Title: "The 'Lord, He Can Dance' Affair"
Author: Kei
Fandom: the Man From U.N.C.L.E.
Pairing: Napoleon and Illya
Rating: PG-13/Slash
Archive: If you want to. (File Forty, WWOMB)
Note: Time-shifted to the "present" (like most of my stories); therefore A/U-ish
Disclaimer: "The Man From UNCLE" and its characters belong to MGM who won't give them up. *sigh* I'm just playing; no money being made. Please don't sue -I'm perpetually broke. Guests (you'll know who they are) in this short-fic belong to themselves. Did I mention how pointless it is to sue?
"THE 'LORD, HE CAN DANCE' AFFAIR"
by Kei
"Bozhe moi -hold still!"
Napoleon Solo, UNCLE agent extraordinaire, pulled a face and held himself still as long fingers fiddled with the bowtie beneath his chin, finally patting the silken fabric neat and straight. Illya Kuryakin stood back and studied his handiwork. "So," the senior agent asked, deadpanned. "Do I have his lordship's approval?"
Illya arched a wheaten eyebrow in consideration. "You'll do," he muttered, a treasonous grin twitching at the corners of his mouth. "Though I do not understand why you should mind 'getting dressed-up' for the evening. Are you not the one with fifty equally expensive bourgeoisie dress suits in his closet?"
"That's fifty-*three*, Tovarisch," Napoleon replied with a rakish smile as he traced the soft lapels of the Russian's one and only dress suit, "and I believe our original plans for the evening called for quite a bit less in the way of apparel." He pulled the slighter man closer. "Don't you agree?"
"Ah - AH, moi droog," the Russian said with no little regret, gently, but firmly removing the roving hands from around his waist. "Duty first -pleasure later."
Duty -that had come in the form of some orders from Waverly. Napoleon and Illya were ordered to retrieve some information from a contact who had been keeping his eye on THRUSH activities in Europe. The contact had insisted on passing the information to Illya, one of the few people who knew who he was and whom he was willing to trust without reservation. That Napoleon would come along to keep an eye on his back, was the one concession upon which the Russian had insisted.
The informant had accepted and had forwarded two front-row tickets to a nearby showing of "the Lord of the Dance" -their point of contact. The two UNCLE agents would be going in the guise of show reviewers.
"So?"
Illya's brow furrowed in puzzlement as he and Napoleon made their way to the underground car park. "So -what?"
"So..." Napoleon drawled, a sparkle of mischief forming in the chocolate brown eyes. "When are you going to tell me who our contact is?"
"Na-po-le-on..." Ice-blue eyes rolled in exasperation. "I *told* you -he does not want anyone else to know."
"*You* know."
"That was by circumstance and necessity," the blond muttered. Really, his partner could be most persistent about certain things, and not being left out of the loop was one of them. "Besides, he-"
"Ah hah -it's a 'he'!"
"-or *she* is giving up the game after this delivery. Wants to concentrate on career and family -which he *or* she can't do if THRUSH learns who gave UNCLE this information."
"Humph!" Napoleon thumped back against his seat and for Illya, the mental image of a very petulant little boy was immediately brought to mind -Bozhe moi, why did he love this man so? "I *am* Number One of Section Two, you know."
"I know."
"And I *can* be trusted."
The Russian UNCLE agent pulled his dark-haired partner over towards him and captured his lips in a fierce kiss. "I know. Later, I can prove it, da?"
A mega-watt smile fought its way to the surface of Napoleon's face. "Very definitely 'da'."
The remainder of the short trip was in a companionable silence, traffic fairly light until they were within meters of the music venue where the price of parking had Napoleon cursing in a fluid mixture of Italian and French. Tour buses lined the streets and would-be audience members inched through the front doors as their tickets were taken and they were searched for anything questionable -a flash of their UNCLE ID cards allowed Napoleon and Illya to hold on to their Specials.
Truly, Napoleon thought as he and his partner were seated, whoever this mysterious contact was, he or she had picked as public a venue as possible.
The lights went down.
Over the next ninety minutes of so, Napoleon alternated between watching the show (which he had to admit he enjoyed -except for the sharp kick to his shin when he stared at the premier dancer a little too long ) and keeping an eye out for their informant, but every time his attention returned to his partner, Illya either had his attention locked on the stage or was scribing furiously in the notepad he had brought to further effect the illusion of making a critique. No-one nudged the Russian to whisper secrets in his ear or to pass on some kind of sealed package...and by the time the show was finished, no contact had been made.
A "no-show informant" -something not unheard of in the cat and mouse business, but irritating as hell every time it happened...especially when he had had better plans. Napoleon glanced at his watch as he followed the small blond Russian to the theater's foyer and grinned -plenty of time to have that special evening. Better late than never. He was about to whisper that sage observation in Illya's ear when the Russian stepped forward and surreptitiously placed his notepad into the hand of a
vaguely familiar theatergoer. "Get this to Waverly." The recipient nodded and disappeared into the crowd.
Illya smiled sweetly in the direction of the puzzled senior agent. "Shall we go?"
********************
"So explain it to me again."
Illya sighed heavily as Napoleon gallantly removed the Russian's long dress coat, carefully ensconcing it in a nearby closet. "The man I gave the notepad to was an UNCLE courier-"
"-and the notepad-"
"-contained our contact's passed-on information." Illya uncuffed his sleeves. "Very important too," he added. "That information will allow UNCLE to put the kibosh on a great many of THRUSH's plans for Europe."
Napoleon growled in exasperation. "But there was *no* contact!"
"But there was." The cool expression softened. "I think I am allowed to tell you this much." Kuryakin kicked aside the throw-rug at his feet, leaving the polished walnut floor bare. He placed his hands on his hips. "This would, of course, work better were I wearing tap shoes, but this will have to do."
Napoleon's eyes widened in amazement as his Russian effected a stance not unlike the performers that they had just watched...and began to dance. The "tappity-tap" was slightly muffled -the click of regular hard shoes against paneling wasn't quite the same as taps against wood or tile- but the effect was similar enough. "You do know 'Morse", do you not, Polya?"
"Of course I..." Understanding began to dawn on the senior agent. Taps..? Dots and dashes..? "But that can't be Morse." Napoleon held a breath as the blond made an elaborate finish. My oh my...he can't cook a soufflé to save his life, but Lord, he can dance. "Too easy for THRUSH to translate..."
"No...not Morse...but something similar; something our contact and I worked out." Illya sidled up to his partner and lover, wrapping his arms around the trim waist. "And do you know what message I sent to you just now?" Napoleon shook his head and Illya reached up, whispering gently in the darker man's ear...and Napoleon's blood pressure went through the roof.
********************
"Illyusha..? Are you awake?"
"Am now."
"The contact-"
"Polya...I still cannot tell you who-"
"Listen, I think I figured it out -it can't be the chorus line because too many people would have to know the code, so that leaves the tapping solos, right?"
"I don't think-"
"And, if I'm right, you only wrote on your notepad during certain dance solos. That means your contact has to be Mi-"
"Napoleon...go to sleep."
---done---
Author: Kei
Fandom: the Man From U.N.C.L.E.
Pairing: Napoleon and Illya
Rating: PG-13/Slash
Archive: If you want to. (File Forty, WWOMB)
Note: Time-shifted to the "present" (like most of my stories); therefore A/U-ish
Disclaimer: "The Man From UNCLE" and its characters belong to MGM who won't give them up. *sigh* I'm just playing; no money being made. Please don't sue -I'm perpetually broke. Guests (you'll know who they are) in this short-fic belong to themselves. Did I mention how pointless it is to sue?
"THE 'LORD, HE CAN DANCE' AFFAIR"
by Kei
"Bozhe moi -hold still!"
Napoleon Solo, UNCLE agent extraordinaire, pulled a face and held himself still as long fingers fiddled with the bowtie beneath his chin, finally patting the silken fabric neat and straight. Illya Kuryakin stood back and studied his handiwork. "So," the senior agent asked, deadpanned. "Do I have his lordship's approval?"
Illya arched a wheaten eyebrow in consideration. "You'll do," he muttered, a treasonous grin twitching at the corners of his mouth. "Though I do not understand why you should mind 'getting dressed-up' for the evening. Are you not the one with fifty equally expensive bourgeoisie dress suits in his closet?"
"That's fifty-*three*, Tovarisch," Napoleon replied with a rakish smile as he traced the soft lapels of the Russian's one and only dress suit, "and I believe our original plans for the evening called for quite a bit less in the way of apparel." He pulled the slighter man closer. "Don't you agree?"
"Ah - AH, moi droog," the Russian said with no little regret, gently, but firmly removing the roving hands from around his waist. "Duty first -pleasure later."
Duty -that had come in the form of some orders from Waverly. Napoleon and Illya were ordered to retrieve some information from a contact who had been keeping his eye on THRUSH activities in Europe. The contact had insisted on passing the information to Illya, one of the few people who knew who he was and whom he was willing to trust without reservation. That Napoleon would come along to keep an eye on his back, was the one concession upon which the Russian had insisted.
The informant had accepted and had forwarded two front-row tickets to a nearby showing of "the Lord of the Dance" -their point of contact. The two UNCLE agents would be going in the guise of show reviewers.
"So?"
Illya's brow furrowed in puzzlement as he and Napoleon made their way to the underground car park. "So -what?"
"So..." Napoleon drawled, a sparkle of mischief forming in the chocolate brown eyes. "When are you going to tell me who our contact is?"
"Na-po-le-on..." Ice-blue eyes rolled in exasperation. "I *told* you -he does not want anyone else to know."
"*You* know."
"That was by circumstance and necessity," the blond muttered. Really, his partner could be most persistent about certain things, and not being left out of the loop was one of them. "Besides, he-"
"Ah hah -it's a 'he'!"
"-or *she* is giving up the game after this delivery. Wants to concentrate on career and family -which he *or* she can't do if THRUSH learns who gave UNCLE this information."
"Humph!" Napoleon thumped back against his seat and for Illya, the mental image of a very petulant little boy was immediately brought to mind -Bozhe moi, why did he love this man so? "I *am* Number One of Section Two, you know."
"I know."
"And I *can* be trusted."
The Russian UNCLE agent pulled his dark-haired partner over towards him and captured his lips in a fierce kiss. "I know. Later, I can prove it, da?"
A mega-watt smile fought its way to the surface of Napoleon's face. "Very definitely 'da'."
The remainder of the short trip was in a companionable silence, traffic fairly light until they were within meters of the music venue where the price of parking had Napoleon cursing in a fluid mixture of Italian and French. Tour buses lined the streets and would-be audience members inched through the front doors as their tickets were taken and they were searched for anything questionable -a flash of their UNCLE ID cards allowed Napoleon and Illya to hold on to their Specials.
Truly, Napoleon thought as he and his partner were seated, whoever this mysterious contact was, he or she had picked as public a venue as possible.
The lights went down.
Over the next ninety minutes of so, Napoleon alternated between watching the show (which he had to admit he enjoyed -except for the sharp kick to his shin when he stared at the premier dancer a little too long ) and keeping an eye out for their informant, but every time his attention returned to his partner, Illya either had his attention locked on the stage or was scribing furiously in the notepad he had brought to further effect the illusion of making a critique. No-one nudged the Russian to whisper secrets in his ear or to pass on some kind of sealed package...and by the time the show was finished, no contact had been made.
A "no-show informant" -something not unheard of in the cat and mouse business, but irritating as hell every time it happened...especially when he had had better plans. Napoleon glanced at his watch as he followed the small blond Russian to the theater's foyer and grinned -plenty of time to have that special evening. Better late than never. He was about to whisper that sage observation in Illya's ear when the Russian stepped forward and surreptitiously placed his notepad into the hand of a
vaguely familiar theatergoer. "Get this to Waverly." The recipient nodded and disappeared into the crowd.
Illya smiled sweetly in the direction of the puzzled senior agent. "Shall we go?"
********************
"So explain it to me again."
Illya sighed heavily as Napoleon gallantly removed the Russian's long dress coat, carefully ensconcing it in a nearby closet. "The man I gave the notepad to was an UNCLE courier-"
"-and the notepad-"
"-contained our contact's passed-on information." Illya uncuffed his sleeves. "Very important too," he added. "That information will allow UNCLE to put the kibosh on a great many of THRUSH's plans for Europe."
Napoleon growled in exasperation. "But there was *no* contact!"
"But there was." The cool expression softened. "I think I am allowed to tell you this much." Kuryakin kicked aside the throw-rug at his feet, leaving the polished walnut floor bare. He placed his hands on his hips. "This would, of course, work better were I wearing tap shoes, but this will have to do."
Napoleon's eyes widened in amazement as his Russian effected a stance not unlike the performers that they had just watched...and began to dance. The "tappity-tap" was slightly muffled -the click of regular hard shoes against paneling wasn't quite the same as taps against wood or tile- but the effect was similar enough. "You do know 'Morse", do you not, Polya?"
"Of course I..." Understanding began to dawn on the senior agent. Taps..? Dots and dashes..? "But that can't be Morse." Napoleon held a breath as the blond made an elaborate finish. My oh my...he can't cook a soufflé to save his life, but Lord, he can dance. "Too easy for THRUSH to translate..."
"No...not Morse...but something similar; something our contact and I worked out." Illya sidled up to his partner and lover, wrapping his arms around the trim waist. "And do you know what message I sent to you just now?" Napoleon shook his head and Illya reached up, whispering gently in the darker man's ear...and Napoleon's blood pressure went through the roof.
********************
"Illyusha..? Are you awake?"
"Am now."
"The contact-"
"Polya...I still cannot tell you who-"
"Listen, I think I figured it out -it can't be the chorus line because too many people would have to know the code, so that leaves the tapping solos, right?"
"I don't think-"
"And, if I'm right, you only wrote on your notepad during certain dance solos. That means your contact has to be Mi-"
"Napoleon...go to sleep."
---done---