which -” he checks his watch “- still has an hour and a half to go.”

Illya opens his eyes and fixes him with that same ineffectual attempt at a glare. “Go away,” he mutters, punctuating the sentence with a series of harsh, painful-sounding coughs.

“Where would you have me go? Out the cargo door?”

Illya shrugs, as if to say, that would not be the worst thing in the world. 

“C’mon, Peril, work with me here. How long has it been?”

Still Illya says nothing. He merely draws his knees to his chest and rests his head atop them, like he’s too tired to support it on his own. His eyes remain open, unfocused but pointed in Napoleon’s general direction. He really does look miserable. Napoleon heaves a sigh and repositions himself so that he’s once again sitting next to his partner. He takes a deep breath and then tentatively wraps an arm around Illya’s shoulders, loose enough so he won’t feel trapped. He waits, expecting to get shrugged off. 

To his great shock, Illya does exactly the opposite, leaning into Napoleon with his head still pressed to his knees. He coughs again, shivers harshly. 

“You’re going to get sick,” he mutters.

Napoleon shrugs, then remembers that Illya can’t see him. “I’ve got a pretty strong immune system. Besides, if I do get sick, I get to miss work and lie around in my apartment all day.”

“Hm,” Illya says. “I would not do this.”

“I sort of gathered that. Do you mind telling me now how long it’s been?”

“A week,” Illya answers tiredly. 

Napoleon would like to say he’s surprised, but he knows Illya far too well for that. “A week ago we were leaving for this mission. You’ve been sick that whole time?”

Illya nods. 

“And you never once thought to tell anyone?”

“Would have delayed mission.”

Ordinarily, Napoleon would have to admit that Illya has a point - all of them have, at various times, embarked on missions not feeling their best, because the bad guys stop for no one. But this particular mission hadn’t been time-sensitive at all. He and Illya had both been made fully aware of this fact, and had actually worked with Waverly to pick the best possible dates. It would have been incredibly easy to change these - but Illya hadn’t said a word. 

“It wouldn’t have mattered this time!” Napoleon snaps, a bit more harshly than he’d intended. He takes a few deep breaths before continuing in a more even tone of voice. “You knew this mission wasn’t time-sensitive. You could have said something.”

“Why?” Illya asks. “Is not so bad.” The impact of this statement is most severely reduced by another series of coughs. When they finally stop, he raises his head from his knees and looks at Napoleon with those exhausted, unfocused eyes.

“You wanna try that again?” Napoleon asks. “Those sounded plenty bad to me.”

“I have done missions worse,” Illya argues.

“That doesn’t mean you have to. You’re allowed to take a break.”

Illya shrugs halfheartedly, his head dropping back down to his knees. This time, though, he keeps his face turned so he’s still looking at Napoleon. “Not how I was trained.”

Napoleon understands this, as much as he’s able to. Certainly Sanders had pushed him to go on missions when he hadn’t felt a hundred percent, but he doubts he’d been held to the same sort of standards that Illya had. 

“UNCLE’s different,” he points out. 

“I know that. Doesn’t mean���I can forget.”

“I get it,” Napoleon says, because he does. Even after more than a year, he’s still often taken aback by the fact that he has a boss that actually gives a shit about him, as a person and not just an asset. “I suppose you just have to try and remember, instead. That you’re allowed to have a say in regards to your own wellbeing, and all.”

At this, Illya leans into him just a bit more heavily. Napoleon takes a chance and slightly tightens the arm he still has draped over Illya’s shoulders, pulling him closer still. Illya doesn’t pull away, doesn’t appear the least bit uncomfortable. Napoleon can’t help thinking that they fit together quite nicely like this, as though their bodies had been purposely built to lean up against each other in support. 

“I will try,” Illya says, after a second of silence in which Napoleon had been almost sure he’d fallen asleep. “To remember. Thank you.”

“Of course,” Napoleon replies. “And I’ll try to remind you to remember.” He’s not sure that this sentence makes the most sense, but it hardly matters anyway. Illya’s eyes have drifted closed once again. 

“Goodnight,” he’s pretty sure he hears Illya mutter. 

It’s the middle of the morning and Illya’s going to have to wake up again in about an hour when they land. Nonetheless, Napoleon whispers back a, “goodnight, Illya,” and watches as sleep overtakes his partner at last.

thanks for reading! i hope you liked it, love u all <3

[rose-of-pollux]

Inktober for Writers, Days 1-4

Playing catch-up here since I found the prompts late and wanted to do some 500-word things for each prompt; I’m posting them all here in one entry so as to not clutter up tags/dashes, but they are posted individually on AO3.

Summary 1 (prompt: “Searching”): Illya searches for Napoleon in an abandoned THRUSH satrap.

Summary 2 (prompt: “Barefoot”): Post-retirement; Napoleon questions Illya’s purchase of an acupressure footmat (light slash; gen version on dreamwidth)

Summary 3 (prompt: “Warmth”): The boys hunker down in a safehouse on a winter evening (light slash; gen version on dreamwidth)

Summary 4 (prompt: “Compliment”): In which Napoleon is not easily swayed by idle praise (light slash; gen version on dreamwidth).

1. Persistence

Illya ran as fast as he could down the darkened hallways of the abandoned satrap.  It was a familiar scene to him—looking for a lost partner who had been taken captive by THRUSH.  So many times, this had happened before, both in this same way, and sometimes, with their roles switched, but it was a maddeningly terrifying experience each time.

Each room was in a state of disarray—struggles and fights had occurred, and Napoleon had, no doubt, been a part of them.  They’d have questioned him because of his rank and knowledge, and he would have resisted.

But the question that always haunted Illya was whether or not they would have killed him for it.

A sudden movement in another room caused Illya to rush there, his Special drawn and ready to tranquilize any THRUSH straggler.  He paused in his tracks, though, to see that it was Napoleon, struggling to get to his feet after clearly having been in a brawl with a man who was now unconscious on the floor.

Napoleon was shaky on his feet, and Illya was, momentarily, taken aback at the sight of his partner with a split lip and a black eye, and the haggard expression of a person who had not slept in days.

Despite his condition, there was a warm look of recognition in Napoleon’s eyes as he noticed Illya’s presence in the room.

“Hey…” he said, giving him a feeble wave.

“…Oh, Napoleon…”

“‘m alright,” Napoleon insisted.

“You have a very bizarre definition of alright,” Illya said, sounding far less worried than he actually was.  “Or could it be that I have less of a grasp on the English language than I first thought?”

Napoleon managed a wan smile.

“You’re fine.”

“But you are not,” Illya argued.  “I need to take you to Medical right away.”

“No, no; I’ll be fine… I’ll…”  Napoleon trailed off, glancing at Illya with a glance that was looking more out-of-focus with every passing second.

Realizing that Napoleon was ready to pass out, Illya rushed to him as Napoleon fell forward into his arms.

“…Bit late… for fireflies… isn’t it?” Napoleon mumbled.

“Quite,” Illya said. “You rest for now.  I will look after you.”

“Thanks… for finding me…”

“Shh,” Illya said, gently. “You have done the same for me before. It is merely my turn this time.”

Napoleon mumbled something unintelligible as the comforting embrace of his partner finally allowed him to shut his eyes.  He was out almost instantly, and as Illya saw to the capture of the fallen THRUSHie that Napoleon had defeated, he still did not let go of his partner until Medical arrived to take him back—and even then, did not leave his side.

Napoleon was soon recovering in the Medical ward.  He spent most of his time still out cold, but did regain consciousness briefly to see Illya there; satisfied, he closed his eyes again, aiming to sleep some more.

“Thank you, too,” Illya said, softly.  “For holding on.”

Napoleon responded by weakly squeezing Illya’s hand before falling back into a deep sleep, and Illya continued to watch over him.

2. Agony of the Feet.

Illya noted that, sometimes, despite Napoleon’s thirst for adventure, Napoleon could loaf around in a way that rivaled their cat, Baba Yaga.  Their mandatory retirement from U.N.C.L.E. often resulted in Napoleon relaxing in a beach chair for a large portion of the day, usually with Baba Yaga snoozing in the chair’s shadow.

Illya would find things to do during this time, as his skin was sensitive to sunlight, and on one such occasion, he had spent the day shopping in Honolulu and had settled in for a nap inside their bungalow afterwards.

He was awakened by loud yelps from Napoleon a little while later as he entered the bedroom.

“Ow, ow, ow…!”

“Ah, Napoleon, assuming you are not sunburned, it would seem that you have discovered my new acupressure mat.”

“Is that what that is!?” Napoleon quipped, now sitting on the bed, massaging his feet.  “I thought it was some sort of trap!”

“I suppose it could double as one,” Illya mused.  “But, no, Napoleon; I got that to improve circulation of the feet.”

Napoleon stared as Illya got up and stood on the prickly mat.

“See?  Standing on it helps improve circulation—there are also larger ones for back circulation, as well.”

“…Don’t tell me you got one of those, too…”

“Nyet; I am seeing how this one works first.”

“Well, Tovarisch, I’m just letting you know now that if you do end up getting one of these for your back, I’m going order twin beds, because there is no way I’m getting into bed with one of those on your side of it.”

“Really?” Illya teased, arching an eyebrow at him.

“…Well, okay, one way,” Napoleon admitted.  “Where the heck did you find that thing, anyway?”

“Oh, it’s rather new on the market,” Illya said, still standing on the mat.  “It was patented by someone in Russia.”

“…So, of course, you had to support your fellow countryman’s endeavors?”

“Well, I thought it would be nice to try it.  And, anyway, it doesn’t hurt.”

“That’s a matter of opinion,” Napoleon grumbled.  “How can you even stand that thing?  Or are you just hungry for punishment?”

“It’s not as bad as you think once you’re used to it!  And you know, Napoleon, it might be good for your circulation, too.”

“My circulation is just fine, thank you very much!” Napoleon countered.  “Or would you like a practical demonstration?”

Illya just chuckled.

“Anyway,” Napoleon said. “I know the perfect place for this—right inside of the front door.”

“Ah, to help with circulation after a long walk?”

“No, as a trap for thieves or any THRUSHies that somehow end up finding out where we are,” Napoleon said.  “In fact, now that I think about it, could we buy a few more of these?  We can place them under the windows!”

Illya rolled his eyes, but then couldn’t help but laugh.  They both had their eccentricities, but they always seemed to make them work.

3. Wind Chill

Napoleon flinched as he heard the wind howling outside the safehouse; he chanced a look out the window and winced again as he saw the snow whipping up all around them.  The snow was relentless, as was the wind.

“I’m feeling frozen just looking at that,” he said, shuddering.

Illya rolled his eyes as they shared the blanket in front of the fireplace.

“I suppose it will be up to me to get more firewood?” the Russian intoned.  “You won’t last five minutes out there.”

“Nah, we’ve got plenty,” Napoleon said.  “And there’s plenty of provisions for you, too, so you won’t be going hungry.

Illya chuckled.

“And with you as an amateur chef, you even make these prepackaged rations taste good,” he added.

“Flattery will get you everywhere,” Napoleon said, kissing him; Illya gleefully kissed him back. “Well, if I have to be stuck here in a cabin in a blizzard in the middle of nowhere, I’m glad it’s with you.”

“Now who is trying to do the flattering?”

“Well, can you blame me for trying?” Napoleon asked.

He huddled closer to Illya.

“You know, the only thing missing right now is a nip of something,” he mused.  “A bit of scotch or vodka…”

“Alcohol expands your blood vessels, which causes you to lose more body heat,” Illya said.

“…Well, aren’t you the anatomy expert?”

“…I am the anatomy expert—I do the autopsies for U.N.C.L.E. in my spare time, remember?”

“…Smart-alec…”

Illya was about to come up with a witty reply, but he trailed off.  His mind had drifted off to his childhood, in war-torn Kiev.  The winters were harsher, colder, and Illya remembered trying to keep warm in abandoned buildings, weak, hungry, and living under constant fear.  And there had been no he had trusted—no one to keep him company.

“Illya?”

Napoleon’s voice jolted him back to the present.

“Hey, I’m sorry about the smart-alec crack,” he said, seeing that something had upset Illya.

“Nyet, Napoleon; it wasn’t what you said.  I was… reminded of winters long ago, during much more unpleasant times.”

“…Do you want to talk about it?”

“Not really,” Illya admitted.  “I would much rather focus on the present, and what I have now.”

Napoleon wordlessly drew Illya into a tight embrace.

“Thank you, Napoleon,” Illya said.  “I have a lot now, and I fully intend to cherish what I have.”

“You and me both, Tovarisch,” Napoleon said, tightening his embrace.  “You and me both.”

They continued to sit together, and not even the subzero wind chills could reduce the warmth in their hearts.

4. Solo Luck

Napoleon was a very streetwise fellow.  He knew how to handle people well—and it was a trait that, on good days, made sure that he wasn’t taken for a ride.  On mischievous days, it was a trait that allowed him to take others for a ride—though both his mother and grandmother had drilled into him that it was a talent only used for good; indeed, the trait had saved his life more than once.

Still, it was a trait he couldn’t help but use subconsciously at the poker table.  For a long time now, he’d been attending poker nights at a pool hall near the apartment building.  When Illya had gotten transferred to New York as his partner, he saw no reason to stop; in fact, he had invited Illya along several nights to play poker with him and the others.  Illya almost always declined, but, one night, almost a year later, he decided to take him up on it now that he and Napoleon had started a relationship.

The other boys sensed the fresh meat the moment Illya walked in; after their usual greetings and glowing praise of Napoleon, they all stared at Illya like sharks at a bait ball.

Napoleon was no fool.

“Gentlemen,” he said to the other players.  “Mr. Kuryakin here is to learn, but I am here to take no prisoners.  Don’t let yourselves get distracted, hmm?”

The other players merely resumed their usual buttering up of Napoleon as they played, heaping praise as he won round after round.  He spared no one, not even Illya.

“This is why I never took you up on your offer before,” Illya intoned.  “Gentlemen, I am finished—my frugality forbids me to wager anymore.  I shall amuse myself at the bar.”

The others kept playing—and Napoleon kept winning, even after they tried to throw him off with drinks.

“Alright, Solo, alright,” one of them said.  “I dunno why we bother trying to outplay you.  So how’s about we join forces?”

“Join forces?” Napoleon repeated.

“Yeah, yeah,” a second said.  “Atlantic City next weekend, Solo—we can take it by storm and pool in all our winnings! We’re talking high-end parties over there, too; you’ll fit right in with all of those high-class jerks!”

Napoleon chuckled.

“As tempting as your offer is, Gentlemen, I think you can do quite well without me; I have other commitments.”

They tried to coax and wheedle him, but Napoleon insisted, and he left with Illya.

“You would have had a great time at Atlantic City,” Illya said.  “And we are not scheduled to work next weekend.”

“And I’d rather spend that weekend with someone who genuinely appreciates me for who I am, and not as a money-making machine,” Napoleon said.  “Popularity is a double-edged sword, and it comes with a lot of insincere people trying to flatter me.  …And that’s why I appreciate you, Illya; you don’t just tell me the things I want to hear—you tell me what I need to hear.  …And I also know that you don’t just think of me as another pretty face.”

“Of course not!” Illya exclaimed, unable to grasp the notion of someone being so shallow. “Napoleon, my love for you is sincere!”

“Oh, and I know that,” Napoleon assured him.  “And I appreciate it.  And that’s why the ‘other commitments’ I have next week all include you.”

“And I look forward to it,” Illya said, blushing slightly.

Napoleon may be blessed with luck, but as they walked home, Illya admitted that he was feeling even more lucky than his partner.

[special-agent-fiction]

Duo - Chapter 16

Grand Plaza Hotel, Rome, 1963

Napoleon wasn’t surprised to open the door and find Illya standing stoically on the other side. He’d called down earlier to invite the pair in the room below for drinks before they went for dinner. The absence of Gabby, however, did make him frown slightly.

“Come in.” He smiled at the man, holding the door wide. “Just finishing packing.” He told him as the Russian closed the door behind him and Napoleon headed back to the open suitcase on his bed. “Fix us a couple of drinks; I think we’ve earned them.”

He most definitely had, he thought to himself as the sound of running water from the bathroom at the other end of the suite continued to fill the space. Needless to say; if Peril had turned up 10 minutes earlier, he’d have found Napoleon in a far less refined state.

“I guess it’s business as usual now.” He commented as Illya almost silently made his way to the small drinks station. “Back to how things were.” And he couldn’t be happier about it; he planned to take a long vacation from the CIA, citing injuries from his time spent at Uncle Rudy’s hands, and spend some much-needed time with his wife.

He glanced up from the suitcase to find Illya staring intently at him and his pile of clothes waiting to be packed. Napoleon watched the man casually un-screw the lid onto the bottle of whiskey in his hands as the American moved to place more items into his case.

Ironically, it didn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out what the Russian had been focused on. Napoleon was well aware that the corner of the tape he’d snatched from the grass on Vinciguerra island could be seen under his shirts.

He could hear Illya pouring whiskey into glasses as he reached under a pair of neatly folded trousers and retrieved a handgun. Choosing to believe the best of the spy not 10 paces behind him, he kept it holstered and continued to pack around it.

“You feeling okay?” He asked, hands constantly brushing the concealed weapon as it lay at the top of his packed clothes.

There was silence behind him and Napoleon let out a tiny sigh as he considered that this whole mission might just end in bloodshed. Illya gave a stiff nod as Napoleon turned to watch him re-screw the lid and gently place it back onto the tray.

He turned back to the case and resignedly slipped the gun from its case and resumed packing, all with one eye on the perfectly positioned shaving mirror at the bedside, giving him a clear view of Illya.

“So what now?” He asked, choosing to let the Russian believe he wasn’t onto him. “Mission accomplished; heading back to Russia?”

“Something like this…yes.” The Russian bit out as Napoleon watched him silently unzip his jacket and reveal his own holstered weapon. “You?”

“New York.” He couldn’t keep the grin off his face even as his eyes zeroed in on the gun. “Going to spend some quality time with family.” He lifted the gun as he slowly straightened. “Almost forgot…” He started as he slipped another item into his other hand. “…got something for you.” He turned abruptly, forcing the Russian to drop his own hand from his gun and catch the item Napoleon had thrown to him.

He kept the gun just out of sight behind his back as Illya turned the item over and over in his hands, a look of disbelief filling his blank features. He took a moment to study the inscription on the back before hastily pushing up his sleeve and fastening the watch to his wrist; his shoulders easing slightly at the comfort of having it back.

“You know what my mission is?” He asked, tearing his eyes away from the watch.

“Same as mine was.” Napoleon replied as he pulled the shirt from on top of the poorly hidden tape. “Kill you if necessary…” He used the gun to gesture to the pale blue tape box. “…to get that.”

“Professor Teller’s research disc.”

They were in a silent stand off as Napoleon kept a good grip on is gun, very much prepared to be the one who walks out of this suite even if it meant killing the man who was slowly growing on him.

“Everything okay here, gentlemen?” Both their heads snapped to the new voice in the room and Napoleon watched Illya immediately step away, his hand dropping from his gun as Eva stood in the doorway of the bathroom.

He hadn’t heard the water turn off but not for the first time, he was glad of his wife’s ability to move silently and appear at the perfect moment. Illya was now staring out onto the terrace as he tried to casually re-zip his jacket and Napoleon was relieved that they’d apparently found a different way to resolve this.

The fact that the Russian was going slightly pink at the sight of his wife in nothing but thigh grazing towel, was an added bonus to the situation.

“Illya was just pouring drinks.” He explained, dropping the gun onto the bed and noting how her eyes followed it. Typical spy; she knew exactly what was going on.

“Wonderful idea.” She beamed at the Russian as she moved past him. “I’ll take mine with ice.”

The man gave another stiff nod, clearly grateful to be able to turn his back on them, and reached for the bottle again.

“Perfect timing.” Napoleon murmured as she pulled closed the sliding doors to the bedroom, sealing them from him.

“All sorted?” She asked, reaching for the small holdall that had been sent up for her and placing it next to his own.

“I think so.” He told her, hands sliding back around her towelled waist as she began to dig through the bag for clothes.

“We have a guest.” She reminded him as she smirked against the soft skin at the back of her neck. “Napoleon.” She huffed, turning in his arms. “You’ll make him blush.”

“That’s the plan.” He mumbled against her neck before placing a kiss there.

“Napol-” She stopped as the shrill ring of the room’s phone sliced through the air. She shot him a look before slipping from his hold and picking up the receiver.

“Hello?” She paused as the voice on the other end spoke quickly and concisely. “Yes of course, I’ll be right there.” She didn’t wait for any further conversation and replaced the receiver. “I have to see Waverly.”

“You can’t be serious?” The air was thick with tension as she spoke. “You’ve had me travelling all over the place ever since I left New York; I need some time.”

“You’re needed on a plane, Agent Solo.” Waverly was entirely too relaxed for her liking as he sat, legs crossed, on the sofa; a copy of his favourite British newspaper at his side.

“A plane home; with my husband to try and salvage whatever is left of my marriage.” She told him, her fingers curling around the wooden back of the chair she was stood behind in an effort to stop pacing. “The marriage you ruined.”

“Eva-”

“Don’t ‘Eva’ me.” She snapped. “With the greatest respect, Waverly, I’m not doing this.”

“It’s your job.” He reminded her. “So, unless you’re willing to quit; you don’t have a choice.”

“Like I didn’t have a choice when you turned up at my door at told me to leave my husband and my home?” She asked. “I’ve done my job, Waverly, I did everything you told me to; I left my husband because you told me it was more important I get on a plane…let me have this one chance to make things right with him?” Her voice became a whisper at the end. “While I still can?”

“I’m sorry Agent Solo.” Her hands slid from the chair back as he spoke and she may have been fooling herself but she was sure she saw something resembling guilt flash through his eyes. “But as was the case then; this isn’t my decision – this elite taskforce has been nothing more than a whisper in the corners of boardrooms for years and now we have the chance to implement it with both you and your husband at the helm…this isn’t something we can pass on.”

Eva stepped out onto the terrace of Napoleon’s room just as he and the Russian clinked their glasses together in a small toast. She couldn’t help the smile that bloomed at the sight of the burning research tape in the ashtray on the table between them.

“Good evening, gentlemen.” Waverly greeted them as he and Gabby followed her out into the sunshine. “Rather touching scene.” He commented, eyeing the fire and the shared bottle of whiskey.

“I’ve always loved a bonfire on a good summer night.” Eva added, moving to stand next to Solo as he leant against the railings overlooking the city.

“So, I have news.” Waverly said after a moment of letting them all enjoy the sunshine. “A fresh little unpleasantness has arisen. I've spoken to your superiors, and now that we're all such good friends...” he shot the two men a look as they shared a smirk. “…they've kindly agreed to let me keep the team together for a while.”

“We leave in an hour.” Gabby told the men; having only been briefed a moment ago herself.

“Where we going?” Illya asked, his sunglass clad eyes instantly on Gabby as Eva hid a smirk at his eagerness to spend time with the German.

“Istanbul, Kuryakin.” Waverly told him. “You'll need your curly-wurly shoes.” He shot them all a grin before turning and striding away. “Oh...” He stopped. “…And you have a new code name.”

“Code name?”

“Yes, rather a good one: U.N.C.L.E.” He smiled again before slipping from the terrace and leaving the four alone.

“U.N.C.L.E.?” Napoleon asked as Gabby fell into one of the waiting chairs on the terrace with a sigh.

“Don’t ask.” Eva said, taking the glass from his hand and taking a sip. “He came up with it himself and is entirely too proud that he got an acronym from it.”

The terrace was silent as the four slowly digested the news that they were now a part of an international taskforce headed by none other than the charismatic Brit.

“Two Solo’s.” Illya broke the silence as he watched the couple pass the glass of whiskey back and forth and shook his head at the absurdity of the notion. “I don’t think the world can handle one never mind both of you.”

The couple shared a smile as Napoleon’s arm snaked around her waist.

“Exactly.” He smirked. “It’s why we’re such a great pair.”

“дуэт” The Russian shook his head at the grin spreading across the blonde’s features.

“Exactly, Illya; дуэт.”

[cha-melodius]

Napollya writer AU or writer critiques AU

Mmm, rival authors AU sounds like an awesome idea. OR, going off the writer critique option, one of them is an author, and one of them is a literary critic. Napoleon is a best-selling author on a hot streak, his books are both popular and (usually) critical darlings. There's this one critic, though, who's the bane of Napoleon's existence: Illya Kuryakin. He always rips Napoleon's latest books apart, calling them shallow, lacking substance, and poorly-written. Napoleon tells himself that Illya's just one asshole, it doesn't matter, but it still burns him. What does this guy have against him? Why is he so determined to eviscerate his books? At one point during an interview he's asked about it, and, even though he knows he shouldn't take the bait, he calls Illya a talentless bottom-feeder who can't write and has to take out his inadequacy on real writers.

This, predictably, does not go over well. Now they have a true feud, which comes to a head when Napoleon releases his next book. See, this book is a bit of a departure for him. It's more personal, drawing on his own past, and is quickly heralded as his greatest work. Illya is, surprisingly, silent. Napoleon keeps waiting on his review and it never comes. He doesn't know what to make of it, but it's driving him crazy. Illya reviews other books, so he's still active, but he ignores Napoleon.

(Yeah, this grew a whole plot. More below the cut.)

Ok, here's where the twist comes in. Illya obviously knows what Napoleon looks like, but Napoleon has no clue what Illya looks like. One day he's at a coffee shop and sees a stunningly attractive man reading his book, so what does he do? He flirts. Of course, said attractive man is Illya, who is so flabbergasted by being approached that he completely, like, blue screens. You see, he actually loves Napoleon's latest novel. He's read it a bunch of times already. The copy he's currently reading is beat to hell and full of little flags even though it hasn't been out for that long. But he's got this really public feud with Napoleon that it feels like he can't back down from, not to mention that writing about what he feels about this book feels way too personal, which is why he hasn't done a review of it. And now here's the man himself, clearly flirting with him, and it's a bit too much to handle.

Illya manages to get out of this first interaction, but Napoleon keeps coming back to the coffee shop. Logically Illya should just... not go, but it's his favorite shop, and he doesn't want to let Napoleon chase him away. He tries to be stand-offish, but Napoleon is pretty persistent, and despite himself, Illya is charmed. Obviously he can't tell Napoleon who he really is, because he has little doubt about how that would turn out. They talk about Napoleon's books, and Illya doesn't shy away from saying he didn't care for the earlier ones, but talking to Napoleon actually makes him go back and reread them with a new outlook. And he hates to realize it, but he does enjoy them. It probably doesn't help that he's definitely falling in love with Napoleon. He can't, though, Napoleon hates him, if he knew who Illya really was he'd be disgusted. Not to mention how Illya's been lying to him this whole time about who he is (by omission... he hasn't ever flat out lied to Napoleon, he's just been evasive when asked what he does for a living), and Illya knows this is doomed but he's going to enjoy it while it lasts.

Clearly this is gonna end in lots of angst when it all blows up. Napoleon is so hurt and he lashes out, and it's really rough (identity porn reveals always are...). Illya pretty much accepts it because he feels so guilty about the whole thing, and they part. But Napoleon misses him so much, and he can't square the man he fell in love with, who he knows, with the critic who has a vendetta against him. They're both miserable, but then, one day, Illya finally publishes an honest review of Napoleon's latest book. Napoleon initially can't bring himself read it, but eventually Gaby (his editor and best friend) makes him. And it's probably the most beautiful words anyone has ever written about his work, and Napoleon breaks down. He realizes it was all real, that Illya loves him too. He seeks out Illya and they get back together, and they're so in loooooove. 😭

WELL, this turned out to be detailed lmao. Thanks for the prompt, anon, it was fun to dream up this AU!