Chapter Text
The thing is, Napoleon Solo doesn’t do relationships.
He really doesn’t. They’re difficult, and messy, and it would kind of hard to explain away the numerous authentic art pieces he owns, or why he has to disappear at strange moments, or be away for weeks on end. Even if he wasn’t a spy, or an art thief, he doubts he would have ever been able to settle down. He’s just not the type for it.
But then, on what was supposed to be a simple extraction in East Berlin, Illya Kuryakin had somehow managed to upend his entire worldview on attraction with his atrocious sense of style and impressive strength. And then, after that, he’d been just the right amount of snarky and endearing even when they quarrelled that Napoleon could practically feel himself falling. Just a passing fancy, he told himself, the man is built like a fucking Adonis, for God’s sake – but then Illya rescues him from the chair at Vinciguerra and he realises that maybe it’s not just a fleeting infatuation. He seems to have developed a crush.
Somewhere between Vienna and Dublin the crush seems to have grown, but it’s not until they’re back in Rome that Napoleon understands how much of an issue this is going to be. The rescue from the hands of Uncle Rudi (and Napoleon would prefer never to think of that incident again, if only the nightmares would let him) showed him that Illya was not the machine he seemed to think he was. With Gaby, he was gentle and caring, and sometimes Napoleon got to see a little bit of that tenderness directed at him.
When they’re in Rome the second time, nearly a year since the whole debacle with the Vinciguerra affair, Illya drags him out of a firefight and performs an emergency operation, digging out the bullet from his shoulder and bandaging the wound as effectively as possible until they can make it to a hospital. Normally, Napoleon knows that Illya is calm in the face of danger, but he knows he saw fear in his partner’s eyes that night.
That very wound is why he’s benched right now, forced to sit alone in the hotel even though he’s fine, honestly, he can barely feel the wound anymore. It’s been almost a month, and the bullet hadn’t even hit bone or gone in too deeply, so he’s stuck listening to their handler over the radio as Illya breaks into their target alone, with no backup.
Even Gaby is working, off elsewhere with the head of the organisation they’re investigating, flirting and keeping him distracted and away from his lair.
It’s entirely too telling that’s he’s far more worried about Illya than he is about Gaby. He’s worried about her too, of course he is, but even though he knows Illya is supremely skilled and is fine on his own, Napoleon can’t stop his fingers from tapping nervously, sitting at the table in his hotel room and anxiously listening to the exchanges between Illya and the control team.
“Inside,” he hears Illya say, voice cracking electronically, short and to the point as ever. There are a few minutes of radio silence that follow the confirmation from control, and Napoleon wishes that he could be there, see what’s happening, have his partner’s back. He probably doesn’t need it, but it would make Napoleon feel better to know that he’s safe.
Which, judging by the static that sounds when Illya misses his check-in, he’s not.
Napoleon listens with gritted teeth as Control tries to make contact, even going to far as to stand up and pull on a black jacket and shoulder holster while he waits. He grabs a gun from his arsenal and sticks a knife into the sheath in his boot, checking over his ammunition and selecting extra, pocketing it along with his lockpicks.
“Am surrounded,” he hears Illya’s voice, and rushes back over to the table. “Need assiss –“ his radio cuts out, and Napoleon slams a hand down on the polished wood as he listens to Control reporting that they’re sending backup. Illya’s radio is still receiving, it would appear, and continues to do so for another second before it cuts out entirely. On the other end, Control is trying to regain contact as they sort out who to send.
Napoleon makes a decision, one that Illya will probably take him to task for as soon a they’re done. “Don’t bother,” he says into the radio, sliding an earpiece on and reaching for the tracker that shows the location of the bug he’d put in Illya’s shoes, the same way the Russian had done to him. “I’m going in. I’ll get Kuryakin and the disk and get out.”
Control titters a bit, but ultimately, there’s nothing they can do to stop him and he’s already out the door when he hears the grudging affirmative from down the line. Waverly will likely be on him about this, too, in that sort of suppressed-disappointed manner he always adorns when they don’t follow regulations, but that’s a problem for later.
Right now, he just needs to find Illya.
The compound is easy to find and even easier to get into, a fact that never ceases to surprise him. You’d think that the criminal underworld would much prefer to make their secret hideaways harder to infiltrate, but evidently the majority don’t have the brains or capability, or both.
Inside, he follows Illya’s tracker as stealthily as possible, making it all the way through two halls and one lab before he encounters a guard, which bodes well. It means there aren’t that many to take out.
He drops the man quietly, hitting him over the head and lowering the man’s slumped body to the floor, stepping over his prone form before continuing onwards. Up ahead there’s a set of double doors with glass panels at eye height and he looks through, catching a glimpse of a larger room with whitewashed walls and about three guards surrounding a chair and two people.
Napoleon’s breath hitches as he sees what exactly is happening, Illya tied against the chair with a lightbulb casting his face into light from above as a man in a crisp suit stands in front of him, hands in pockets. There’s a moment where Napoleon can’t breathe, panic choking him as he sees the bulb and the chair and Illya, but it’s pushed down in a flash so he can focus on what he came to do.
It’s a simple matter to slip inside the room unnoticed, the door doesn’t make a sound as he steps inside, staying in the shadow at the edge by the walls as he lifts his pistol and takes aim.
Two of the guards are down before the third reacts, the shots ringing out in the space and causing the remaining men’s eyes to snap to him. Napoleon shoots the last remaining guard, advancing until he’s about a yard away from the man in the suit, gun aimed directly at his heart.
“If you would be so kind as to tell me the location of your plans, I would much appreciate it,” he says in Italian, watching the way the man’s face twists, obviously evaluating his situation. A second later, the man’s eyes flicker to the table at the edge of the room, where Napoleon can see Illya’s weapons and smashed radio lying on the surface, a black disk sitting next to them. “Much obliged,” he tells the man, keeping his gun pointed at him as he edges to the table and inspects the disk, glancing over the frayed wire sticking out the end.
Satisfied, he sticks the little device into his pocket and advances, hitting the suited man over the head and watching him crumple before stepping into Illya’s line of vision, eyes quickly raking over his form to check for obvious injuries. He can breathe easier when he finds none, slipping a cocky smirk back onto his face.
“Need a hand?” he quips, revelling in the bitter glare thrown his way as he kneels on the ground to inspect the ropes. Simple ties, not too difficult to undo. “Control said you’d gotten into trouble.”
Illya looks at him. “They said they sent backup.”
“I’m the backup,” Napoleon grins, checking that the safety of his gun is on before he slides it into his holster.
“You, no,” Illya says, shaking his head. “You are not backup. Gaby is backup.”
Napoleon sticks his bottom lip out a bit, pouting, a motion that earns him an annoyed scoff even as he reaches to untie the Russian’s ankles, ignoring the twinge from his shoulder as he does. “I'm offended. You didn’t specify when you radioed in,” he says petulantly, finishing with the knot and moving to start at his wrists. “Next time I’ll just leave you, shall I?”
“Fine,” Illya mutters, and Napoleon doubles down on the task at hand, shaking his head in exasperation.
There had been a fear in his chest when he first saw Illya, tied up on a wooden chair with rope over his wrists and ankles and a solitary lightbulb above. He’d been terrified for his partner, yes, but as soon as the initial worries over the man’s health had been assuaged, a deep-seated panic had crawled into his mind at the sight. Restraints, a wooden chair, a single flickering bulb. Not exactly the makings of his favourite daydream.
The dark feeling in his chest remains, but he manages to suppress it for now as the rope comes free. Napoleon stands, backing off a bit as Illya gets to his feet, rubbing the raw chafe marks on his wrists and stretching, keen blue eyes carefully evaluating the space they’ve found themselves in before turning to his saviour.
“We need to get disk,” Illya says, and Napoleon rolls his eyes. No thank you, as usual.
“Already have it,” he tells him, instead of snapping something back. He wiggles all ten fingers in the air, thinking about the little piece of technology in his pocket with the dangerously frayed bit of wire on one end. “Sticky fingers, can’t help it. Come on, we need to go.”
Illya watches as he taps the fabric over disk in his breast pocket, nodding in satisfaction before turning away to scope out the best escape route. Napoleon takes his momentary distraction to look him over again, double-checking that his initial assessment was correct and there’s nothing amiss. Illya’s hair is mussed, the hideous flatcap having disappeared, and Napoleon can’t deny the fact that he’s not saddened by its loss. Otherwise, Illya looks fine, a bit battered but that’s only to be suspected. He’s moving normally too, which means no broken bones. All in all, a relatively uneventful mission – for them, at least.
“Way in is compromised,” Illya announces, and Napoleon abruptly remembers that the mission isn’t actually done yet. He really needs to get this stupid crush under control, if it’s distracting him during routine extractions there’s definitely an issue that needs to be addressed. Besides, as far as he knows, Illya isn’t interested in men. Russia isn’t exactly encouraging in that sort of behaviour – though, to be fair, neither are the States.
He snaps out of his musings – really needs to work on that as soon as possible – when Illya points at the exit on the far side of the room, the one that had been labelled as an employee entrance on the old blueprints they’d scrounged up beforehand.
“Good choice,” he says, and can’t resist patting the other man on the shoulder as he passes, heading straight towards the door without bothering to glance back. Behind him, he hears Illya grabbing his belongings from the table, following a few seconds later.
“There are still guards, Cowboy,” he warns, slipping one of his guns into his pocket and checking the ammunition on the other as Napoleon works on the door’s lock. “They will set alarm soon.”
“The alarm is already going off,” Napoleon says, fiddling with the keyhole until he hears the desired click. He stands up straight and opens the door, slipping through. “It’s a silent alarm,” he explains, pointing at the flashing lights dotting the hall and unholstering his custom Browning Hi-power, flicking the safety off as he moves down the hall, checking each open door before continuing. “Guess it made more sense in a noisy environment.”
Behind him, Illya hums, and Napoleon can practically feel the vibrations even if they’re nowhere near touching. God, he really is desperate, isn’t he? Maybe after they get back to the hotel he can find a bottle of scotch and drink himself into oblivion. Perhaps Gaby will join him, even if she and Illya share absolutely dismal tastes in alcohol. Napoleon had tried to hammer it into them both that straight vodka is not the best option when it comes to a nice drink, but so far, neither of them had bothered to heed his advice.
“Cowboy,” Illya says, low and warning, and Napoleon can hear the voices coming from the far end of the hall. He pauses, listening, and when there’s the distinct sound of a search order being barked finds himself dragged backwards, into a tiny alcove in the wall he’d barely noticed was there.
Illya presses right up against him in their hiding place, and Napoleon is so far gone on the adrenaline that he can’t quite manage to stop himself.
“Oh, hello,” he practically purrs, lips curving into what he knows from years of practice is a salacious smile. “Is that a gun I feel in your pocket, Peril, or are you just happy to see me?”
Illya glares at him, and Napoleon can’t see if he blushes, but he definitely tenses. “Of course it is fucking gun,” he hisses, but his voice sounds ever so slightly strangled. “Please shut up.”
Napoleon grins, opening his mouth to respond, but the sound of running footsteps from around the corner stops him, and instead all that comes out is an embarrassing sort of little whine when Illya presses even closer, crowding him back against the wall. Stuck between a rock and a hard place, Napoleon thinks, even if he knows the hard line pressing just above his hip is Illya’s backup pistol and not… well, not something else.
The footsteps pass them by and there’s a few tense seconds where they wait for them to recede fully, and as soon as they do Illya backs up. Napoleon tries not to think about how much he misses the feeling of his partner’s body up against him, but it’s a bit hard with how the front of his trousers feel a little more cramped than before. It doesn’t help that now that Illya had backed up, the light falling onto his tall figure, Napoleon can see the remnants of a fleeting blush high on his cheekbones and at the tips of his ears. Small comforts.
“We have disk,” Illya says, still relatively quiet considering their position. “Time to go.”
Immediately after he says it, he’s off – leaving Napoleon to curse quietly and run after him. Illya is surprisingly fast, and he’s tall, so it takes a minute before Napoleon actually manages to catch up completely. Stupid fucking Russians and their long legs.
They make it to the outside with little difficulty, and Napoleon’s shoulder twinges again as he puts pressure on it by leaning on the wall as he checks for any guards in their path. He thinks he hides the slight discomfort rather well, but Illya is looking at him with no little amount of concern, which is ironic considering the position he himself had just been in.
“You okay, Cowboy?” he asks, and there’s no sign of any worry in his voice, which is good, because right now Napoleon wants to focus on escaping, not whatever it is that his heart does when Illya shows he cares.
“Bit rich coming from you, Peril,” he responds snippily, looking across the expanse of open ground they have to cover to get to the chain link fence separating them from the outside world. “I’m fine. Just a slight ache.” He checks for any lingering guards, but it seems most of them have been called away to the place they had initially broken in, which is helpful for their escape. “Come on, let’s go.”
Deeming it safe enough, he darts over the terrain, keeping his body low to the ground, the crunch of gravel under his and Illya’s boots the only sound he makes out as they make it to the far end. Illya gets out his magic laser – as Napoleon had taken to calling it, much to his partner’s chagrin – and cuts through the metal links quickly, holding the sides open and gesturing Napoleon through first. He goes, rolling his eyes at the show of chivalry.
“Leave the gentlemanly behaviour for Gaby,” he says, and it comes out more sharply than he had intended.
Illya frowns. “I don’t understand.”
“Just saying,” Napoleon says, grimacing, making his way for the first car he sees, intent on hotwiring it and getting back to the hotel as soon as possible. “A fellow might get the wrong idea.”
Illya frowns even harder, and Napoleon sighs. They’ve retrieved the material, they got the disk, all with relatively few snags. Best to drop it for now and dissect his ridiculously inconvenient crush later, alone. It’s not going to interfere with completing the mission.
Absolutely not.