— Disclaimer: I don't own The Man From U.N.C.L.E., but I love it anyways. :)
a/n: Light Spoilers for the movie.
Summary: Somewhere between the harbour and the hotel, their relationship changed.
Coupling: Illya/Napoleon (light).
The Man From U.N.C.L.E.
Let's Ride
Napoleon opened his eyes in the murky water of the jetty, and there, in the headlight beams from the submerged truck, he found his Russian doll. He pushed off from the truck, propelling himself through the water towards the still man that simply bobbed in the underwater current. He was like a plastic bag, his foot caught in underwater debris.
Napoleon levelled with him and quickly grabbed the blonde's face, and exhaled a breath into his lungs. He didn't want this to be the only kiss he gave the man. He pulled himself down and disentangled Illya's foot from the debris, pushing the man's body up, even as he followed and hooked his arms under the other man's, kicking powerfully and driving them towards the surface.
The American gasped explosively as they broke the surface, but the Russian made no such actions.
"Come on, Peril." Napoleon gasped into his partner's ear. "Come on." Securing his arms around the taller man's middle, he knew there was no time to make it to shore. He balled one fist, and wrapped the other around it at Illya's sternum. He heaved once, and then a second time before water gushed from Illya's mouth. The man coughed and sputtered, water leaking from the corner of his pale lips. "Peril, you with me?"
The answer he got could hardly be considered a groan. It was so light in weight that it was eclipsed by his own heavy breath.
"Come on, stay with me, Illya." He urged the Russian, kicking sideways, dragging the senseless man with him under the cover of the high pier. But Illya was just a weight that lulled against his chest and shoulder. Napoleon finally reached the ledge and heaved the tall man onto the darkened dock, out of the way of the original fight.
He quickly pushed Illya flat on his back, and put an ear to him mouth. The blonde's breath was shallow, barely there. His heartbeat was too sluggish. There was still too much water in his lungs. Napoleon titled his chin back and breathed into his mouth—to see the Russian with suck a lack of emotion and passion was disconcerting—he pumped on his chest.
Illya coughed, more water sputtering out of his mouth.
"Illya." Napoleon breathed in relief as Illya's eyes fluttered.
"Cowboy?" Illya croaked.
"The one and only."
"I thought you dead—the boat..." His chest ached and burned, his throat felt tight. "You were gone."
"Sorry 'bout that." Napoleon watched carefully as the man slowly came back to himself. "You're pretty terrible at water-driving. Perhaps stick to land next time?" He joked, relieved to see the Russian talking, blinking, breathing.
"I thought you like cat, clinging to boat with hate of water." Illya accepted the help to sit up. His head swooped and his chest constricted.
"Nine lives, maybe. Come on, we better go before more reinforcements come and realize they're two bodies short."
Illya nodded, feeling light-headed and dizzy enough to let Napoleon guide him away from the harbour. His limbs felt loose with no strength in them, he felt as a baby just starting to walk. His ears held a low ringing.
The pair stopped and Illya blinked, trying to focus his blurred gaze. He stared at Napoleon's chosen vehicle in confusion for a moment; the motor scooter propped up on its kickstand in the alley.
"No." Illya told him distinctly as Napoleon mounted the scooter and turned the key, a low idling sound.
"Oh, yeah." Napoleon crooned, revving the small vehicle lightly. "Get on, Peril."
"I am not getting on that... thing."
"This thing is a Harley-Davidson Topper,this baby can fly. Now get on, we don't have time for your Russian insecurities." Napoleon looked at him over his broad shoulder, his wet bangs carded from his forehead.
Illya felt a tick of anger at the jab at his person, but it was suddenly overcome with the urge to cough up his lung. Illya put a hand out to the wall to support himself. His eyes watered with the effort not to double over in a fit.
"Peril, you're not looking too well. You drowned. You shouldn't be up like this."
"This much safer than two men on bicycle without peddles."
Napoleon rolled his eyes at the Russian's stubbornness. "We have to get back to Gaby. We've been away too long as it is." He deftly reminded him of the mission. "Now get on."
Illya straightened and cursed in Russian under his breath. This was about the mission, not his personal feelings, or how physically weak he felt. He carefully straddle the backend of the bench seat.
"Strap in." Napoleon chuckled, revving the engine again, shooting ahead from the alley onto the street.
"There are no seatbelts!" Illya cursed at the American. His arms wind-milled as he struggled to stay on the scooter, before he managed to grab onto Napoleon himself. "Idiot American can not even find whole vehicle."
Napoleon smiled as he navigated the dark streets back to their hotel. Red Peril was quite entertaining. He guessed nearly drowning knocked down some of those stiff KGB mannerisms.
The bike emitted a gentle vibration that was dangerously lulling to the Russian. He was just so inexplicably tired. He wanted to lay down somewhere dry and warm, and close his eyes. His limbs held no tension of strength in them since waking up with Napoleon looking over him with concern. It was only under Napoleon's power that he even made it do the bike. The American had come back for him, brought him back to life when he could have just left him and been done with them. They were enemies not too long beforehand. Suddenly, that had changed.
There was a strength in the American's back, in his broad shoulders that the Russian could appreciate and admire. The arms that had carried him to safety. The man that had breathed life back into him...
Napoleon started as he felt the soft and warm pressure against his back—the weight on the back of his shoulder, the breath that tickled the nape of his neck. "Illya? Are you—?"
"Мягкая американская..." Illya murmured in Russian, his voice swallowed by the wind.
Surprise made him miss the turn and he cursed. Illya jerked back awake. His cheeks went hot against his will as he realized he had fallen asleep against Cowboy's back.
"What—?"
"I missed the turn." Napoleon righted their position.
"First you find tricycle missing wheel. Now you miss turn." Illya insulted, trying to recover himself.
"Look, Mr. Pillow Talk—!" Napoleon started in irritation, but his words were cut off in a grunt at Illya's arms wrapped around his waist, tightened on his ribs—the tender spot where he had landed on the thick coiled rope on the dock when he'd followed Illya out the window—stealing his breath.
"What you call me?" Illya growled, but it lacked much heat as Napoleon tapped on the breaks and they jerked to a halt—his arms tightening around the American for an entirely different reason.
Napoleon wanted to laugh, but he also wanted to keep his head on his shoulders—so he didn't. Was Illya afraid of the motorcycle? He didn't quite think that was it. Was it because he was sitting bitch and not in control—plus feeling the vulnerability of his near drowning? Now things made a little more sense.
"Why you stop?" Illya demanded.
"We're here." Napoleon said. Across the street from around the corner they were obscured by, was their hotel. "You can let go now," he spoke when Peril didn't seem inclined to dismount.
There was silence behind him, and then Illya finally admitted: "I can't."
"Why not?"
"I am... ограниченный."He cursed in Russian, embarrassed.
Napoleon could only be glad that he was facing away from the Russian as a grin split the American's face. "It's because the freezing water and the bike ride."
"I know." Illya gritted his teeth, hating his body for showing him as weak. Napoleon removed his hands from the handlebars and moved them to Illya's clasped ones at his stomach. "Why you do this?"
"You just need a little heat, Illya. You're blood flowing," Napoleon murmured. His rubbed Illya's hands, before starting to work his way up the man's arms. "Don't worry. I don't bite—unless you ask." He added slyly.
Illya sputtered before he could stop himself, his face heating at the clear proposition. Napoleon worked his way back down Illya's arms to his hands, before he moved to the muscled thighs that were all but climbing his hips. This time, he felt Illya's breath stutter against the back of his neck for an entirely different reason.
This was not good, Illya knew. He body betraying him further for his light-headed mind. He was heating up entirely too fast under the American's firm and sure touch.
"Napoleon," Illya gasped lightly as Napoleon's touch traveled from the Russian's thighs to the small of his own back where Illya was plastered. He could feel the Russian's not-so-little nesting doll hardening between them. It was a heat and pleasant pressure he could feel through the man's pants and his own damp jacket.
A groan clawed into Illya's throat as he felt Napoleon's fingers graze him through the material—
Napoleon cursed suddenly and jerked his hands away. Illya was startled and confused, at a complete loss.
"Napoleon—"
"We'll have to finish this up later—definitely. But Victoria just pulled in at the hotel. We gotta got now. Can you move, Illya?"
Illya nodded and extracted his stiff limbs from around the warm and firm body, his own a contradiction of damp cold and aroused heat. Napoleon leapt off the bike. He looked at the Russian and gave the blond a wink.
"Definitely." He purred, and then it was off to the races.
Illya was definitely wondering when this continuation would take place as he ran after his new partner. They'd just have to get through this mission first.
f
The Man From U.N.C.L.E.
Russian to English Translations:
Мягкая американская = Soft American
ограниченный = Cramped
y