FIC: The Man from U.N.C.L.E. - Olivier's
Title: Olivier's
Author:
fajrdrako
Fandom: The Man from U.N.C.L.E.
Genre: Slash.
Characters: Illya Kuryakin/Napoleon Solo
Challenge: from
baronjanus, who wanted me to write something outside of my comfort zone - something about a character I've wanted to write, but haven't felt ready to.
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: Not mine, no claims, all property of NBC TV.
Notes: 1,425 words.
Olivier's
A Russian and an American walked into a bar...
No, it wasn't funny, though it might have been. They'd had a bad day or two of it, the worst being handcuffed inside a sealed drum that was due to be dropped into an incinerator. They'd got out - first he saved Napoleon from the barrel, then Napoleon saved him from the furnace. Two agents, still alive. But their informant, Ursuline, hadn't made it.
It wasn't much consolation that the death toll was higher among their enemies. Ursuline would never go to art school. She was young, an innocent, and would never have been in that situation, if it weren't for them.
Afterwards, Illya wanted to go home, lick his wounds, and sleep. But Napoleon was full of adrenaline and bounce. "Come on, Illya," he coaxed. "One drink won't do any harm. Why not?"
"I know what it's like," said Illya. "We go to one of the finest bars in New York. We relax with some drink whose name I can't pronounce. We have an interesting conversation, but the moment I start to enjoy myself, someone catches your eye - someone blonde and curvaceous. She smiles at you. You smile back. I take a taxi and go home alone. End of story."
"So?" Napoleon gave him a winning smile. "Some of those curvaceous blondes are looking at you, too. You don't have to go home alone. You could go to her place."
"In other words, I could be like you."
Napoleon smiled. "Exactly so. Why not? You could use a little fun."
"I don't need to get laid," snapped Illya. It wasn't true, though it was a bit of a sore point. He didn't need to get laid by any of those New York models or aspiring actresses. The person he wanted wasn't blonde, wasn't curvaceous, and wasn't giving him the eye, worse luck. The person he wanted, one of the most sexually aware men on the planet, was one hundred per cent oblivious when it came to his partner.
"You need something," said Napoleon. He raised an eyebrow. "Maybe if I said 'please'? Or 'pretty please'? Or pusjalsta?"
Illya was not going to smile. He wasn't. But he found himself laughing and giving in, because Napoleon could always do that to him.
Which is why Illya was walking into Olivier's, one of the most exclusive and expensive bars in New York, in Napoleon's wake. The gracious host recognized him and called him "Mr. Solo" while a beautiful young woman in a short skirt took his hat. "Maurice, this is my colleague, Mr. Kuryakin," Napoleon said, in way of introduction. Illya wondered if this was one of those moments in which an American would shake hands, but no. Maurice bobbed his head.
"A pleasure, m'sieur. I hope you enjoy your evening here."
Illya decided it would be unwise to explain that he was not French. He followed Napoleon to one of the luxurious leather benches that curved around a moon-shaped table, and sat. A waitress hovered at their side before their backsides had even touched the expensive upholstery. Napoleon ordered some sort of cognac; Illya asked for their best vodka. The vodka they sold in America all tasted foul to him, but he lived in hopes of being surprised one day. This might be the day. It came in a glass as expensive as the drink, with artfully patterned napkins.
This was not the day. Resigned, Illya drank what passed for decent liquor in New York, and listened attentively to Napoleon.
Napoleon felt it his duty to introduce Illya to American culture. Sometimes his notion of what that should entail was odd, but Illya had come to like the idiosyncratic tidbits of native lore Napoleon shared with him. Often, it spoke more of Napoleon's own life and interests than the nation he lived in. Illya knew the comic books he'd read as a boy, the games he'd played, the movie stars he liked. He knew (or guessed) a few things about Napoleon that Napoleon didn't know he knew. The knowledge was precious to him. He could not have Napoleon as his lover, he knew that, though he didn't consider the matter entirely closed. He certainly could not touch and hold his partner as he wished. But he could treasure the intimate knowledge deep within him, taking joy in the certainty that he knew Napoleon Solo better than anyone else on this earth. Better than any of those smiling stewardesses or forthright farm-girls. Better than Alexander Waverly himself.
Tonight, Napoleon talked about the architect who had built the building in which they now sat, and the decorator who made it the fashionable and elegant place it had become. Illya listened sufficiently so that he could, if necessary, reproduce the conversation at any time, verbatim, without error, a knack he had perfected in his line of work. But half his mind was elsewhere. He was watching Napoleon's fingers as they touched his cool glass. Watching his lips as he drank. Watching his eyes as he explained, earnestly and with accuracy, the importance of selling alcoholic beverages to the Manhattan economy.
Then Napoleon held up his glass. "To us. To another triumphant success."
"Was it?"
"We won. That's success. Our world still turns."
Illya considered that. "Yes." He held up his glass. "It still turns, and long may it continue so."
They sipped. "How's the vodka tonight?"
"Better than usual. I think it was distilled from a higher quality of toxic waste."
Napoleon laughed. "One day, we'll find something better for you."
"Of course. The day we go to Moscow."
Illya noticed the exact moment when Napoleon saw the girl who had been staring at him. Napoleon smiled back at her, and Illya knew the familiar pattern. He wondered whether, if he asked Napoleon not to leave with the girl, but to stay with him instead - would Napoleon do it? Would he stay? Illya thought he would. But he would be puzzled, and surprised, wondering why Illya was holding him back from a pleasurable night.
Napoleon would not understand, so Illya said nothing.
Fifteen minutes later, the girl and her friend were sitting with them. They shared anecdotes and light information about each other. They were Dutch, on holiday in New York from Amsterdam because they liked the theatre. They thought it wonderful that Napoleon and Illya had been to Amsterdam. It made for lively conversation about favorite restaurants and shops, neighborhoods and galleries. Illya put on his 'mysterious spy' manner, and contributed enigmatic smiles to the conversation. When the quieter woman put her hand on his, he pulled it away, slowly but pointedly. She pouted and nursed her drink, then proceeded to ignore Illya. Which was all right with him.
He wished he was in the other woman's place, facing the full charm of Napoleon's commentary, laced with double entendres. Their drinks were finished. Rather than order another round, Eeltje was inviting Napoleon back to her hotel - it was not clear yet whether Tessa was going back with them. She looked as if she wanted to, and Napoleon's flirtation began to be liberally aimed towards both of them. It seemed the time had come for Illya to go home and spend some time with a book. Napoleon, who insisted on paying the bill for all of them, gave Illya a glance. "Sure you won't join us?"
"Absolutely," said Illya, without explanation. What fun would group sex be, if he wasn't the one Napoleon wanted?
Napoleon opened his mouth to answer when he was interrupted by a telltale sound from his pocket. "Excuse me," he said to the girls, and moved quickly to the doorway which led to the Men's Room, out of sight and earshot of the girls, to commune with his pen.
In a moment, he was back. "Sorry, ladies," he said. "That was a message from my uncle. There's a problem. Something has come up. Illya and I must leave."
They protested and sulked. Napoleon made soothing noises and everyone except Illya exchanged phone numbers, perhaps a little more quickly than was friendly, but time was of the essence. It was possible Napoleon really was sorry to be called to duty, but Illya doubted it.
It was exactly what Illya wanted. Fatigue was giving way to excitement. Another adventure with Napoleon, a mission with danger and action and close interdependence. Along the way, some girl would catch Napoleon's attention, and he would charm her, and then once again the men from U.N.C.L.E. would save the day. When it was over, and the world was safe again, it would be the same as it was tonight. The girl would be gone, and Illya would still be at Napoleon's side.
Underneath his impassive mask, Illya's heart filled with anticipation.