Napoleon's breath ghosts across his ear and Illya stills, fearing something tender. But thumbs, not lips, find his shoulders, digging into knotted muscle. Napoleon is gentle nor forceful, fingers carefully neutral like the rest of him. It is not the lover's kiss Illya expected. His shoulders ease, and he does not shrug Napoleon away.
"We don't usually receive assignments straight from Oleg," an observation posed like a question, feigning casual curiosity. He sounds too close. Illya tracks his every shift, unsure if it is a hunter's instinct or spy's caution that makes him do so without hardly a thought.
"Still true. Assignment is only for me."
Napoleon says nothing for several moments, fingers working thoughtfully at his neck. If he wanted, he could close his fingers tight and choke . Illya knows this. Napoleon knows this too. But his fingers only push at knots and unravel muscle with a kind of care he cannot understand. It is not the sort of touch reserved for marks, a tease that beckons response. The gestures possess no discernable purpose; touch for its own sake.
"So the assignment's not meant for us," Napoleon says us like it's a given, like they are a whole composed of three parts, and not three cogs moving in tandem because it lightens the work. Perhaps this is why the folder weighs so heavy in his lap. "Since when is the KGB so open about contacting its operatives?"
"KBG is very discreet. Oleg was not acting as KGB."
"Uh-huh."
Illya lets out a breath. Napoleon would learn this sooner or later, if not now then when Illya returned stinking of vampire and viscera. "Was acting as hunter."
Napoleon's fingers still, "Oh," and he laughs, breath circling Illya's neck to pull gooseflesh from his skin, "You know, Illya, you're so damn cordial, I forget you're here to kill me if I go off the rails." Resignation in his voice, and Illya realizes too late that Napoleon's laugh was not a laugh but sigh of resignation morphed to something less revealing. Napoleon exhibits no anger, no accusation, his fingers still loose on Illya's shoulder. He accepts this like he accepted Oleg's insults. Napoleon does too much of this, accepting. Like it's a skill and not a sacrifice. Napoleon's voice wears a mask like the one he criticizes Illya for, so obscuring that it draws attention to itself. You try too hard to feel nothing. It gives you away.
Illya chooses not to dwell on this, does not let himself wonder what Napoleon is desperately, carelessly trying to obscure. Compartmentalize the thought. Recall later when the job is done and when 4am leaves only his loudest thoughts for company. Pick apart with the grace of a hatchet, try to build meaning from the splinters left behind. Napoleon is not an enemy, but he isn't wrong. Illya is here to kill him, if it ever became necessary.
Sometimes Illya forgets this, too. "Would not actually kill you."
"Touching," he deadpans. Perhaps Illya is being too sincere, speaking a language unfamiliar to them both. Truth weighs his tongue; no one believes a liar when they speak sincerely, "Would subdue you. Americans find you too valuable."
"Now that is touching," Their value, measured in usefulness. They are allowed to take up space only for the things they do for other men. This is a language they know
"Do you ever get tired?" Napoleon asks abruptly, directing the conversation elsewhere. For a man so smug, Napoleon speaks of himself rarely.
"Why would I," he says slowly, eyes narrowing to wrap around the question.
"Spy, hunter. You're burning the candle at both ends there, Peril. I'm tired just thinking of it."
Illya can go three days without sleep without adverse effect, last a full week without food, two days without water, walk half-dead and still think straight. Exhaustion is a paltry, physical thing. "Doesn't affect my work. Besides, am ex-hunter. This is- special case."
"That's not exactly what I asked." Napoleon's right hand leaves his shoulder and takes the manilla folder from Illya's hands, a tug just insistent enough that it would not accept refusal. They don't speak of what's just happened between them. Illya hopes they never will.
"Hm," a long pause, "Several dignitaries' children missing, all surrounding Moretti… Funny how they only call you when the rich start disappearing," his tone is deliberately light, suggesting anything but humor.
"I'm in the neighborhood," Illya offers, as if Napoleon does not absolutely have a point. But it is not Illya's job to decide where he is needed. That is why men like Waverly exist. Women like Gaby. People like Oleg. Illya shifts his body, half-turning to watch Napoleon. "You know this vampire?" Moretti is an old vampire, known well enough to possess infamy, not enough to garner immunity. It is entirely possible Napoleon knows him, or knew 're walking a fine line, going after someone as well-established as Moretti. This is why they ask an ex-hunter to complete the job: plausible deniability. Illya was acting as an independent agent. Hunters and KGB treated their agents in much the same way:
Disposable.
A long pause, Napoleon's eyes scanning down the page. His left hand still works into the muscle, just forceful enough that the touch is impossible to ignore. Illya tries regardless.
"Not personally. We don't all know each other, Illya. How hurtful that you assume we do." The mirth in his voice suggests amusement, "But I know his type," and the mirth turns biting. Illya wonders, not for the first time, if it is he or Napoleon that hates vampires more. Napoleon always got like this when speaking of his kind.
"You hunters track us like animals and expect us to behave like common murderers," not an accusation, though Illya cannot shake the feeling that it should be, "But vampires like him are cons at heart, not dogs. Don't track him like a hunter. Approach Moretti like a spy" His voice takes on the quality of Oleg's rapid-fire briefings, relaying information without filtering through emotion. Only facts. Approach Moretti like spy. Illya will consider this. Later.
"This is not time to discuss strategy." Napoleon is cool and solid behind him, fingers working into muscle like it's not the first time they've touched with so much gentleness, so little excuse. Illya shrugs his shoulders, but Napoleon's fingers remain.
"Of course it is," there's a smile in his voice and Illya is not sure what to make of that, "Moretti hunts like I do," Illya tenses. "Did. Past tense, of course. I'm more discreet than this. Have more faith."
Illya's shoulders ease back into their knotted state of rest, slowly unraveling at Napoleon's touch.
"But Moretti doesn't worry about exposure like I do. He's rich, and confident he can pay you off."
Illya laughs, "A politician. I knew this already."
"Fair point," Napoleon concedes in a half-laugh. He lays the file down beside him. Lips at Illya's ear again, voice is pitched low, "He'll want you like this," he hums, playful, and Illya is certain the cadence of his voice could be weaponized , "And once he bites you, there's roughly a fiteen second window before the venom kicks in. Ten seconds in, he won't pay you any attention. That leaves a five second window of total vulnerability," Napoleon smirks at this, lips scraping in a smile on the shell of his ear. Self-satisfied. "Kill him then. Easiest job you've ever done."
How did Napoleon come to know this with such certainty? To know the math of a vampire's bite down the the very second? Illya cuts the question before it has a chance to blossom and stands, shakes Napoleon's breath from the back of his neck. "That is a terrible plan."
Napoleon shrugs, grin falling only slightly, "Better chance of success than storming him in his own mansion. You know well as I do that attacks are most effective from the inside. It's spying 101, Peril." A frown replaces his grin for but a moment before the expression falls into attention, a single raised eyebrow displaying interest and nothing more.
"This is not spy mission."
"They're not mutually exclusive. It's a solid approach," a beat, "Are you frightened?"
"No." Obvious attempt at baiting him. Illya scowls. "I won't be able to carry weapons if I approach him like-" he fumbles, catching the thought before it has time to manifest. If I approach him like a fool, like a human, like-
"Like prey?"
"Yes," the thought takes root regardless, "Like prey. Prey has no use for carrying weapon."
Napoleon stretches, unconcerned now by the way it displays his chest, his neck, the bruising old and new. He's never tried to hide the bruising. He wore them like battlescars. But this casual display settles in Illya's stomach, and he is well aware that Napoleon is dangerously approachingtrust , "Just tell him you have it."
"Not in mood for jokes."
Napoleon shakes his head, "For a hunter, you don't really understand how we think, do you? He's a vampire. Old. Thinks he can control anyone who crosses his path."
"Sounds like someone I know." Petty revenge for implying Illya is frightened.
Napoleon does not take the bait, continues pushing his approach, "Imagine, he thinks you're just a human, showing off his knife. Hold yourself like an amateur and he'll probably find it endearing. I would have, ten years ago."
Maybe not a terrible plan. However, "I see one problem." Illya is not an actor, possessing no honeypot grin or charlatan smile. He maintains a cover only long enough so that his elbow might find fragile bone, the back of a target's neck. He is as flexible as wood, fiddled to a splintering point. He could look at a man and know every way to break their bones, but paths not paved by blood and bone are foreign to him.
"You'll do fine," Napoleon says, as if reading his thoughts. It is only now that Illya notices the furrow in his brow, the tense line of his shoulders. Napoleon is not fond of this plan, and Illya condemns his own assumptions: that Napoleon was playing with him, that Napoleon wants him in this position. But they are long past the point of petty schadenfreude. Napoleon suggests this plan only because he knows it is a good one, all personal feelings discarded. Like a proper spy.
"You've had practice." Practice with a vampire at his neck. This is true. Illya swallows. "Now let's go establish a cover story for you, hm?"
"Moretti is buying property."
Illya arches a single eyebrow, "In Italy?"
Napoleon lays his own file beside the first, this one thicker than the two sheafs of paper Oleg passed on to him at the cafe. Napoleon is not a man who offers more than what's expected - he is thorough, yes, and he does not complete jobs only halfway. But neither does he overachieve, not where it does not suit him. Perhaps between the two of them, it is Napoleon who hates vampires more.
"Well, yes," he opens the file, flipping past bank statements reaching back several years, copies of property deeds, loan information, "But he's buying everywhere. Italy, the Americas, most recently he's branching into Russia."
Illya frowns. That certainly was… atypical. But useful. "I pose as realtor."
Napoleon flashes a satisfied grin, "Realtor's son, actually. Letting you get experience before taking over the family's empire."
"Authority to conduct business, not important enough to create scandal when I disappear. This is… well thought out," he sounds more surprised than he should be. They are both spies, but Napoleon is the only one thinking like it. Illya, too trapped in hunter , as if those things did not overlap by Napoleon's very existence beside him.
"I've been known to have a competent moment or two," Napoleon smiles in a way that suggests he has several. Illya cannot shake the sensation that he's somehow taken a backseat in his own mission. "You're certainly dressed the part. Your clothes even match."
Illya resists the urge to roll his eyes, only half-succeeding. The white ceiling is embossed with gold fleur-de-lis, a pattern like the brocade of Napoleon's pocket square. Illya wears no suit, nor his preferred turtleneck. Illya rubs at his forearms, feeling bare without the weight of wool on his shoulders, his neck. The collar plunges into a V, and when he leans too far, the fabric hangs off him, showing strips of clavicle and chest.
(Two round punctures in the crook of his neck, scar tissue raised and pale.)
"This won't convince him."
You're enticing a vampire, Peril. Show a little neck.
Illya cannot quiet the voice yelling he is vulnerable, he is attracting too much attention. He is walking with a target on his back. These are things this plant cultivates. It is a good plan, objectively. Subjectively, Illya longs for a knife in the dark. It is more dangerous, perhaps, but a knife in the dark involves fewer moving parts. If he fails, it is by virtue of his own skill and little else.
Napoleon follows Illya's gaze in the mirror, and Illya feels exposed all over again. "Of course it will. You need to use your appearance, not hide it. Men like Moretti… All charming smiles until the doors close. Show him you're more interested in that version of him," Napoleon grows quiet, "He won't be able to resist."
Illya swallows hard, throat tight. Whole body, tight. "Will not work. I have a scar," he touches the side of his neck, softer than intended, less indication of something physical and more a moment of memory, "Not something easy to explain.".
Napoleon's fingers hang halfway in the air between shoulder and neck. Illya wishes Napoleon would just touch him; his hesitance implies too much.
"Well, just be honest."
A laugh, tinny and tight, his throat is so tight, he does not want to speak of this. "Honesty. Very amusing."
Napoleon's hovering hand returning to his side, palm open against his thigh; the picture of composure, "A vampire bit you and you sought out another. It will intrigue him. He'll assume-" Napoleon's voice catches, and that feeling is in his stomach, a mission spiralling before it's even begun, "Well, he'll assume."
"I see." Illya decides Napoleon knows too much of this, the habits of vampires, the things they desire, the things they assume. "Still do not like this plan."
"I'll be just outside for the extraction."
Illya nods. This is the benefit of teamwork: plan Bs, a safety net. Still, he has a reputation . "Won't need it, Cowboy."
"You're welcome, Peril."
Moretti is well-established in Italy, and yet his home speaks of new money. It lacks the delicate curves and sturdy columns of traditional italian architecture. His home is composed of clean modern lines, and the interior is much the same. The westward wall is built from glass, looking out onto the garden. Manicured hedges blur into the cliffs, and it is unclear where the yard truly ends and the deadly drop begins. Dramatic, eye-catching in its simplicity. Even from inside, the crash of waves is audible, an unmistakable rhythm that fades outside consciousness unless consciously listening for their song. Illya focuses on the task at hand and offers his hand in greeting.
Moretti's hair is slicked back in a style falling just short of formal, curls disrupting the otherwise perfect line of his forehead, his perfectly manicured eyebrows. And yet Moretti does not hold himself like the vampires Illya is accustomed to. There is a measured violence to his movements, sinuous and dangerous. He moves with the confidence of a man accustomed to being the strongest in a room, both self-assured and careless. His smile makes promises Illya knows it has not intention to keep. Illya can use that.
Illya's hand hangs in the space between them. Moretti takes his own as if to shake and pulls . Illya becomes liquid, prepared to twist, turn vampire's momentum against him. Freezes, suppresses the reaction and lets Moretti's tug unbalance him into stumbling closer. The hidden knife digs uncomfortable into the flesh of his wrist. Moretti's fingers brush over the concealing fabric and smiles, lips scratching cheek as if greeting him with a kiss.
"Weapons were checked at the door." An accusation made softer with his smile, the kind sharp knife with velvet handle that Illya is accustomed to dancing with. He releases Illya's hand, and it is only through years of practice controlling his movements that Illya does not jerk away as soon as he is able. Instead, he leans back slowly, trying to summon even a modicum of the haughty confidence that Napoleon assures him will entice. "Weapons cannot hurt you, no? No threat to you."
Moretti arches an eyebrow, lips turning up in something Illya can only imagine is a smile, but his eyes betray a calculating mind. Moretti's gaze is curious, not quite malicious, lingering on the intentionally obvious knife. Illya knows he's being sized up. Eyes linger on his neck. Illya suppresses a shudder.
"I see," Moretti's smile spreads wider, genuine this time but unkind, a spider comfortable in its web. Illya's shoulders fall, relaxed by the familiarity. Despite the setting, predators are still predators. It's a comfort to be reminded. "You are correct," Moretti says at last, "How did you come to know this about me?" Moretti's voice is open, displaying interest above accusation. He did not fear exposure.
How arrogant. Illya turns his neck, showing mere indication of his scars as if to say, I know you're kind. As if to say: I welcome them.
Moretti is easy to look at, tanned skin and a cherub's bow mouth, strong dimpled jaw, watchful blue eyes. His appearance does nothing to temper how revulsion grips at the hollow of his throat. Still, Illya smiles. Compartmentalizes. Unpleasantness is a fact of life, a fact of his life. He's done more unpleasant things than cozy up to a vampire. You have killed in cold blood. Get over it, Illya Kuryakin. Do your job.
"You think yourself a dangerous man?"
You are a human showing off his knife. You are arrogant. Make him believe this. "Of course."
The vampire throws an arm around him, and Illya does not bristle, does not tense or shove away. He leans in to the touch like Illya the realtor's son would do, and smiles.
"I am also a dangerous man. Come, drink with me and we can discuss business," a smile that does not hide teeth; a performance, "And other things."
Hook, line. Moretti is too confident, too easily manipulated. Illya half prays Moretti senses his intentions, that he might attack and give Illya his excuse to fight back, discard this stupid plan. But it works exactly how intended.
Instead, he says, "I look forward to it."