#thrushie making a difference

[doctorwenqing]

came here to tell you that your wee thrushie gif actually got me to pick up a thrawn book after months skskshsgajkl

I LOVE THAT

[rose-of-pollux]

And another MFU blurb

Written for today’s short affair prompt at Section VII.

Summary: [Coda to “The Suburbia Affair”] In which Illya ponders over Raisin Rye bread, much to Napoleon’s amusement.

Cross-posted to AO3.  Thanks to @napoleonandillya for plot help!

Napoleon had to admit, going out of the way to order his special Raisin Rye bread had been worth the mix-up of Illya inadvertently destroying the first loaf.   While it hadn’t been worth the THRUSHie delivering the fake second loaf, the third time was the charm as Napoleon finally obtained the genuine article.

Illya still didn’t know what to make of it, and Napoleon was more than amused that next day at breakfast as he picked up his morning tea (a pale green matcha that Napoleon had brewed), and stared at the stack of now-toasted Raisin Rye that sat at the breakfast table.  He leaned over and sniffed at it, tentatively.

Napoleon grinned at his partner by way of greeting and casually took a slice of the toasted bread, buttered it, and then sat back in his chair and delicately bit into the toast as Illya gave him a look.

“Morning,” Napoleon said.

“So, you got it?” Illya queried.

“Well, it didn’t magically manifest on our table, if that’s what you mean,” Napoleon mused.

“…I see you’re in one of your moods,” Illya observed.  He picked up a slice of the toasted bread and sniffed at it again.  “…Is that cinnamon?”

“Yup—raisin and cinnamon make for a heavenly combination.”

Illya shook his head.

“I am amazed and astounded at the ability of you Americans to take something simple and practical and turn it into an item of absolute decadence.  At first I thought it was condiments, but now, you show me this! Exactly what is the difference between eating this and eating a piece of cake for breakfast?”

“As someone who’s had cake for breakfast before, I can tell you this is, at least, somewhat healthier,” Napoleon answered.

“…I am not even surprised,” Illya muttered.

He continued to turn the piece of toast over in his hands and mutter under his breath for the next several minutes.

“You know, you don’t have to eat it,” Napoleon said, smirking cutely as he nibbled on his slice.

“Oh, but I will—if only to experience for myself the absurdity of it,” Illya insisted, quickly spreading some butter on the slice and biting into it.  He paused, contemplating it as he chewed, and then ate the rest of the slice.

“Well?” Napoleon asks.

“Requires most research,” Illya returned, buttering another slice for himself.  He gave his partner an indignant look as he heard him snark. “Napoleon, please—you know that I am a man of science.  And, as such, scientific research requires multiple trials.”

“Yeah, and it tastes good, and you’re hungry.”

Illya shot him another look, trying very hard to keep his face in an annoyed expression as Napoleon stared back at him with twinkling eyes, still nibbling daintily on his piece of toast.  Fie upon him and that irresistible charm of his!

Well, he would come up with a good comeback later—after breakfast.

[rose-of-pollux]

Another MFU blurb

Written for today’s short affair prompt at Section VII.

Summary: In which Illya slips into his medical examiner mantle and investigates a string of murders in the city--and he and Napoleon come to a shocking realization.

Notes: This fic is... really rather dark/heavy and not like the usual feel-good pieces I write.  There is also minor canon character death (i.e., characters that were one-time appearances, not Napoleon or Illya), admittedly the first time I’ve ever written such a thing.

Not cross-posting this because I might expand this someday??  Maybe?

Napoleon never had the stomach for sticking around when Illya performed autopsies for U.N.C.L.E.; Illya respected that, but he also knew that if something came up that his partner needed to know about, he would have to call him down to the autopsy room. And Napoleon knew that he would have to summon the inner strength to go and see whatever it was that Illya thought was so important.

And, indeed, Illya looked very concerned as he stared upon the covered body on the table as Napoleon walked in.

“What’s going on?” Napoleon asked.  “All I know is that Mr. Waverly asked you to handle this autopsy personally—said it was the latest in what is likely the work of a serial killer?”

“Yes, he did ask that of me—right after he asked me to positively identify the body, which I did,” Illya said.

“…What…?” Napoleon asked, stunned.

Illya placed his hand on the sheet.

“May I…?”

Napoleon steeled himself, but nodded, and Illya pulled the sheet back partway, revealing a blond man. He was all stitched up with the autopsy completed, but Napoleon frowned, looking confused.

“…I don’t know him,” he said, wondering what Illya wanted him to see.  “You said you do, though?”

“Yes,” Illya said, quietly. “His name is… was Piotr Smirnov; he was a waiter in a Russian tea house that I used to frequent when I first moved to New York.  We conversed a lot—talking about Russia, and how different things were here.  As I got more habituated to life here, I spent less and less time at the tea house. I… honestly hadn’t thought about Piotr in a long time; he was, after all, merely a casual acquaintance.  But now I find out he is dead…”  His eyes narrowed.  “Murdered.  The calluses on his feet tell me that he was chased down for a long time, being toyed with by his killer, who then shot him with a poison dart—a fast-acting toxin. The killer could have killed him at any time, and yet, he drew it out for as long as he could.  And then, there was this on the body…”  He handed Napoleon a small piece of paper.  “It’s signed ‘Y-H H.’”

“So there is a serial killer on the loose?” Napoleon asked. “Was there one of these on the other victims?”

“I had to find out,” Illya said.  “So I looked up the files of the other victims, and looked at their bodies, as well.”

“Was there a common factor?”

Illya shut his eyes and gave a shaky nod.

“…Illya…?”

“Yes.  Yes, there was…” he said, and he opened one of the drawers in the wall, revealing another man with unkempt blond hair.  “Here is victim one.”

“…He looks familiar,” Napoleon said.  “Wait… I know him…  Wasn’t he the homeless man who lived on the block near here?  I used to give him my old suits.”

“And I used to give him food and money,” Illya said.  He sighed. “He’s a John Doe.  I never knew his name, Napoleon.”

“…Neither did I,” Napoleon said, quietly.  “We might never know now…”

Illya gave a solemn nod.

“He, too, had calluses on his feet, was killed by the same poison, and had the same ‘Y-H H’ calling card on him.  All of the three other victims had those in common.”  Illya now pulled two more drawers open.  “And I know you know victims two and three, as I did…”

Napoleon stared as the drawers opened to reveal the bodies of Jojo Tyler and Marion Raven.

“…What!?” Napoleon hissed.

“The other common link between the victims—they are all blond,” Illya said, his voice still quiet. “If I had to guess, the ‘Y-H H’ calling card stands for ‘Yellow-Haired Hunter,’ or something of that sort.”

Napoleon looked to Illya.

“There’s another common link,” he said, concern growing on his face.  “Illya… you knew all four victims—and I knew three.  And you’re as blond as they are.”

Illya looked at him now, his eyes widening.

“…Surely, you don’t think…?”

“That you might be next? Heaven forbid it, but we are not taking any chances,” Napoleon declared.  “This has all the makings of a THRUSH plot—I’m sure they’re behind this. It’s just the kind of psychological warfare that they’d pull…”

Napoleon trailed off as the door to the autopsy room opened; Waverly, followed by a harried-looking Victor Marton, entered.

“Well, well; speak of the Devil…” Napoleon mused.

“What is he doing here!?” Illya demanded, closing the drawers and placing the sheet back on Piotr. “I don’t want him in my autopsy room!”

“Mr. Kuryakin, I know you disapprove of Victor, but he has come to us for help,” Waverly said.

“Specifically, I come to you for help, Monsieur Kuryakin,” Marton said.  “I have heard from Alexander as to your skills as a medical examiner; you are the only one I trust to do this autopsy correctly.”

Napoleon and Illya stared as some of their agents brought in a body bag on a stretcher and placed it on a free table.

“No, no, no,” Illya said, shaking his head.  “My hands are full with the autopsies from this serial killer--”

“Mr. Kuryakin, this is victim number five,” Waverly said.

“Same calling card, Sir?” Napoleon asked, and his face went grim as an evidence bag with the calling card was handed over to him.

“I know you think little of me, Monsieur Kuryakin, and even less of the victim,” Marton said.  “But I ask for your assistance in finding out who did this to my unfortunate protégé.”

“…Victim number five was a THRUSHie?” Napoleon asked, stunned, as Illya now walked over to the table and unzipped the body bag.  “But I thought--”

“Napoleon!” Illya exclaimed.

The wide-eyed look of shock on the Russian’s face was not a good sign, and Napoleon felt his own face mirror his partner’s as he saw the face of the fifth victim.

“…Angelique?” he asked.

“Alexander told me the common links between the other victims,” Marton said, coldly.  “I need to know if she was killed in the same manner and with the same poison.  And then, Monsieur Solo, I need you to help me find the one responsible.”

“And why would I help you?” Napoleon asked.

“Because I know one of the common links is that the victims are all blonds,” Marton said.  He gazed pointedly at Illya.  “And I know you will do whatever it takes to make sure that your partner is not next.  I, too, have other colleagues I intend to protect.”

“Well, you’ve got me there,” Napoleon admitted.  “Illya, will you be alright?”

“I will.  You watch yourself, too.”

“I will,” he promised, and he turned to Marton.  “Very well; we’ll work together.”

[rose-of-pollux]

MFU daily alphabet challenge 3/26

C--Casablanca

Summary: In which Napoleon and Illya enjoy a peaceful evening in a Moroccan hotel, and Napoleon reminisces on an old misadventure from his greenhorn days.

Notes: this version is slash; the gen version is available on AO3 and Dreamwidth, and they are about 95% the same.

                                       Still, enchantment wakes me,                                         Still, enchantment takes me,                                         To the promise of perfection                                                 Outside the dream.                           --Michael Nesmith, “Casablanca Moonlight”

Illya should have expected that Napoleon was already well-known among the restaurants and hotels of Casablanca.  It was part of Napoleon’s charm—all over the world, he made contacts with the servitors and their employers.  It gave him eyes and ears, and acquaintances who would cover for him if need be.

And sometimes, on days like today, it got him—and Illya, who was with him—a private balcony in a classy hotel, with a hot, Moroccan meal served to them after the manager of the hotel greeted Napoleon personally, and then warmly welcomed Illya, as well, insisting that any companion of Napoleon’s was a friend of his, too.

“I really have to hand it to you, Napoleon,” Illya said, chowing down on a mutton kebab.  “You do know how to make contacts—and especially here in Casablanca.  The setting of your favorite film…”

“Yeah, I’ve known some of these people since I was a probationary agent,” Napoleon admitted. “You can imagine that Casablanca was one of the first places I begged to go on missions when I was starting out in the field.”

“And after all these years, they still remember you,” Illya said.

“There’s no real secret to it.  Be kind. Be generous.  They remember the really good and the really bad—so be one of the really good.  It’s one of those things that they don’t teach you about in Survival School—I picked it up on my own.”

“Indeed, Survival School instructs us that we not draw too much attention to ourselves—to be nondescript,” Illya mused.

“And I think that’s open to interpretation,” Napoleon said.  “Sometimes, being on good terms with hotel and restaurant staff can mean the difference between life and death.  And it’s not hyperbole, either--Naseer, the manager of this hotel who got us this room, saved my life ten years ago.”

“What happened?”

“I had just cleared my probationary status and came here on my first unsupervised mission, but I was still very much a greenhorn,” Napoleon recalled.  “Of course, I stayed at this hotel; I’d already struck up a friendship with Naseer a year before when Mark had been supervising me on a prior mission. A THRUSH agent came in one night, trying to find out my hotel room.  Not only did Naseer send the guy away, he woke me up at two in the morning to warn me, made sure I had called for backup, and then saw to it that I was safely en route to Marrakesh concealed in a laundry truck.  When the THRUSHie returned with backup, our men were waiting for them.”

Illya, who had been so absorbed in Napoleon’s story, was still absently holding his half-eaten kebab and had been hanging on every word.

“Remind me to thank Naseer the next time we see him,” he said.  “You are truly one-of-a-kind, Napoleon, and I am fortunate to have you in my life.”

“Well, I don’t really think I’m anything that special,” Napoleon began, but he trailed off, smirking at the sauce still on the corner of Illya’s mouth.  “Ah, you’ve got a little…”  He trailed off again, leaning in for a kiss, getting the drop of sauce in the process.

Illya now let the kebab in his hand drop onto his plate and just focused on returning the kiss.

“I think,” he whispered between kisses.  “You are very special, Napoleon.”

“So are you,” Napoleon murmured.

They kissed some more, enjoying the Moroccan evening—and each other’s company.