I blame this on watching John Wick for the first time last night and then the corner of my brain that's reserved for AUs decided to go crazy.
And this is what it came up with lol
Namarïe!
Napoleon Solo is used to meeting his clientele on their home turf.
Apparently it makes them feel safer. Like they are more in control. As if they aren't just as easy to kill at home than out on the street.
But never look a gift horse in the mouth, as they say. If someone was going to pay him to pop the cork out of someone else and they wanted the meeting to be held in their office... who was he to judge?
Either way, he always gets the job done.
But an electric club in the middle of the city? That's a new one, even for Solo.
"Pass?" The bouncer eyes him up and down, broad arms crossed over his barrel of a chest. He doesn't seem too pleased with what he finds.
Solo knows he might not fit the box of Assassin or qualified killer in any conventional sense. He's tall, muscled, yes. But he wears his black curls slicked back off his forehead in a stylish pomade, and dresses in waistcoats and slacks of varying shades of blue and grey. His fingers glitter with rings, smile a cutting edge in the gloom, and his eyes are blue like the ocean, the left speckled with a splotch of hazel brown.
"Must have left it in the Jag," quips Solo, before he pulls the slim grey calling card from his pocket and offers it to the bouncer with two fingers, silver and steel glinting. "Your boss gave me a call."
"You are Solo?" the man's accent is definitely Russian, Solo's sure of that now. "Nyet, I think not. Ya pokhozh na idiota?"
"For the sake of our new friendship, I'm going to pretend I didn't hear that," says Solo calmly, with a nasty little smile. "Hurry it up, would you? There's rain on the way, and I'd rather not enter into a new job opportunity looking like a drowned rat."
Then, finally, the man seems to notice the small pin in the lapel of Solo's suit jacket. It's shaped like the ace of clubs. Hardly a pinprick of enamel, but the man finally pulls the door open and waves him inside.
He really shouldn't, but as he steps past the man's bulk, he adds, "I da. Vy delayete," because someone as accomplished as he is knows more languages than the fingers on one hand.
The bouncer stares, stunned, and Solo sweeps off into the pounding of the music and the smell of sweat.
It takes him a few minutes to navigate the press of people, ducking limbs and avoiding people trying to catch his eye.
One fool dares to grab his ass, and he gets a coy smile from Solo before the American breaks the wrist with a jerk of his own, the scream of pain lost to the chaos around them.
"Keep your hands to yourself in the future," Solo says pleasantly, patting a tear-stained cheek, before he straightens, fixing his tie and leaving the fool cradling his wrist and sobbing. "If you value your fingers."
"Fuck," whimpers the man, eyes wide with what might be becoming fear. "What... wh-what the fuck?"
Solo tips him a two fingered salute, smirking. "Take care."
After acquiring a whisky for himself, Solo eventually finds his would-be-employer seated, with company, on a crescent sofa at the back of the club, halfway to the bottom of a martini glass.
The running conversation being enacted makes him pause however, curiosity piqued.
"I don't need a bodyguard," hisses the younger man.
And alright, he's rather gorgeous. Almost unfairly so, what with his flaxen hair, all lean muscle and dangerous eyes- like a glacier underfoot. There's a scar hugging the outside of one of them, silvery in the neon glow overhead, matching the scowl resting on his lips. He's not badly dressed either, a snug black turtleneck and grey slacks, a bronze cross hanging from one earlobe.
Solo halts just out of view. Not exactly eavesdropping, more... well, weighing the clearly existing conflicts.
"Which is why I did not hire a bodyguard," says the older man. He's sitting beside the young man, stern, with a neat beard and grey in his blonde hair.
"No," snaps the young man, who has to be his son, jagged in his sarcasm, "You called an assassin. That is much better."
"I will do whatever necessary to keep you safe-"
"Chto, like mama?" The young man's eyes are septic with old anger, burning like a chemical fire. "Perhaps if you hadn't been so reckless then no one would need a guard and she would still be alive!"
"That's enough!" roars the older man, drawing back his hand to strike. The younger man flinches back, which is when Solo decides he's lingered enough.
He passes his empty glass to a rather scantily clad woman along with a generous tip and a nod, before he takes the step into the lurid lighting, a small smile curling his lips.
"Nikolai Kuryakin?"
The older man startles, gaze drawn up to where Solo has stoped in front of the low-slung table. "Da?" he says, shortly. "Can I help you?"
"I don't know. Can you?" says Solo, lifting one black eyebrow. The younger man is staring at him in amazement, clearly stunned by his brazenness. "I was under the impression that I was helping you."
It takes Nikolai a moment before his expression of anger clears. Then he stands, all smiles and geniality. "Mr. Solo! Do forgive me, I had expected someone... how you say? Rougher."
"Most do." Solo takes the seat he's gestured to, opposite the man and his son, leaning back against the soft leather, one knee over the other in some semblance of relaxation. "Looks can be deceiving. Or so I've heard."
Nikolai looks a little fearful, though he hides it marvellously, Solo has to give him that. And it's not that the American mercenary is terrifying to look at, it's his reputation. His red list. His resumé. The price it costs, worth every penny.
"This is my son, Illya," says the man. "He's the one you will be protecting."
He nods to the younger Russian, who fires Solo a glare that tells him there is no need for his services, whatsoever, thank you very much.
"Nice to meet you, darling," says Solo with a little wink. He's always been flirtatious, it's nothing new. It tends to wrong-foot people. Gives him the upper hand.
"Do you have conditions?" Nikolai leans forward, intent. "Questions?"
"I'll save it for when I sign your contract." Once he gets given the idea of just how many people might be after Illya just to get to his father.
"Anything I should know now?"
Jesus, thinks Solo in amusement. Make it more obvious that you've never hired someone like me before.
"I'll protect your son until the day comes when someone offers me double to kill him." Solo grins at Illya, crooked, when the younger man glares at him. He doesn't seem to happy over this arrangement. "Ain't nothing personal, Sweetie."
"Trust me," says Nikolai, and his face is truly dour in his seriousness. "No one will pay double what I'm offering."
Solo shrugs. "If you say so."
"I assume you have an account?"
Solo inclines his head in affirmation. "I'll pass it on once we finalise the details."
"We can do so tomorrow," says Nikolai. "At my office."
And there it is. Always the home turf.
"Tonight I want you and Illya to get to know each other," says Nikolai, and Solo can't help but shoot a sly smile at Illya on that, lifting a suggestive eyebrow.
The younger Russian sets his jaw, looks away.
Nikolai stands, brushing down his slacks, and Solo and Illya rise too. He nods to Solo, short. Brisk. "Mr. Solo."
"Nikolai," Solo allows.
"Do you have death wish?" demands Illya once his father has vacated their general area. Clearly he's flustered by the flirting. Bless his heart.
"What, I scare you off?" needles Solo, biting his lip around a coy smile, aware that there might be a dare in his eyes. "Surely you get offers like that all the time, love."
"My father," says Illya quietly, watching as the man vanishes into the crowd, "knows that I prefer men, but he doesn't want me to dally with them where he can see it."
"Well..." Solo casts an exaggerated look around the space devoid of one Nikolai Kuryakin. "The old man's gone."
Illya scoffs, though he looks as if he might be a little bit impressed. "How old are you?"
"Why?" Solo asks, grinning like a cheshire cat. "Would I be cradle-robbing?"
Illya looks offended, even does something that might be called a smile. If it were a little bigger. Or less sharp. Neither of them have sat back down. "Nyet. Unless you are old man."
Oh. Does the kitten have claws?
Solo smirks. "Got quite a mouth on you, huh?"
Then Illya gives him a smile than makes Solo's toes curl. It seems he's underestimated the Russian. Clearly he's far from helpless. Only likes appearing that way, perhaps with the intention of wrong-footing people. Rather like what Solo does, actually. Not too bad.
Because Illya's dangerous like this, an urban panther, dripping with lurid light. "Da. Some people say so."
Solo flicks his gaze up and down Illya's form, lazy. "I'll be thirty-three in a month or two."
Illya's shoulders relax. "Is only two years then. I will consider it."
"What, the flirting?" teases Solo, lifting his eyebrows.
"No. Sleeping with you," says Illya casually, as if it's a passing comment, and Solo almost swallows his tongue. "Unless you were only making joke when you gave me that look?"
Fucking hell... Solo huffs out a breath. "I can assure you, that was no joke."
"Hm." Illya smirks at him, and fuck it. The bastard's taller than Solo. How did he not notice that before? And when did the wall get so close-
It's cold at his back, Illya's woodsy cologne all he can smell, heavy on every breath. And... god, it feels good. He's always been the one in control, been the expert. The outlier to everything. Watching, finger on the trigger. He's never the one who gets to come apart.
"When we walk out here, you know it turns professional, right?" Solo murmurs, hissing a breath as Illya's hands settle on his hips, heavy and broad. Pinning him in place.
"Da," says the Russian. His eyes are dazzling this close, like crystal. His voice is low, and Solo can feel it in his veins- a thrumming like tame thunder. "But we do not have to leave yet."
"I..." Solo's voice is lost in a soft moan as Illya nips as the hinge of his jaw. Then again, harder, and Solo can't help it. He fists his hands in Illya's turtleneck and drags him down into a kiss that turns filthy fast, tongue and teeth and breath hot with liquor.
Illya lets out a hungry growl, body hot against his, and Jesus...
Jesus.
It doesn't even irritate Solo when he has to lift himself onto his toes to reach when Illya's hand trails up his back to fist in his hair, undoing all the work he'd done that morning in front of the mirror. Because goddamn...
"I think I might get used to having you around," muses Illya, amusement warring with a smouldering coal in his eyes.
Fuck... he's not supposed to fall for his clients... what is he doing?
But this is something else. This is timing and alchemy he can't understand, something insubstantial that has managed to slice into his veins.
And, if he's being honest? He doesn't want to wish it away.
So Solo gives him a grin, wicked and knowing. Somewhere along the line, Illya's thigh has found its way between his legs and one of Solo's hands is warm on the Russian's spine, tucked under that black turtleneck. He can feel Illya breathing.
"Oh, amen to that."
Russian:
Ya pokhozh na idiota? - Do I look like an idiot?
I da. Vy delayete - And yes. You do.