MFU Fic: Five Times Napoleon Solo Got Lucky
My cliche bingo card happened to include the cliche I was already writing (they're cliches for a reason, people!), so here we go: my first fic in MFU, my first fic in about two years, and my first slash in...er...a long time. Betaed by the eternally patient and lightning quick ezazahaz.
Five Times Napoleon Solo Got Lucky
(1,400 words, rated an ironic PG)
Five Times Napoleon Solo Got Lucky
by Epicycles
1.
Napoleon stared down at the sewer grate, then up at the window high above, and turned to Illya with his best, most charming smile.
"No."
"I didn't say anything!"
"You were going to invent a story about being a world-class rock-climber in college so that I'd let you take the window and you don't have to get your suit dirty."
"I did rock climb in college."
"And I am always covered in mud at the end of a mission. It's your turn."
It was a fair point; Illya did tend to end up a bit bedraggled after missions. Momentarily stymied, Napoleon shoved his hands in his pockets, making his loose change jingle.
"Ah! We'll flip for it!" He pulled out a hundred-lire coin triumphantly. "Heads you take the sewer, tails I do it."
"Why do you always get heads? You always pick heads, you always win." Illya crossed his arms over his chest petulantly.
"My, Illya, do I detect a hint of superstition? Where's that scientific brain of yours now?"
"Science is one thing, a statistical anomaly is another. We are also using my coin, not yours. And I flip."
"That hurts my feelings. Fine, I'll take tails."
Illya pulled a half crown out of his pocket and balanced it delicately on his hand -- the queen's head facing down.
"Do you really think that will work?"
He flipped. The coin spun, glinting in the fading sunlight, before Illya snatched it out of the air and smacked it onto the back of his hand.
"Last chance to change your mind, tovarishch."
Illya ostentatiously ignored him and peeked at the coin under his hand. His face fell.
"What is it? Is it tails?" Napoleon asked, grinning.
"Here," Illya tossed him the coin in disgust. "Keep it clean for me."
2.
"Mr. Solo? Are you awake?"
"No," Napoleon wanted to grumble, but the words caught in his dry throat and he coughed.
"Easy. Here, drink this." A cup of cool water was pressed to his lips, and awareness poured into him along with the liquid. A doctor, a hospital, a mission, a mistake, Illya, and a--
"Bomb," he managed.
"Yes, they found the bomb. Or rather, you did, when it exploded. Do you remember where you are?"
"Hong Kong." Napoleon frowned, focusing on the blurry image of the doctor leaning over him. "Illya--"
The doctor pointed to Napoleon's other side. Napoleon rolled his head on the pillow to see Illya asleep in a chair, arms and legs tied up like a pretzel, halfway hanging off the chair but somehow managing not to fall. His feet were bare, his clothes were borrowed, and his hair was dark with soot.
"All right?"
"Mr. Kuryakin is fine. He was in the hallway outside the room when the bomb went off. A good thing for you, since if he hadn't been there to stop the bleeding we wouldn't be having this conversation. Or if that shard of glass had been an inch to the right."
The doctor patted his elbow. "You're a very lucky man, Mr. Solo."
3.
Napoleon was having a good day.
A good half-day, at least. The less said about the morning, the better. They were alive, he had to remind himself, they had both survived. He wasn't one to dwell on all of his and Illya's near misses, if only because he didn't have that much free time.
But he did enjoy their near-miss routine -- he and Illya cutting out early after the debriefing, finding a restaurant with food good enough for Napoleon and plentiful enough for Illya, talking until the waiters threw them out and they ended up at someone's apartment, drinking wine, listening to records, and letting the mission drift slowly into the past.
This time it had been a little corner Italian place, Napoleon's apartment, Merlot, and Miles Davis.
Or, it had been Miles Davis. The record had finished and Illya had expressed his desire for something more "interesting" (a desire expressed by prodding Napoleon until he gave in simply to avoid spilling the wine), so Napoleon was on his knees by his record cabinet, trying to find something to play that wouldn't make his Russian friend start a wine-loosened dissertation on modern American jazz.
He wasn't sure what made him turn around just at that moment. A sixth sense, an itching at the back of his neck that meant he was being watched, or just plain chance. But he glanced around at Illya and was startled to find him looking back.
Not for long -- as soon as Illya realized he'd been caught, he'd immediately looked away, leaning over to refill his wineglass. But Napoleon had not gotten to where he was by being unskilled at reading facial expressions. And though Illya was facing away from him, the pink blush creeping up the back of his neck betrayed the direction of his thoughts.
Napoleon turned back to the record player. Interesting. He thought back over the past few months -- briefings, missions, dinners, times he had caught something odd from the corner of his eye, times he had fixed Illya's hair or lapels, times they had parted without knowing if either would survive to reunite. He added this latest glance to the pile of memories, and felt something shift.
Very interesting indeed.
He moved to a different section of his record collection. If he played his cards right, Napoleon's good day was going to turn into an excellent night.
4.
They hadn't noticed he was gone yet.
Napoleon carefully edged around the corner, wishing for the hundredth time that he had a gun. A knife. A sharpened tie-tack. Anything between him and the Thrush guards besides his own rapidly fading strength. But they'd searched him unusually thoroughly before tossing him in the cell. They'd taken his shoes (radio transmitter), cufflinks (explosives), watch (sleeping gas), ring (poison), communicator (obvious), and fountain pen (innocent but expensive). And an enthusiastic beating had ensured his fists would do him little good.
All that preparation, and they forgot to lock the door.
Well, not forgot, exactly -- more like a mechanical failure. He'd been left alone for a few hours to contemplate his dim prospects for escape and/or dinner, when the door's fancy unpickable electronic lock had given an unpleasant *blarp* noise and clicked open. Napoleon had been suspicious at first, but after several hallways with no sign of pursuit or surveillance he was inclined to accept his good fortune at face value and continue the escape.
He slipped through a door that had been lazily propped open and came face-to-face with a well-armed and quite startled Thrush guard.
The guard grabbed for his gun. Napoleon threw himself backward but found the door had locked behind him.
The guard pulled the trigger.
Napoleon flinched.
Nothing happened.
Napoleon and the guard looked at the gun in disbelief, then at each other. Then Napoleon punched him in the face.
Now armed with a malfunctioning (but still visually intimidating) gun, he continued his trek. It was hard to gauge direction inside the base, but he thought the exit would have to be somewhere around--
"Hold it!" came an ice-cold voice from behind.
Napoleon sighed. He was really starting to lose his touch. "Illya."
"Yes, and a good thing too. If I had been Thrush you would be dead." Illya was at least dressing the part -- jumpsuit, beret, obnoxiously oversized rifle. He looked annoyed but healthy, so clearly his attempt to evade capture had gone more smoothly than Napoleon's.
"I almost was dead," Napoleon said, plucking a spare gun from Illya's belt. "His gun jammed."
Illya's expression slid from annoyed to unbearably smug.
"And you had something to with that, didn't you, you sneaky Russian," Napoleon said, incredulous.
"I merely paid a visit to the armory on my way in -- before the shift change." Illya's grin moved from unbearably smug to insufferably smug. "You may have also noticed some glitches in the electrical system."
Napoleon laughed. "And here I'd thought I must have picked up a guardian angel."
5.
"Ah, there you are, Mr. Solo. I'd like you to meet your new partner, Illya Kuryakin."
Five Times Napoleon Solo Got Lucky
(1,400 words, rated an ironic PG)
Five Times Napoleon Solo Got Lucky
by Epicycles
1.
Napoleon stared down at the sewer grate, then up at the window high above, and turned to Illya with his best, most charming smile.
"No."
"I didn't say anything!"
"You were going to invent a story about being a world-class rock-climber in college so that I'd let you take the window and you don't have to get your suit dirty."
"I did rock climb in college."
"And I am always covered in mud at the end of a mission. It's your turn."
It was a fair point; Illya did tend to end up a bit bedraggled after missions. Momentarily stymied, Napoleon shoved his hands in his pockets, making his loose change jingle.
"Ah! We'll flip for it!" He pulled out a hundred-lire coin triumphantly. "Heads you take the sewer, tails I do it."
"Why do you always get heads? You always pick heads, you always win." Illya crossed his arms over his chest petulantly.
"My, Illya, do I detect a hint of superstition? Where's that scientific brain of yours now?"
"Science is one thing, a statistical anomaly is another. We are also using my coin, not yours. And I flip."
"That hurts my feelings. Fine, I'll take tails."
Illya pulled a half crown out of his pocket and balanced it delicately on his hand -- the queen's head facing down.
"Do you really think that will work?"
He flipped. The coin spun, glinting in the fading sunlight, before Illya snatched it out of the air and smacked it onto the back of his hand.
"Last chance to change your mind, tovarishch."
Illya ostentatiously ignored him and peeked at the coin under his hand. His face fell.
"What is it? Is it tails?" Napoleon asked, grinning.
"Here," Illya tossed him the coin in disgust. "Keep it clean for me."
2.
"Mr. Solo? Are you awake?"
"No," Napoleon wanted to grumble, but the words caught in his dry throat and he coughed.
"Easy. Here, drink this." A cup of cool water was pressed to his lips, and awareness poured into him along with the liquid. A doctor, a hospital, a mission, a mistake, Illya, and a--
"Bomb," he managed.
"Yes, they found the bomb. Or rather, you did, when it exploded. Do you remember where you are?"
"Hong Kong." Napoleon frowned, focusing on the blurry image of the doctor leaning over him. "Illya--"
The doctor pointed to Napoleon's other side. Napoleon rolled his head on the pillow to see Illya asleep in a chair, arms and legs tied up like a pretzel, halfway hanging off the chair but somehow managing not to fall. His feet were bare, his clothes were borrowed, and his hair was dark with soot.
"All right?"
"Mr. Kuryakin is fine. He was in the hallway outside the room when the bomb went off. A good thing for you, since if he hadn't been there to stop the bleeding we wouldn't be having this conversation. Or if that shard of glass had been an inch to the right."
The doctor patted his elbow. "You're a very lucky man, Mr. Solo."
3.
Napoleon was having a good day.
A good half-day, at least. The less said about the morning, the better. They were alive, he had to remind himself, they had both survived. He wasn't one to dwell on all of his and Illya's near misses, if only because he didn't have that much free time.
But he did enjoy their near-miss routine -- he and Illya cutting out early after the debriefing, finding a restaurant with food good enough for Napoleon and plentiful enough for Illya, talking until the waiters threw them out and they ended up at someone's apartment, drinking wine, listening to records, and letting the mission drift slowly into the past.
This time it had been a little corner Italian place, Napoleon's apartment, Merlot, and Miles Davis.
Or, it had been Miles Davis. The record had finished and Illya had expressed his desire for something more "interesting" (a desire expressed by prodding Napoleon until he gave in simply to avoid spilling the wine), so Napoleon was on his knees by his record cabinet, trying to find something to play that wouldn't make his Russian friend start a wine-loosened dissertation on modern American jazz.
He wasn't sure what made him turn around just at that moment. A sixth sense, an itching at the back of his neck that meant he was being watched, or just plain chance. But he glanced around at Illya and was startled to find him looking back.
Not for long -- as soon as Illya realized he'd been caught, he'd immediately looked away, leaning over to refill his wineglass. But Napoleon had not gotten to where he was by being unskilled at reading facial expressions. And though Illya was facing away from him, the pink blush creeping up the back of his neck betrayed the direction of his thoughts.
Napoleon turned back to the record player. Interesting. He thought back over the past few months -- briefings, missions, dinners, times he had caught something odd from the corner of his eye, times he had fixed Illya's hair or lapels, times they had parted without knowing if either would survive to reunite. He added this latest glance to the pile of memories, and felt something shift.
Very interesting indeed.
He moved to a different section of his record collection. If he played his cards right, Napoleon's good day was going to turn into an excellent night.
4.
They hadn't noticed he was gone yet.
Napoleon carefully edged around the corner, wishing for the hundredth time that he had a gun. A knife. A sharpened tie-tack. Anything between him and the Thrush guards besides his own rapidly fading strength. But they'd searched him unusually thoroughly before tossing him in the cell. They'd taken his shoes (radio transmitter), cufflinks (explosives), watch (sleeping gas), ring (poison), communicator (obvious), and fountain pen (innocent but expensive). And an enthusiastic beating had ensured his fists would do him little good.
All that preparation, and they forgot to lock the door.
Well, not forgot, exactly -- more like a mechanical failure. He'd been left alone for a few hours to contemplate his dim prospects for escape and/or dinner, when the door's fancy unpickable electronic lock had given an unpleasant *blarp* noise and clicked open. Napoleon had been suspicious at first, but after several hallways with no sign of pursuit or surveillance he was inclined to accept his good fortune at face value and continue the escape.
He slipped through a door that had been lazily propped open and came face-to-face with a well-armed and quite startled Thrush guard.
The guard grabbed for his gun. Napoleon threw himself backward but found the door had locked behind him.
The guard pulled the trigger.
Napoleon flinched.
Nothing happened.
Napoleon and the guard looked at the gun in disbelief, then at each other. Then Napoleon punched him in the face.
Now armed with a malfunctioning (but still visually intimidating) gun, he continued his trek. It was hard to gauge direction inside the base, but he thought the exit would have to be somewhere around--
"Hold it!" came an ice-cold voice from behind.
Napoleon sighed. He was really starting to lose his touch. "Illya."
"Yes, and a good thing too. If I had been Thrush you would be dead." Illya was at least dressing the part -- jumpsuit, beret, obnoxiously oversized rifle. He looked annoyed but healthy, so clearly his attempt to evade capture had gone more smoothly than Napoleon's.
"I almost was dead," Napoleon said, plucking a spare gun from Illya's belt. "His gun jammed."
Illya's expression slid from annoyed to unbearably smug.
"And you had something to with that, didn't you, you sneaky Russian," Napoleon said, incredulous.
"I merely paid a visit to the armory on my way in -- before the shift change." Illya's grin moved from unbearably smug to insufferably smug. "You may have also noticed some glitches in the electrical system."
Napoleon laughed. "And here I'd thought I must have picked up a guardian angel."
5.
"Ah, there you are, Mr. Solo. I'd like you to meet your new partner, Illya Kuryakin."