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Chapter Text

Napoleon kneeled in front of the only locked room in the mansion. Above him, Gaby knocked again and called out, “Are you in there, Ilya? Are you okay?”

Napoleon focused on picking the simple lock. Considering the Russian had been captured over twenty-four hours ago, “okay” was optimistic. He might not even be alive.

“Gaby?” someone croaked, almost lost in the sound of the lock giving up in Solo’s grasp.

Napoleon barely recognized Kuryakin. The man sounded strained, wrung out. He stood up, clutching the door handle.

“Yes, Ilya,” answered Gaby in the meanwhile, “we're here to get you.”

“No,” said Ilya. “Don’t— Don’t come in, Gaby.”

“Are you stupid?” she asked.

“Just Gaby?” asked Napoleon next to her.

“Solo?” There was relief in his voice now.

“We're here to get you,” Napoleon confirmed.

A pause. The handle was getting clammy.

“You can come in,” said Ilya. “Not Gaby.”

Napoleon glanced at Gaby; she was searching his face with pinched lips. They were both guessing what could be behind that door.

“Okay, Peril,” he said, turning the handle as Gaby stepped aside.

In a lavish nineteenth-century bedroom, Napoleon found Kuryakin upright, stark naked, spread-eagled, tied to a four-poster bed.

As his eyes adjusted to the dim light of the drawn curtains, Napoleon realized why Ilya had been so insistent. He blinked — did something happen to his— and swiftly looked up to meet a glare just as irate as it was pained.

Napoleon turned to pull the door closed behind him, taking the seconds to process what he saw. To actually conceal his surprise. “I can see why you didn’t want Gaby in here,” he said, treading lightly. Hey, that Kuryakin was comically hard was obvious at a glance, even if exactly what was hard was less clear to his eyes.

Kuryakin didn’t answer. Napoleon turned back with composed nonchalance as the handle clicked into place. “You should’ve said you Soviets know how to party,” he quipped about anything else, reaching for the bindings.

“Not funny,” spat Kuryakin. “She gave me something. Injected... She... fucked up.”

“Clearly.” Napoleon held up the bruised and heavy wrist in one hand while the other released the rope around it, making sure the bloodless arm wouldn’t drop like a brick.

“I am not enjoying this,” Ilya added, low, through gritted teeth.

“I didn’t think you were,” Napoleon said, squeezing the wrist a few times as he lowered it to Kuryakin’s chest. He moved on to the other side. Kuryakin immediately covered himself.

“Can I come in?” Gaby’s voice muffled by the door.

“No,” Ilya growled, as if Gaby wasn’t already worried. Napoleon sighed.

“Could you get some clothes for him?” he called, fingers working at the coarse rope. “Look through the closets, the servants’ uniforms, anything you can find.”

“I see,” replied Gaby. They could hear her smile. Ilya swallowed his frustration and turned away from the door.

“The faster the better!” Napoleon insisted loudly. Gaby huffed just as loudly and her steps faded down the hall. Napoleon knelt to work on the ankles.

“You don’t have to,” said Kuryakin weakly. “Hands free.”

Napoleon ignored him. Ilya’s back would be sore for days, his fingers would be wooden for at least an hour; and he was obviously too exhausted to take these facts into account himself, or to protest further.

Napoleon freed one ankle and momentarily glanced up — to check what Kuryakin would do with his new freedom of movement, maybe — to find Ilya staring down at him, both hands now covering what he’d seen.

Napoleon stood up, took him by the biceps. The overstrained muscles trembled. With a grunt, he half-lifted the Russian, helping him take a large step that finally closed his legs. Kuryakin nearly fell over on his still-restrained ankle, clutching at him with the hand that wasn’t clutching his groin; Napoleon steadied him, leaned him back against the column of wood, and kneeled again.

“No other comment?” Kuryakin asked tightly.

Napoleon raised his eyebrows. “You want one?”

“No.”

Napoleon started on the last ankle.

“But, I want to know if you will kill me over it,” Kuryakin said. His voice was hollow.

Napoleon stopped.

“Or let me die over it,” Kuryakin continued. “Or consider it... good riddance.” He coughed. “Because then you would not be good partner, teammate, for me. We, would have to, reconsider, our, professional relationship.”

Napoleon unexpectedly found himself smiling, and ducked his head to remove the last binding. If he’d had any trepidations, well...

“Well, Peril, you are a man of secrets.” He tossed the rope aside. “And I respect that.”

Kuryakin’s breathing quieted somewhat.

“Mostly. Anyway, this one has no relevance to me whatsoever,” Napoleon finished, standing up and dusting off his knees. “Except, potentially, to identify your cold dead body.”

Kuryakin gave him a grave look. Still, the acute unease he’d been exuding since Napoleon entered the room had lessened.

Then Gaby knocked on the door again, and Napoleon allowed her in with some giant pants and a dressing gown, and Ilya hunched his shoulders as he turned away, giving a glimpse of a pert golden ass.

They took a taxi to the hotel, where Napoleon escorted Kuryakin to their shared room, taking himself and a case file on a rickety elevator ride down to the hotel bar.

“You shouldn’t read those here.” Gaby pressed up along his side and reached for his cocktail.

Napoleon closed the folder and looked at her.

“I heard that he was drugged, and I know he was naked.” Gaby pushed the glass back, unsatisfied. “What did they do, do you know?”

Napoleon sipped his drink.

“Fine, I’ll ask him tomorrow,” said Gaby and ordered them whisky.

Two hours later, Napoleon came up to his room, stomach warm with two — no, three different spirits. He took out his keys and knocked.

“Who is it?” Ilya was bad at hiding his startle.

“Your roommate. They didn’t inspire you to become a naturist, did they?”

Kuryakin groaned.

Napoleon opened the door, assuming the other man would shout him out if he was, in fact, undressed.

Ilya had changed into pyjamas and was sitting with his legs wide open in the suite’s nicer recliner. Napoleon saw a hard line under the draping fabric. The liquor burned his guts.

“How are you feeling?” he asked, sitting across from the Russian.

“Bad.”

“You know, I’m not sure if this applies to you, but they say if it lasts longer than six hours...”

“Shut up.” Kuryakin’s hips twitched.

“Didn’t you try—”

“Did not work.” Kuryakin’s gaze bored into Napoleon instead of the middle distance.

“No? Might take a few times to—”

“Did. Not. Work.”

Kuryakin looked away to say: “I could not finish.”

“Oh.” Napoleon eyed his sagging partner. “Maybe a toy would help?”

“Tried,” said Kuryakin, then froze like he hadn’t meant to.

Napoleon hummed, impressed.

“We could get you someone,” he offered.

Kuryakin shook his head, laughed. “Who?”

“Hire you someone,” Napoleon clarified for the less intelligent half of the room.

“No!” Kuryakin straightened in his chair.

“Why not? Can be a woman, a man, both...”

“You are insane?”

“I don’t know why you’re so offended. You know, a career thief like me is barely better than a hooker, and you take favors from me all the time.” Napoleon noted that the comparison made Kuryakin uncomfortable.

“Is... dangerous,” said Ilya finally, shrinking back a touch. “In my situation.”

Napoleon considered this. “I know some very open-minded people here in Glasgow,” he said evenly.

“No,” Kuryakin repeated. “I do not want it to become known. Already that woman knows. Already you know.”

This was unfamiliar, trepidatious territory for Napoleon, even in the otherwise familiar land of intimate matters. He frowned, asking first:

“What did she want?”

Ilya scowled.

Napoleon was starting to consider the sort of horrific things that happen to naked captives when Ilya said:

“Seed.”

His eyebrows shot up. “Like...”

“Sperm,” Kuryakin gritted out.

“She thought she would get some from you?” Napoleon asked.

“Did not get. Obviously.” Kuryakin sounded dead inside. Napoleon felt a pang of guilt. “Was angry when found out.”

“It means she thinks you can finish, though,” Napoleon pointed out, “and that’s good news for us.”

Ilya’s voice interrupted his intensifying mental review of old Glasgow contacts.

“Can you leave? Please.”

Napoleon blinked. Kuryakin was looking at him with a pained expression.

“Trying... at least helps. Please.”

“Absolutely,” said Napoleon, and went out to eat dinner.

He returned to the hotel bar after sundown. Gaby was nowhere to be seen; she must have gone to her room.

Napoleon remembered what awaited in his room. He got a bourbon and a phonebook from the lobby, and took another halfhour to find some of his old open-minded friends, in case Kuryakin changed his mind. After another bourbon, Napoleon got a bottle of vodka from the bartender in case he didn’t. He took the stairs up.

Ilya was on the couch now, watching some spaghetti western with glazed-over eyes. His crotch was throbbing, Christ, even through the pyjamas.

Napoleon looked to Ilya’s face instead and found a grimace at the corners of his mouth.

“The offer still stands,” he said, landing in an armchair.

“Still no.” Kuryakin’s brows creased. If Napoleon had to guess, he would say the Russian was resisting rutting up into the air.

Napoleon fondled the vodka. Deep breath.

He took it out, placed it on the coffee table, and stood back up to get a couple of glasses and wash his hands.

“What are you doing, cowboy?” Kuryakin watched him with perplexed anticipation. “Alcohol will not help. Tried.”

Napoleon threw his suit jacket in a chair, poured two generous drinks. He held out a glass. “I propose another offer.”

Kuryakin sat back. Napoleon leaned down and shoved the glass into his hand.

“You’re having a hard time,” Napoleon stated, met with a blank expression. He wondered if the innuendo translated. “Um. You don’t want a hooker because of the risk, of finding out your, uh, situation.” He gestured.

Ilya flushed crimson. His legs barely moved to close. It had to be bad, he was ordinarily such a prude. With reason, Napoleon supposed.

“Well.” Napoleon sipped some vodka, set his glass down. “I already know, right?”

“What are you saying,” Kuryakin said. It did not sound like a question.

“I could help.”

Kuryakin stared.

Napoleon pivoted. “It’s getting worse, isn’t it?”

Kuryakin looked away. He coughed out a laugh. “No better than hooker, yes?”

Napoleon breathed out, rolled his eyes. “I have experience in the department.” Old dog, new tricks, he added to himself.

“I am not a woman, cowboy.” Ilya’s voice had gone harsh.

Napoleon made an additional mental note. “Did I say you were?”

“You sleep with women,” Ilya accused.

“I don’t only sleep with women,” Napoleon parried, taking pleasure in the ways Kuryakin’s expression shifted. It felt safe enough to reveal, considering. “And anyway, Peril, I need you to be a useful collaborator. So this is management, really, hardly sex.”

“If you say so.”

The words hung in the air.

“Look, if you’d rather have a woman, we could at least ask—”

“Gaby?” Kuryakin looked at him disapprovingly.

Napoleon shrugged.He respected her no less than himself.

“No.” Ilya suddenly drained his glass, slamming it down. “You offered. You do it. You want, right?”

“I want to help,” Napoleon corrected, ignoring the shiver down his spine.

“You want,” Kuryakin nodded. He sounded newly impatient. “Do it.”

Napoleon sighed. This could have been simpler if Kuryakin still thought he was incapable of being interested.

“Clothes off,” he suggested, rolling up his sleeves.

Ilya, seated, looked up at him, standing. Napoleon did not insist.

Soon Ilya was nude again, and seated again. Napoleon wasted no time sinking down between his legs. This time he was allowed to look.

In his evidently undereducated understanding, Kuryakin had elements of both sexes — a small, but hard cock, swollen a painful purple and pulsing in the cool air, with a heavy hood pulled back by the sheer intensity of his erection, but also dark pink folds flexing along its underside, and underneath, instead of testicles, a wet hole contracting lightly in time. Napoleon swallowed. His head swam.

“I will warm you up,” Napoleon found himself saying. “Then I will use my mouth. Hopefully that’ll work better than just hands, or toys.” His mouth was dry. Inconvenient for the task at hand... He licked his lips.

He looked at Kuryakin in time to see him nod. “Is there anything I should or shouldn’t do?” he asked, placing his hands on trembling knees.

Ilya stared. He shook his head. “No. Don’t know.”

Napoleon let him think. Kuryakin shrugged a shoulder, looking past Solo.

“Don’t put fingers in the back and then put these fingers in the front.”

“Well, obviously. I’m not a troglodyte,” Napoleon scoffed, relieved that common-sense rules still applied. “That’s all?”

Kuryakin was quiet for longer. “Don’t call it anything,” he said finally.

“Так точно,” Napoleon saluted. Ilya winced, for whatever reason.

“Now, the recommended warm-up. Nine out of ten doctors... Oh, nevermind.” Napoleon took a breath, flexed his palms on hairy, muscular legs. He stroked the outside of Ilya’s thighs almost to cleft of his ass and back again; landed his hands on the Russian’s toned waist, listened to Ilya’s breath hitch. Up his pale sides, now, counting his ribs, sliding over his chest — Napoleon felt him tense and moved back down, making sure to catch his nipples on the way, and damn, how Ilya groaned at that.

“Good surgeon,” Napoleon remarked absentmindedly, recalling Sandra’s complaints after her breast reduction. He could just feel the scars, but they were absolutely invisible.

“Excuse me?”

Napoleon sensed a faux pas. He answered the question, or changed subjects, or apologized, perhaps, by thumbing the flat nipples again, this time in deliberate circles. Ilya breathed out and tipped his head back, hips spasming.

The golden-haired abs were less cushioned than his own, the ribs more visible. Napoleon’s hands met at Kuryakin’s lower back, pulling him to the edge of the couch.

He looked down, nipping at the inside of his lower lip.

“Shall I?”

Ilya waved a hand before covering his face. His teeth were clenched.

Napoleon slid his shoulder under a hard thigh, got himself closer to the target. Considering a mix of strategies, he breathed out hot and heavy; Ilya jerked. He wasted no more time — just tilted his head sideways and leaned in. Forehead pressing into the fold of his hip. Tongue pressing down, dragging.

Kuryakin gave a strangled cry and bucked against his mouth.

“Too much?” Napoleon asked. His head met the other’s hands on its short way up — they hadn’t quite reached him, apparently. They were not steady.

“Yes, too... new,” Ilya breathed, looked up at Napoleon and immediately cringed. Napoleon watched as he gradually, methodically relaxed. Warm palms got heavier before lifting off.

“I won’t tease,” Napoleon said, perfectly still. “Promise.”

“I will kill you if you do,” said Kuryakin.

Napoleon lowered his head again and licked, tonguing the glans and the, he supposed, foreskin. On a second taste, he discovered the flat of his tongue folded nicely around the length, starting at the glans, and drew a groan from Kuryakin. Lower still, he found and lapped at a deep and salty warmth; Ilya’s mouth fell open with a small sound and the tension threatened to drain from all his muscles.

Good approach for another day, Napoleon thought, not catching himself have the idea. He moved up to take Ilya into his mouth, bobbed up and down experimentally, memorized which twists and turns made his thighs tense. Kuryakin rolled his hips weakly to meet him, moaning louder every exhale.

Come on, Napoleon thought, and reached to fondle the man’s balls, and for the second time in so many minutes was surprised by slick, yielding flesh. Well, Kuryakin had told him how not to do it, not not to do it — so he kept sucking, kept stroking the man’s waist with his free hand, punctuated by Ilya’s moans, while he dipped a finger inside. He quickly found at least two were needed, and crooked them up in a practised rocking motion.

Ilya thrust into his mouth and went mute. For a long moment, he fucked himself between Napoleon's mouth and fingers in small, desperate jolts.

When Kuryakin slumped back, Napoleon withdrew, wiping his dripping chin with the dry back of his wet hand. He was light-headed.

“Feeling better?”

Ilya leaned forward, coming within awkward distance of Napoleon in order to then push himself back on the couch. “In comparison with before.” He crumpled his discarded underwear and began wiping between his legs after a stuttered pause, eyes down. “It still is in me. I feel it.”

Napoleon turned away diplomatically as he stood up. “Does that mean round two?”

“Probably. Who knows. Maybe more.” Ilya did not sound thrilled. In fact, he sounded bitter. “Poison is designed for you, not for me.”

Napoleon sighed. The clock read half past one.

“You don’t have to, again,” Kuryakin said behind him. “This, is... fine. I can tolerate this.”

“Let’s have another drink,” Napoleon said, taking off his tie.

Chapter Text

Илья отхлебнул третий стакан западной гадости, которую они называли водкой. Он поморщился, но на душе было много легче. В голове стоял приятный туман. Тело было свинцовым. Между ног по-прежнему зудело. После сегодняшнего — вчерашнего — хотелось упасть в сон. Или проснуться.

Соло сидел поотдаль, сняв нацонец-то обувь, и читал глянцевку. Выглядел американец беззаботно, как будто полчаса назад вовсе не облизывал после Ильи губы. При мысли плечи поползли вверх; Илья их расправил, отпил ещё водки.

Наполеон Соло, мужеложец. Кто бы подумал. Илье-то не судить, конечно, но так ведь петушится перед дамами... Юношеский стыд ударил в уши (и в пах); не считает ли он всё-таки Илью— но они обсудили. Кажется.

Илья отвёл глаза, хлебнул ещё. Десять лет. Десять лет никто, сука, про него этого не знал, кроме Олега, который те же десять лет назад сковал ему новую личность из тайных клочков КГБ и приковал к себе намертво. Жизнь десять лет делилась на до-и-после Олега, и всего пару месяцев назад раскололась на до-и-после АНКЛа.

Илья уставился на свой чемодан, как перед собой видя глубоко спрятанную пару носков, шприцы и пузырёк. Британец легко его заманил андрогенами не из рук доблестной совесткой нации. Приковал к новой будке. Если бы Соло отказался с ним работать, то уходить было некуда.

Но Наполеон нарочито вёл себя как ни в чём не бывало. Словно и не видел Илья на нём того первенного, искреннего шока — три секунды, а затем Соло стал страшно спокойным. И вежливый. Секреты, сука, уважает.

Тело никого и ничего не уважало. Кровь гудела в ушах. Рот Соло был неприлично алым в этом свете. Илья укусил щеку, подумав о нём в контексте.

— You’re staring. — Ковбой осушил стакан, смахнул влагу с губ языком.

— I, — начал Илья, недостаточно уверенно.

— Is it time for another round? — Соло спросил как будто о погоде, откладывая журнал. Переигрывал, удавчик-красавчик. Нервничал.

— You don’t have to, — повторил Илья ещё раз. Он выдавил дальше: — Once was... very kind. It’s okay.

Соло скорчил нос и покачал головой, неожиданно улыбаясь посреди всей этой трагедии.

— Stop saying it like that, — он проговорил и пошатнулся, встав из кресла. — You’re not a charity case, Kuryakin. People drool over you.

Илья подумал и свёл брови.

— With clothes on. Without, different story.

— Oh, stop, — махнул Наполеон, — really.

— Really, — процедил Илья. Бёдра ёрзали совершенно вопреки всплывающим мерзейшим воспоминаниям. Голубые глаза американца только дурманили больную голову.

Соло заметил. Смягчился.

— I’m not disgusted by you, you know, — он вдруг сказал, став к нему боком. — Nothing like that. The opposite, actually, I think. Which, Christ, — он прикрыл рот тыльной стороной ладони. — I shouldn’t be telling you, especially not now.

Мир накренился и встал на новую ось.

— You’re drunk, — ответил Илья наконец.

Наполеон Соло посмотрел на него невинными глазами, которыми обычно смотрят на гаишников. Вдобавок ко всему прочему, у Ильи загудело в груди.

— Can I come help you or not? — спросил Соло.

Илья кивнул. Соло уже опускался на колени и, наверное, не заметил.

— Please, — Илья добавил вполголоса. Его одарили сияющим взглядом.

В этот раз Соло развязал тесёмку штанов прямо на нём, запустил пальцы под резинку, заглянул в душу:

— Hips up?

Илья приподнял зад. Соло стащил штаны ему до колен, подумал, и снял полностью, смешно возясь с его ступнями. Раздвинул ему ноги до прежнего положения. Илья покрылся потом.

— Any new advice? — спросил Наполеон.

— Fingers, — выронил Илья, опережая стыд и разум, и вынужден был закончить, — good. Can use more.

Наполеон удовлетворенно кивнул и снова облизал губы. Кажется, Илье захотелось его ударить.

Американец приобнял его голые бёдра и склонился без прежнего колебания.

Горячий язык приласкал его член, облизал головку, присосался несильно и отпустил; Илья мелодично вздохнул и подался вперёд.

— Можно, — сказал Соло с акцентом.

Илья приоткрыл глаза. Ладонь, предательница, дрожала в сантиметрах от чуть-шершавой скулы.

Соло поднял брови и наклонился обратно. Илья, исходящий экстазом как струна, пронаблюдал медленный путь собственной руки; пригладил за ухом чужие короткие волосы.

Присасываясь переменно к члену, Соло снова дыхнул жаром пониже. Лизнул в Илью, просунул в него язык. Поднял взгляд.

— Can, — выдохнул Илья. — yes. Можно. — Рука нетерпеливо увязла в вороной затылок; он её расслабил, тяжело дыша.

Наполеон улыбнулся, не отрывая рта от дела. Илья смотреть на него не мог. Отвернуться — тем более.

Засранец невероятно быстро нашел к нему ключик. Сам Илья о ключике не знал, а американец, сука... Запускал в него пальцы под языком, вместо языка, вместе с языком, каждым манящим движением изнутри выгребая Илюшину совесть. Хотелось ещё, ещё, ещё. Невыговариваемого хотелось. Кусать кулаки хотелось и хвататься за Соло обеими руками.

Второй финиш надвинулся издалека, обмывая тело волнами приятных мурашек. Соло раскачался в определенный ритм; Илья перебирал его волосы пальцами, думал про хорошую водку и про завтрашний день.

Наполеон набрал темп тогда, когда это было надо; внутренний оркестр вышел за все берега. Илья застонал и провалился в жаркую влагу.

Спустя какое-то время, Соло сказал поотдаль:

— So? Round three?

Илья покачал головой в потолок. Струны обмякли.

— Shame.

Илья поднял голову. Наполеон стоял в расстегнутой рубашке и смотрел прямо на него. Не ослышался, значит.

Он только сейчас заметил, что у американца брюки грозятся разойтись спереди.

В первую очередь ему стало почему-то стыдно. Илья прикусил губу.

Во вторую очередь он встал, качаясь, и шагнул через комнату. Соло оказался совсем близко.

— Unfair, — Илья посмотрел ему в глаза, — when someone has no round one yet. What do you think, cowboy?

Пока Соло думал, Илья прихватил его за талию и вынудил сделать два шага назад, в кресло. Американец на коленях своё отслужил с головой.

Наполеон развалился, как черно-белый котяра. Промурлыкал:

— I’m all yours, Peril.

Илья рухнул на колени, прильнул поближе. Схватился за пряжку на брюках. На всякий случай:

— Can I?

Соло закивал, глядя на него жадными глазами.

Ремень, молния; обильное мокрое пятно, просвечивающее в белых трусах. Это когда-то было легко, даже привычно. Это хотелось повторить. Это уже было не чёртово зелье, а искренне, от себя. Это надо было прочувствовать до последней капли, ведь не повторится же. Он взял Наполеона в рот поверх трусов, засосал.

Соло застонал в голос. Не стеснительный.

Илья выдохнул, оттянул влажную ширинку. Терпкое и соленое тепло ринуло в нос аж до горла. Он сглотнул слюнку и вынул член на свет божий. Соло втянул воздух где-то очень далеко рядом.

Голова сладко кружилась. Интересно, ковбой — еврей, или просто американец?

Хотелось что-то сказать. В голове всплыл один только “лехаим”. Секунда тянулась.

— Any... advice? — спросил Илья наконец. Правильно, теперь вопрос был поставлен не только ему, не только за его...

— Fingers are welcome, — сказал Наполеон, подумав. — Not necessarily tonight. But. — Он смолк.

Илья принял к сведению.

Он оценил американца в обхват, щупая железный энтузиазм; сделал пару штрихов запястьем. Соло радостно что-то промурчал и запрокинул голову.

Илья взял его на широкий язык, подлизывая почти до яиц. Охватил губами, обвёл головку языком, дал щекам провалиться—

— Mmm, that’s good, — выдохнул Наполеон, не толкаясь ему в рот. — Real good.

Вежливость и открытая похоть в одном флаконе сбивали с толку. Между ног снова ёкнуло. Илья заглотил Наполеона наполовину, наблюдая за ним, пока язык прошелся по члену вниз, вверх, вниз. Медленно дал ему дойти до горла, неволей сглотнул.

— Oh— Oh, shit...

Илья наклонил голову на бок, проворачивая его в глотке. Краем глаза он увидел, как резко вздымается грудь, какие чёрные у Наполеона стали радужки. Даже не пошутил ковбой.

Он аккуратно освободился.

— Fast, hard... or, long time? — выговорил он ломаным языком, на котором еще как будто лежал тяжелый член. Проглотил солоноватую слюну.

Соло моргнул, прикрыл глаза. Брови дрогнули.

— Not too long, — решил он наконец, пуская руку в волосы.

— Alright. — Илья опустил голову, и добавил, насмешливым эхом самого Наполеона: — Not tonight.

Наполеон засмеялся; Илья его перебил. Теплый смех перелился в густые стоны.

Илья нашёл его правую руку своей левой, положил себе на затылок. Наполеон едва заметно вздрогнул, выдохнул. Погладил. Двумя руками погладил. Нежно-нежно придержал голову однажды, когда Илья был на полпути вниз, не вверх; сразу же отпустил. Илье хотелось его целовать.

Он старательно целовал его в чёрные кудряшки, прижимаясь носом. Член целовал его в горло почти в такт сердцу. Наполеон ронял ругательства и стоны, держась за его затылок, не давя. Выдрессировали тебя, что ли, подумал Илья и глотнул на головке.

— Holy hell, — руки впились ему в заросшие волосы, — fuck, Ilya...

Илья едва ли не застонал вокруг члена. Good, cowboy, сказал бы он сейчас.

Ещё через полминуты Соло снова тяжело задышал, предупреждая руками. Илья распластал ладонь по мощному бедру, провёл вверх, вниз, потянул на себя — можно. Второй рукой перекатил легонько яйца. Соло содрогнулся и наконец-то вжался в него. Пока в жадное горло изливалась горечь, подхлестываемая ненасытным языком, несильная хватка ладоней сползла Илье на щёки.

Илья освободил дыхательные пути под поледний стон американца. Кашлянул, выдохшись.

Наполеон пригладил его щетину большим пальцем. Поймав на себе взгляд, он натянул улыбку чуть проще, чуть стиснул Ильину челюсть, и отнял руки протереть собственное лицо.

Качнувшись с коленей, Илья сел на пол. Он уперся спиной в одно чужое бедро, уронил лоб в другое.

— Спасибо. Thank you, — поправился он.

— Thank you, — усмехнулся Наполеон.

— You were first. Saved me. — Илья снова наступил на больную тему, насаживаясь на рожон: — Even though—

— We’re colleagues? — легко, но натянуто закончил американец. — Unprofessional, I take your point.

Илья сморгнул и ужаснулся слезам.

— No. — И хотел пояснить. И не мог.

***

“I don’t care, Kuryakin,” Napoleon said after a long pause. “I really thought I’d demonstrated that. You’ll have to tell me what I need to do to prove my point.”

Ilya remained unmoving, and half-naked, and wedged comfortably against him.

Sighing, Napoleon tucked himself back into his briefs. “The worst thing you are, Kuryakin, is what you’ve been all along. Russian.”

“Not.” Ilya’s head left behind a cold spot on his thigh. He enunciated: “Ukrainian.” Ookrainian. “Украинец.”

Napoleon had read his file multiple times. “But, you were born in Moscow?”

“Father was big party member. Our family is from Mariupol.”

Napoleon came up blank.

“Now it is Zhdanov,” Kuryakin supplied, glancing over his shoulder. He still hadn’t moved to separate himself from Napoleon.

“Ah.” Napoleon searched his memory again. “Black Sea, right?”

“Close. Azov.”

Napoleon had not paid much mind to the Soviet Union’s intra-state borders or politics. He would remember, now, that the Zhdanov steelworks were a sort of home for Kuryakin. He also imagined he would not enjoy being called a Texan instead of a New Yorker. Or at least an American. He opened his mouth to share this.

“But, ‘Russian’ is safer,” Kuryakin went on. “Nationalism, is, it is, is all — unwelcome, now. Father’s name changed.”

The Soviet Union had experience concealing inconvenient ethnic names, that’s for sure. Countries, regions, their late man Stalin himself.

“And yours?” asked Napoleon idly.

Ilya’s neck stiffened.

Napoleon ran through the evening’s key insights. “Maybe parts of it for other reasons,” he hedged. “But — you weren’t always Kuryakin?”

“Can show you real birth certificate,” Ilya said to the opposite wall. “If you want name before Kuryakin.”

Ilya would not let him ignore the vicious leverage he had over the man.

Napoleon considered ways to improve the imbalance. His uncharacteristically outclassed elephant shifted from foot to foot in the corner.

He was still debating it when his inner timer ran out to heave a defusing theatrical sigh:

“You’ve changed too much since then, Peril. A newborn’s documents no longer apply.” First course; flavour with disdain for any sort of blackmail.

Kuryakin’s shoulders slumped an inch.

“Anyway.” Napoleon steadied himself. “Your name sounds much more natural than what I gave myself.” Second course; serve under a generous drizzle of self-deprecation, taken from the Soviet’s natural tendencies. “I mean, ask yourself, would a loving mother name her child Napoleon fucking Solo?”

Kuryakin turned and stared at him.

Napoleon was beginning to wonder if they were underdressed and overfucked for this talk, but mostly remained pleased with himself.

“I read your file,” Ilya said. “Napoleon Solo. No other aliases.”

Napoleon grinned. “I was a poor Italian Harlem kid when I joined the army! No one gave a damn what I put down.”

***

“Gaby will know,” Ilya announced within a minute of Napoleon exiting the washroom.

Napoleon thought back on the potential revelatory nature of his actions. The shower had been divine. “How?”

“I will tell her.”

Napoleon looked at him curiously.

“Safer,” Kuryakin shrugged, grimacing just a little. “Probably. And easier, if you both know, than if she doesn’t.”

“I suppose we all ought to go skinny-dipping,” Napoleon said, sitting on his bed. “To make it fair, I mean.”

Ilya scowled. “Not funny.”

“Why do you think I’m joking?” Napoleon said teasingly. “In our field of work, it can save a heck of a lot of time to know that your teammate should actually have a scar on his or her ass.”

Ilya looked away. Napoleon laughed:

“I meant me, Peril! See what I mean?”

“I don’t want — Gaby,” Ilya shook his head, “Gaby would not want to.”

“So you’ve already asked her?”

“...No.”

“I think it’d be good for the team.” Napoleon swung his legs up on the bed. “For l’esprit de corps. It would break the ice for you, too.”

Kuryakin didn’t answer. In fairness, this time Napoleon himself couldn’t tell if he was joking.

Chapter Text

Ilya sipped his third glass of the European bullshit they called vodka. He grimaced, though overall feeling better by far. His head was pleasantly clouded, his body leaden. A nagging heat pulsed between his legs. After today — and yesterday — he wanted to fall into sleep. Or to wake up.

Solo was sat a distance away, having finally taken off his shoes, flicking through some glossy rag. He looked so thoroughly unbothered that Ilya could believe he dreamt the American licking his lips after eating him out. His shoulders shrugged involuntarily; Ilya pulled them down, had more vodka.

Napoleon Solo was an enthusiastic sodomite. His own words, more or less. Who would’ve thought. Ilya was the last to judge, of course, but he had trouble squaring it away with the other’s equally enthusiastic pursuit of women. A long-ago shame fanned his face, recently risen from the ashes: Am I just another one to him— But, they’d talked it over. Sort of.

Ilya moved his gaze a metre to the side, drank some more. Ten years. Motherfucker. Ten years of no one knowing this except Oleg, who had built him a new identity ten years ago out of KGB scraps and forever chained him down at his feet. Ten years of life Before and After Oleg. Only two months ago did life split into Before U.N.C.L.E. and After U.N.C.L.E.

Ilya’s eyes landed on his suitcase, visualising the exact pair of socks, the vial, the syringes. The Brit had lured him in with a promise of androgens without ties to the glorious Soviet nation — chained him to a new doghouse. If Solo refused to work with him, he had no real alternatives.

But Napoleon was aggressively projecting a kind of zen about the circumstances, bordering on feigned ignorance. As though Ilya had not seen the three seconds of pure, earnest shock on his face, before Solo had turned back and become so fucking calm on the matter. And polite, too. He respects secrets, you see.

Ilya’s body respected nothing and no one. Blood rushed in his ears. Solo’s mouth was obscenely scarlet in this light. Ilya bit his inner cheek, thinking of it in context.

“You’re staring.” The cowboy tossed back the last of his glass, swiping his tongue across his lips.

“I,” Ilya began, unconvincingly.

“Is it time for another round?” Solo asked like they were chatting about the weather, setting his magazine to the side. Definitely overdoing it. Definitely nervous.

“You don’t have to,” Ilya repeated one more time. He forced himself to say: “Once was... very kind. It’s okay.”

Solo made a face and shook his head, smiling all of a sudden in these tragic circumstances.

“Stop saying it like that,” he said, wobbling on his way up from the armchair. “You’re not a charity case, Kuryakin. People drool over you.”

Ilya frowned after a second of flattery.

“With clothes on. Without, different story.”

“Oh, stop,” Napoleon waved a hand, “really.”

“Really,” Ilya gritted out. His hips were twitching entirely counter to the unpleasant memories surfacing in his head. American blue eyes spun through his sick head.

Solo noticed. He softened.

“I’m not disgusted by you, you know,” he said, standing in profile. “Nothing like that. The opposite, actually, I think. Which, Christ,” he shielded his mouth with the back of his hand. “I shouldn’t be telling you, especially not now.”

The world fell over on its axis.

“You’re drunk,” said Ilya finally.

Napoleon Solo looked at him with innocent eyes normally reserved for arresting officers. On top of everywhere else, Ilya felt a buzzing heat in his chest.

“Can I come help you or not?” Solo asked.

Ilya nodded. Solo was already kneeling down; he probably didn’t see. So Ilya added, “Please,” and was rewarded with a truly radiant glance.

This time Solo undid his trousers for him, pushed both hands under the waistband, looked into his eyes: “Hips up?”

Ilya lifted his ass. Solo yanked his pyjamas down to the knees, thought about it, and took them off all the way, making a funny show of freeing his feet. He pushed Ilya’s legs apart to their former position. Ilya was sweating.

“Any new advice?” asked Napoleon.

“Fingers,” Ilya slipped before his shame could catch him, and was forced to finish, “good. Can use more.”

Napoleon nodded with satisfaction and licked his lips again. Ilya sort of wanted to hit him.

Solo embraced his naked thighs and bent down without the trepidation of last time.

A hot tongue lapped at his length, licked around the head, sucked lightly and let go; Ilya sighed with a hint of moan and pushed forward.

“You can,” said Solo, in Russian, with an accent. Mozhna.

Ilya opened his eyes. His traitorous hand was hovering centimetres from a prickly cheekbone.

Solo raised his eyebrows and went back to work. Ilya, his body ringing with ecstasy, watched the slow path of his hand; it smoothed Napoleon’s short black hair behind an ear, and stayed there.

Still sucking him on and off, Solo breathed fire even lower, like last time. Licked inside Ilya, pushed his tongue further in. Raised his eyes.

“Can,” Ilya exhaled, “yes. Можно.” Go ahead. His hand tangled impatiently in Solo’s hair; he forced himself to relax it, breathing hard.

Napoleon smiled without coming up for air. Ilya couldn’t stand to look at him. He couldn’t stand to look away either.

The fucker had found a way to make him sing offensively fast. Ilya had never discovered one like this, and the American piece of shit... Fingers were dipping inside him with tongue, without tongue, tongue without fingers, oh, every beckoning motion inside him removing a sliver of Ilya’s shame. He wanted more, more, more. He wanted the unspeakable. He wanted to lose his mind and cling to Solo two-handed.

The second finale gave ample notice, washing over him in titillating waves as it approached. Solo settled into a nice rhythm; Ilya cupped his head, fiddled with his hair, thought about good vodka and about tomorrow.

Napoleon picked up the pace at the exact right moment. The symphony in his veins crested and broke; Ilya moaned and fell back into a spreading wet heat.

Some time later, Solo said from across the room, “So? Round three?”

Ilya shook his head at the ceiling. The orchestra was packing up.

“Shame.”

He raised his head. Napoleon wast standing in an open shirt and looking directly at him. Only now Ilya noticed that the American’s trousers were about to burst a seam at the front.

Ilya immediately felt guilty, for some reason. He bit his lip.

Next, he stood up, wavering, and walked forward. Solo turned out to be closer than he looked.

“Unfair,” Ilya said, locking onto his gaze, “when someone has no round one yet. What do you think, cowboy?”

While Solo thought, Ilya landed a palm on his waist and forcibly guided him backwards into an armchair. The man had spent more than his share of time on his knees.

Napoleon sprawled out, a huge black and white alley cat. Purred:

“I’m all yours, Peril.”

Ilya fell to his knees, pulled himself closer. He grabbed the belt buckle in front of him. Just in case: “Can I?”

Solo nodded quickly, eyes fixed on him, ravenous.

Buckle, belt, zipper; considerable damp spot, translucent on white briefs. This would’ve been uncomplicated once upon a time, even mundane. This begged to be repeated. This was not the fucking potion anymore, this was genuine, from within. This had to be savoured to the last drop.

Ilya took Napoleon into his mouth over the underwear and sucked.

Solo moaned, loud. Unashamed.

Ilya exhaled, pulled apart the cotton fly. A not-quite-salty heat rushed into his throat. He swallowed his drool and delicately freed Napoleon’s cock from its confinement. Solo took a breath somewhere very far away.

Ilya’s head was spinning. He wondered if the cowboy was in fact Jewish, or just American. He wanted to say something; the only thing coming to mind was “l’chaim”. The second stretched on.

“Any... advice?” asked Ilya finally. This way, they both got that question, not just him and his...

“Fingers are welcome,” Napoleon said, thinking. “Not necessarily tonight. But.” He stopped.

Ilya took that into account.

He took Solo by the base, flexing his fingers, feeling the rock-hard enthusiasm; pumped his fist a few times. Solo hummed something appreciative, falling back.

Ilya held him on his wide tongue, licked down towards his balls. Closed his lips around him, tongued around the head, let his cheeks hollow out—

“Mmm, that’s good,” Napoleon breathed, not shoving into his mouth. “Real good.”

The open encouragement and the sheer politeness were throwing Ilya off his usual game. His hips were gently rocking again.

Ilya took Napoleon in halfway, watching his face while his tongue ran up and down the underside of his dick. Slowly, slowly took him down into his throat, swallowing involuntarily.

“Oh— Oh, shit...”

Ilya tilted his head sideways, twisting around the cock in his mouth. At the edge of his vision, he saw how hard and fast Solo was breathing, how black his irises were. The cowboy couldn’t even come up with a joke.

Ilya carefully extricated himself. He swallowed salty saliva.

“Fast, hard... or, long time?” He spoke stiffly, still feeling Napoleon’s girth in this throat.

Solo blinked, closed his eyes. The supermodel brows twitched.

“Not too long,” he decided finally, pushing his hand through his hair.

“Alright.” Ilya dropped his head and added, a mocking echo: “Not tonight.”

Napoleon laughed; Ilya interrupted him. Warm laughter thickened into wanton moans.

Ilya found the man’s right hand with his left and placed it on the back of his head. Napoleon froze for a millisecond, exhaled. Stroked the fragile curve of his skull. Both hands, then. He gently, gently held Ilya in place once, when he’d been halfway down (not up), and let him go a second later. Ilya wanted to be kissing him.

He kissed the tight black curls every time he bottomed out, inhaled with his nose buried in them. Napoleon’s cock kissed the back of his throat, almost in time with his heartbeat. Napoleon was stuttering curses, holding the back of his head, still not pushing. Did they fucking train you for this, Ilya wondered, and swallowed around the glans.

“Holy hell,” the fingers in his hair pulled hard for an electric instant, “fuck, Ilya...”

Ilya almost moaned and pressed closer. Good, cowboy, he would say, if he could.

Another thirty seconds and Solo started heaving quick breaths once again, tapping out a warning. Ilya spread his hand out on a powerful thigh, squeezed, pulled towards himself — go ahead. His other hand fondled tightening balls.

Solo shuddered and finally, blessedly thrust into him. Ilya hungrily drank him down, encouraging with his tongue. Strong hands slowly lost purchase and slid to cradle his cheeks.

Ilya freed his airway to a final satisfied moan from his partner. He coughed, out of breath.

Napoleon smoothed a thumb across his stubbled jaw. Catching Ilya’s eyes, he simplified his expression, adjusted his smile. Ilya felt his skull fixed in space for another moment, then Solo pulled back and covered his face with his hands.

Ilya shifted from aching knees to sit on the floor. He leaned back against one of Solo’s thighs, dropped his forehead into the other.

“Спасибо. Thank you,” he corrected himself.

“Thank you,” Napoleon chuckled.

“You were first. Saved me.” Ilya stuck his fingers in the open wound again: “Even though —”

“—We’re colleagues?” finished Napoleon, voice light but tense. “Unprofessional, I take your point.”

Ilya blinked, horrified to find tears.

“No.”

He wanted to explain. The words wouldn’t come.