My Very First Fic
My eternal thanks to Azdak, who, besides the constant hand holding, made several excellent suggestions for improvements: all of which I totally ignored. However, without her, I would never have had the nerve to post this. For those of you who don't yet know, I am her biggest fan.
Also my gratitude to Her Highness, Sweet Sarah, and Romanse The Artist, for their constant support.
Title: "The End is the Beginning" or "How Norman Felton Introduced the World to Slash"
Author: Me (I mean I, Lee) Can you believe it?
Pairing: You're kidding, right?
Rating: PG-14 maybe?
Warnings: Besides it being my first and could possibly suck, no.
Somewhere in New York, January 8, 1968
“Oh, Napasha,” breathes Illya, as his body responds to Napoleon’s expert touch. Napoleon looks up just in time to see Illya’s eyes flutter closed as the new sensations wash over him. Little does he know that, no matter what his body is feeling, Illya’s analytical mind is still ticking away, wondering how they had come to be in this position at this time.
He and Napoleon had been partners for a little over 3 years now, not counting their summer breaks. THRUSH had thrown some pretty odd things at them during that time, and they had always backed each other up; always persevered. They had an odd relationship - sometimes more protective of each other than seemed socially acceptable, and sometimes seeming to care for nothing other than one-upping the other and staying out of the dog house with the “Old Man”.
Then there was the oddity that was Napoleon. There were times when it seemed that his goal in life was to become the “bedded the largest number of women” entry in the “Guinness Book of World Records.” At other times, he was all business and genuine concern for the good of the mission, the innocents, and his partner, not necessarily in that order.
But what Illya is mulling over at this precise moment is: how did he and the most heterosexual human being on the face of the earth come to be here, now, doing this, with him?
True, their partnership had, over the years, become rife with touching, secretive smiles, and double entendres, but, from what Illya had witnessed, that was the way of men in America.
In the U.S.S.R., men hugged and kissed each other. Here, they flirted, patted each other on the back or leg, and made sly sexual remarks to one another - then, with their next breath, bragged about the “chick” they had “made it with” last night. Such strange behavior in a country that was always invoking the “sexual revolution”. Napoleon definitely had such behavior down to a science.
However, Illya could swear that, when they had last been together - last week, was it? - yes, it was Christmas day - his partner hadn’t been any different than usual. What had Napoleon called it? Oh, yes, “The Deep Six Affair”.
It had been a pretty straight forward affair. Why were they always called affairs, any way? He was in London, in a very hot and sticky disguise, posing as Mr. Yu, representative of the Chinese black market. It was nice that his new strobe bomb had worked, saving U.N.C.L.E. not only the fifty million dollars for the plans of the new submarine, but also the one million dollars each that Krohler was demanding for the release of Napoleon and Morton.
Now that he though about it, though, some pretty unusual things had occurred. There was the rental car, for one. Napoleon always insisted on the latest model sports car, which usually meant small, and this trip was no exception. But Illya couldn’t help but remember being just a bit more crowded than usual, Napoleon’s thigh pressed against his with just a bit more pressure than normal.
They had been listening to Morton, via the bug Napoleon had managed to plant on him, when a sudden loud pop had signaled the end of it’s existence. They had mutually decided to try to drive for a bit and see if they could locate Morton. In an attempt to test Napoleon’s intentions, Illya had looked him straight in the eye and said, “Let’s cruise,” the double entendre hanging on his lips. Napoleon had merely smiled noncommittally.
Then, when Laura had revealed herself as a THRUSH agent, Napoleon had kept his special trained on Krohler, refusing, in typical Solo style, to back down. But, when Laura had placed the muzzle of her gun to Illya’s head, Napoleon had immediately thrown his own gun to the floor with more force than was necessary.
As the wheels of Illya’s mind whir, he begins to remember more.
When, in reference to he couldn’t remember what, Krohler had posed the question, “Wouldn’t you say that was carrying togetherness a bit too far?” Napoleon had leeringly smirked at him for a brief moment. Illya recalled smiling back, confused.
Now that he is thinking about it, there were other indications.
When discussing attraction and falling in love, Mr. Waverly had quipped, “U.N.C.L.E. agents are only human,” Napoleon had visibly reacted to the point of nearly choking.
But the most telling of all, to Illya’s way of thinking, was when Napoleon actually questioned their superior to his face. As Mr. Waverly was expressing his displeasure at the unavoidably hastily prepared dossier on Laura Adams, Illya had looked over at Napoleon, shocked at what he saw. His partner’s head was bowed, and his face looked as though he were being tortured.
A second, even bigger shock had come when Napoleon had lifted his head, walked toward his silk robed superior, and said, “Sir, Morton’s agreed to finish the assignment. Why are you interfering in his personal life?”
Illya had thought he would drop his teeth. No one ever questioned Waverly, let alone his top agent. Little did Illya know that Napoleon wasn’t finished, for the next statement to proceed out of his mouth was, “Well, I don’t like it.”
Illya had a vague memory of trying to defend Napoleon without further angering his boss, but he was so scandalized that the rest of the conversation hadn’t really registered. Now, though, as he recalled Napoleon’s look and manner, he realized that something personal and earth shattering was going on inside the man.
As the affair was winding up, just before they parted company, there was a brief discussion about the unfitness of U.N.C.L.E. agents for marriage. Illya would never be quite sure why, but, as Mr. Waverly exited the office, he had looked at Napoleon and said with a smirk, “We have each other.” Napoleon had quickly turned away, but not before Illya had seen a pained look cross his face.
December 26, 1968
Norman Felton smiled in his sleep, as Napoleon Solo leaned over to whisper in his ear. The next day, Felton held a private meeting with writer Norman Hudis, whose eyes widened as he blurted out, “But what about the censors?”
“Screw the censors,” replied Felton.
Later that afternoon, Felton, Hudis, and director Sutton Roley sequestered themselves in the conference room. The conversation was purposely subdued.
“It’s better than anything I can come up with,” Hudis admitted with a shrug.
“But,” Roley asked, “what about the censors.”
Felton and Hudis answered in unison, “Screw the censors.”
Present:
“Bozhe moi,” Illya gasps out, as Napoleon’s tongue gently swipes over the head of his penis. Okay, even he had to stop thinking sometimes. His eyes drift closed again as he allows himself to be swept away on the tidal wave that is Napoleon.
Suddenly, he is snapped back to consciousness. He finally realizes that this final episode of their lives together has been in the making for quite some time, but there is one last issue gnawing at his mind.
“Napoleon,” he groans, “what about…?”
Napoleon lifts his beautiful, dark head and slithers up Illya’s sweat slick body to gaze into eyes that are as blue and sparkling as the Mediterranean. He cups his palm against the face that he adores above all others, and, just before taking Illya’s luscious lips in a soul searing kiss, he mumbles, “Screw the censors.”
Also my gratitude to Her Highness, Sweet Sarah, and Romanse The Artist, for their constant support.
Title: "The End is the Beginning" or "How Norman Felton Introduced the World to Slash"
Author: Me (I mean I, Lee) Can you believe it?
Pairing: You're kidding, right?
Rating: PG-14 maybe?
Warnings: Besides it being my first and could possibly suck, no.
Somewhere in New York, January 8, 1968
“Oh, Napasha,” breathes Illya, as his body responds to Napoleon’s expert touch. Napoleon looks up just in time to see Illya’s eyes flutter closed as the new sensations wash over him. Little does he know that, no matter what his body is feeling, Illya’s analytical mind is still ticking away, wondering how they had come to be in this position at this time.
He and Napoleon had been partners for a little over 3 years now, not counting their summer breaks. THRUSH had thrown some pretty odd things at them during that time, and they had always backed each other up; always persevered. They had an odd relationship - sometimes more protective of each other than seemed socially acceptable, and sometimes seeming to care for nothing other than one-upping the other and staying out of the dog house with the “Old Man”.
Then there was the oddity that was Napoleon. There were times when it seemed that his goal in life was to become the “bedded the largest number of women” entry in the “Guinness Book of World Records.” At other times, he was all business and genuine concern for the good of the mission, the innocents, and his partner, not necessarily in that order.
But what Illya is mulling over at this precise moment is: how did he and the most heterosexual human being on the face of the earth come to be here, now, doing this, with him?
True, their partnership had, over the years, become rife with touching, secretive smiles, and double entendres, but, from what Illya had witnessed, that was the way of men in America.
In the U.S.S.R., men hugged and kissed each other. Here, they flirted, patted each other on the back or leg, and made sly sexual remarks to one another - then, with their next breath, bragged about the “chick” they had “made it with” last night. Such strange behavior in a country that was always invoking the “sexual revolution”. Napoleon definitely had such behavior down to a science.
However, Illya could swear that, when they had last been together - last week, was it? - yes, it was Christmas day - his partner hadn’t been any different than usual. What had Napoleon called it? Oh, yes, “The Deep Six Affair”.
It had been a pretty straight forward affair. Why were they always called affairs, any way? He was in London, in a very hot and sticky disguise, posing as Mr. Yu, representative of the Chinese black market. It was nice that his new strobe bomb had worked, saving U.N.C.L.E. not only the fifty million dollars for the plans of the new submarine, but also the one million dollars each that Krohler was demanding for the release of Napoleon and Morton.
Now that he though about it, though, some pretty unusual things had occurred. There was the rental car, for one. Napoleon always insisted on the latest model sports car, which usually meant small, and this trip was no exception. But Illya couldn’t help but remember being just a bit more crowded than usual, Napoleon’s thigh pressed against his with just a bit more pressure than normal.
They had been listening to Morton, via the bug Napoleon had managed to plant on him, when a sudden loud pop had signaled the end of it’s existence. They had mutually decided to try to drive for a bit and see if they could locate Morton. In an attempt to test Napoleon’s intentions, Illya had looked him straight in the eye and said, “Let’s cruise,” the double entendre hanging on his lips. Napoleon had merely smiled noncommittally.
Then, when Laura had revealed herself as a THRUSH agent, Napoleon had kept his special trained on Krohler, refusing, in typical Solo style, to back down. But, when Laura had placed the muzzle of her gun to Illya’s head, Napoleon had immediately thrown his own gun to the floor with more force than was necessary.
As the wheels of Illya’s mind whir, he begins to remember more.
When, in reference to he couldn’t remember what, Krohler had posed the question, “Wouldn’t you say that was carrying togetherness a bit too far?” Napoleon had leeringly smirked at him for a brief moment. Illya recalled smiling back, confused.
Now that he is thinking about it, there were other indications.
When discussing attraction and falling in love, Mr. Waverly had quipped, “U.N.C.L.E. agents are only human,” Napoleon had visibly reacted to the point of nearly choking.
But the most telling of all, to Illya’s way of thinking, was when Napoleon actually questioned their superior to his face. As Mr. Waverly was expressing his displeasure at the unavoidably hastily prepared dossier on Laura Adams, Illya had looked over at Napoleon, shocked at what he saw. His partner’s head was bowed, and his face looked as though he were being tortured.
A second, even bigger shock had come when Napoleon had lifted his head, walked toward his silk robed superior, and said, “Sir, Morton’s agreed to finish the assignment. Why are you interfering in his personal life?”
Illya had thought he would drop his teeth. No one ever questioned Waverly, let alone his top agent. Little did Illya know that Napoleon wasn’t finished, for the next statement to proceed out of his mouth was, “Well, I don’t like it.”
Illya had a vague memory of trying to defend Napoleon without further angering his boss, but he was so scandalized that the rest of the conversation hadn’t really registered. Now, though, as he recalled Napoleon’s look and manner, he realized that something personal and earth shattering was going on inside the man.
As the affair was winding up, just before they parted company, there was a brief discussion about the unfitness of U.N.C.L.E. agents for marriage. Illya would never be quite sure why, but, as Mr. Waverly exited the office, he had looked at Napoleon and said with a smirk, “We have each other.” Napoleon had quickly turned away, but not before Illya had seen a pained look cross his face.
December 26, 1968
Norman Felton smiled in his sleep, as Napoleon Solo leaned over to whisper in his ear. The next day, Felton held a private meeting with writer Norman Hudis, whose eyes widened as he blurted out, “But what about the censors?”
“Screw the censors,” replied Felton.
Later that afternoon, Felton, Hudis, and director Sutton Roley sequestered themselves in the conference room. The conversation was purposely subdued.
“It’s better than anything I can come up with,” Hudis admitted with a shrug.
“But,” Roley asked, “what about the censors.”
Felton and Hudis answered in unison, “Screw the censors.”
Present:
“Bozhe moi,” Illya gasps out, as Napoleon’s tongue gently swipes over the head of his penis. Okay, even he had to stop thinking sometimes. His eyes drift closed again as he allows himself to be swept away on the tidal wave that is Napoleon.
Suddenly, he is snapped back to consciousness. He finally realizes that this final episode of their lives together has been in the making for quite some time, but there is one last issue gnawing at his mind.
“Napoleon,” he groans, “what about…?”
Napoleon lifts his beautiful, dark head and slithers up Illya’s sweat slick body to gaze into eyes that are as blue and sparkling as the Mediterranean. He cups his palm against the face that he adores above all others, and, just before taking Illya’s luscious lips in a soul searing kiss, he mumbles, “Screw the censors.”