Okay, this is a little different from the other stories I've written so please bear with me. This is probably the most canon-divergent, AU story I've written to date so if it's a little strange I apologize. There are elements of OT3 and polyamory in this story so if that isn't your thing please turn away now. Otherwise, please read and enjoy! :D
A/N: I own nothing
Napoleon wakes up naked in a field. It's not the worst thing that's ever happened to him but it's certainly not the best either. It takes several moments of blinking up at the star-scattered sky for him to remember how he got here and why he was currently without clothing. That time of the month again, apparently. Shit.
He frowns and lays still, staring up at the sky and giving his mind a second to clear. He remembers bits and pieces from the night before but it's always difficult to recall everything; it's not an uncommon occurrence for someone with his "unique" condition but it's still frustrating. Losing large chunks of time tends to be a bit disconcerting no matter how often it occurred.
Rather than focusing on what he can't remember, Napoleon instead tries to take stock of his surroundings. He's in a field, that much is obvious. With any luck it was a field far away from any nearby houses or roads, somewhere that no innocent bystanders would be at risk. He's also naked as the day he was born. Once again, not unexpected but still frustrating because it meant his clothing from the night before was more than likely in shreds somewhere in a ditch. He should really learn to stop wearing designer clothes when it was close to that time; it never ended well for them.
His hair is damp with dew or maybe sweat, he can't really be sure, and he can feel cold blades of grass brushing against his ears. The weird, biological clock inside tells him it's just before 5 am, still dark enough for the stars to be in full view but early enough for the moon to have set into the horizon. It's cold but not uncomfortable; then again, Napoleon's body temperature always runs higher than normal so it could have been close to freezing and he would have barely noticed.
He gives very brief thought to the idea of sitting up but dismisses it just as quickly. He still feels dizzy and heavy even though he's not moving, a bone-deep ache still pulsing through his body. The change always left him feeling tired and achy, like the flu on steroids. His skin feels irritated and raw, too sensitive and too exposed. He was never one for sunburns but he's pretty sure this is how they feel: tight, sore, fevered. It feels like every bone and joint has been broken, reset, and then broken again. His muscles can't decide if they want to ache from fatigue, exertion, or simply from being rearranged and then jammed back into their correct position. All together he feels like an exposed nerve, raw, inflamed, and excruciating.
His senses are still extraordinarily heightened but not nearly as much as they had been the night before; it feels like everything has been muted just slightly with the setting of the moon. He can hear crickets and a few chirping birds and the air is thick with the smell of pine and cedar. He's very close to a forest.
He lays there for a long time and doesn't move. He knows he'll have to make his way back to town eventually, there's still the issue of a mission to complete. For right now, though, he's content to simply lie in the damp grass and stare up at the sky.
There's suddenly a shoe next to his head and he'd flinch if he possessed the energy. It never ceases to amaze him that he never hears Illya coming. Stealthy bastard. "Top of the morning, Peril," he greets from his place on the ground, blinking up at the tall Russian above him. His voice is a little hoarse and rough from disuse.
The other agent offers the barest hint of a smirk before gracefully lowering himself to a crouch. "Stargazing, Cowboy?"
"Ah well, you know, had to get away from the city for a while," Napoleon retorts, rolling his shoulders just slightly against the cool grass beneath him. High body temperature or not, it was starting to get cold. "Speaking of, how did you find me? We're miles away from the safe house."
Illya shrugs like the question isn't even worth asking. "I put tracker on you," he says simply, still balancing on his haunches.
Napoleon offers a cheeky grin in response. "On me or in me?"
The Russian agent just rolls his eyes at the joke. "On you," he corrects easily. "I sewed it into your clothes. You did not lose them far from here; not difficult to track."
"So sneaky," Napoleon mutters, shifting a little more on the ground. He's not even surprised anymore; as much as it pained him in the beginning, he must admit that Illya is as good a spy as he is. Their unique quirks notwithstanding, they actually made for a relatively decent team.
"Help me up," he says, lifting one lead-heavy arm off the ground.
Illya frowns at him and hesitates. "Are you sure?"
"Yeah," Napoleon says with a small nod. Everything still hurts but he knows laying on cold dirt won't help matters at all. "Naked stargazing is starting to lose its appeal."
Illya glances at him then, appearing to just now notice that the other man is completely nude. It's not the first time they've seen each other naked, hell, that's been going on for over a year now, but Illya is nothing if not respectful and does his best to maintain a certain level of propriety at all times.
He averts his gaze just slightly and instead offers his hand to the other man on the ground. Napoleon takes it allows himself to be pulled up into a sitting position, the motion causing his head to spin. He frowns and sways slightly and Illya places a steadying hand between his shoulder blades.
"Easy," the Russian man soothes, keeping one hand on Napoleon's back while the other maintains its grip on his hand. He's experienced Napoleon's post-change woozieness firsthand and knows that sudden movements should be avoided for at least an hour after the change. In spite of his suave demeanor and how much he would love to deny it, Illya has been around Napoleon long enough to know that the change always leaves him disoriented and dizzy.
He waits until Napoleon no longer looks like he's about to be sick before removing his hand from the other man's back and shrugging out of his jacket. The other agent takes it gratefully and slips it on, deftly rolling up the sleeves as he slides his arms in. What Napoleon lacks in height, he makes up for in muscle so Illya's shirts are always too long in the arms and too tight across the chest and back. Oh well, beggars can't be choosers; especially since his clothes are shredded and useless somewhere nearby.
"Thanks, Peril," he says, accepting the other man's help as he slowly and stiffly pulls himself up off the ground. Everything hurts and his limbs feel heavy and wooden as he moves. It's a complete reversal from the freedom and exhilaration he experiences during the change, something that's not exactly pleasant but unavoidable all the same. It usually takes him about a day to get back to his normal self, the hours following a full moon leaving him tired, sore, and exhausted.
He takes a second to look around the field again now that he's upright. It's completely empty save for a white, cross-crossed fence a little over a quarter mile away. He frowns slightly and realizes that he has the very faint, coppery tang of blood in the back of his mouth. "Did I do something I'm going to regret?"
Illya shakes his head and absently adjusts the jacket collar at Napoleon's neck. "You killed some chickens. Not many, three at most."
"You saw that?"
The Russian just nods. "Like I said, not difficult to track."
Napoleon wants to be surprised that he was never aware of Illya's presence but to be honest, he's not. It wasn't like he could smell him (whether he was human or otherwise) and it had been established early on that Illya made about as much noise as a monk in a soundproof room. He could blend in and out of shadows like he was made of them and he could disappear just as quickly when it suited him.
It had taken a while for Napoleon to accept that his Russian partner was fundamentally different from anyone he'd ever worked with. Illya was impossibly strong, fast, and could clear large areas of space in the blink of an eye. He also did not cast a reflection or have a heartbeat and he could not go out into direct sunlight without suffering severe consequences. Everyone had their quirks.
Napoleon glances back at the fence and shrugs before buttoning the jacket halfway to provide some semblance of coverage. "Well, chickens are better than people I suppose," he mutters to himself more than Illya, rolling his shoulders a little to relieve some of the stiffness. It doesn't help that much. "Did you bring the car or should we try our hand at hitchhiking?"
Illya shakes his head and nods toward the treeline behind them. "The car is not far away. It will be faster than hitchhiking. Besides," he says, shrugging just slightly like the follow-up portion of his sentence had just occurred to him. "Gaby will start to worry."
Napoleon offers a knowing smirk and shakes his head. "Can't have that, can we?"
"No," the Russian agent replies with a shake of his head. "Not good for either of us if she gets upset."
Napoleon nods in agreement and motions toward the treeline. "Lead the way, my Russian friend."
More to come soon, guys! Thanks for reading! :D