Levels of Humanity

by Alobear

Category: Slash

Pairing: Illya Kuryakin/Napoleon Solo

Notes:

So many MFU fics - must be some kind of a record for me! I was going for dark and angsty with this one, but it turned sappy on me - hey ho.

XXXXX

"What was waiting for me was barely human."

Of course, over the next few days, Napoleon slowly discovers that Illya Kuryakin is, in fact, all too human.

He notes the softening of Illya's expression sometimes when he looks at Gaby. He spots the little smiles that quirk up the edges of Illya's mouth in his rare moments of humour. He aches for the hurt confusion that fills Illya's eyes when he or Gaby is mean to him. And he watches for the trembling hands that mark the onset of Illya's terrifying and seemingly uncontrollable rage, hoping that it will never again be turned on him.

Napoleon observes Illya throughout the mission, seeing a man pulled in too many different directions. He has clearly been well trained by the KGB and he initially follows his handler's orders by reflex; but he equally clearly chafes under their rule and seems troubled by some of the things he is asked to do. He obviously plays chess well, which can be a very psychological game, and yet he cannot keep his own emotions in check. He is physically imposing, and a force to be reckoned with in combat, but at times he seems oddly vulnerable and uncertain of himself, especially when faced with the offer of friendship.

Napoleon finds himself endlessly intrigued by each new aspect of Illya that is uncovered, and itches to dig yet deeper, to find the giant Russian's inner core. He thinks it might prove to be the project of a lifetime, and discovers that he would like to take up the challenge.

But, what with drownings and electrocutions and military assaults and nuclear warheads, there's just no time to explore what might be.

Napoleon also isn't sure what he could offer in return. As both a thief and a spy, he is used to playing a role – his familiar debonair persona, with the devil-may-care grin, the casual nonchalance and the lascivious reputation. It's now so familiar that he's not sure he knows how to switch it off, or in fact if there would be anything left underneath if he did. Perhaps the description of 'barely human' is better suited to him, as there doesn't seem to be much substance beneath the polished surface.

Plus, he tell himself, there's the possibility of a burgeoning romance between Illya and Gaby to consider. He sees the signs, but somehow can't quite bring himself to believe in it. There is affection between them, certainly, but Gaby seems to make Illya nervous when they're in close proximity, as if he doesn't know how to interact with her. It's with Napoleon that he cultivates the easy banter and the pet names. And it's not lost on Napoleon that, after the fight with Alexander Vinciguerra, Illya comes to check on him first, before going to Gaby. But things aren't exactly clear-cut.

And then the computer disk is burned, their seemingly inevitable mutually assured destruction avoided, and Napoleon thinks he has missed his chance. With the mission over, Illya will return to Moscow, and he to New York, most likely never to cross paths again. It makes Napoleon feel desperately sad, and he masks the surge of emotion with his usual flippancy, glad at least to make Illya smile. He wants to believe he sees an answering sadness in Illya's eyes, as they share their drink on the balcony, but he fears this may just be wishful thinking. He knows Illya didn't want to kill him, but it's a big step from that to how Napoleon wants Illya to feel.

Suddenly, Waverly is telling them he's keeping the team together, and they're off to Istanbul and a whole new world of possibilities. But Napoleon's uncharacteristic uncertainty in himself keeps him from acting on his feelings and the mission goes by in a flash.

It's very late on their last night in Istanbul when an insistent knock on Napoleon's door tears him away from a large glass of scotch. He grabs his gun and opens the door cautiously to reveal Illya standing in the hallway. His stunned reaction to the unexpected sight gives Illya the opportunity to push past him into the room.

"Enough is enough," Illya growls, while Napoleon is still trying to engage his brain enough to shut the door and pay attention to the conversation.

"What are you talking about, Peril?" he asks, going for nonchalant but probably just hitting peevish.

He crosses back to the night stand and picks up his drink.

"You must stop looking at me like lost puppy, Cowboy," Illya says, his blue eyes steely. "It's compromising mission."

Napoleon chokes on his scotch and spends the next few moments desperately trying to get some air into his lungs past the burning liquid. What Illya probably thinks is a hearty slap on the back nearly sends him sprawling to the floor, but Illya catches him before he can fall.

They end up standing face to face, Illya's hands on Napoleon's upper arms. Illya's expression is almost tender as he searches Napoleon's face in concern, making him feel weak at the knees again.

"Okay now?" Illya asks.

Napoleon nods, but Illya doesn't let go of him.

Struggling to regain his composure, Napoleon straightens and looks at Illya imperiously.

"Now," he says, "what on earth were you going on about before?"

He isn't sure he wants to know the answer. Clearly, he hasn't been as successful at hiding his feelings as he'd hoped, and now he fears anger, rejection, perhaps even disgust. He doesn't think he can handle that.

But Illya doesn't look angry, and his hands are firm and still on Napoleon's arms.

"You," Illya says softly, "are very foolish Cowboy. I waited, but you do nothing - just gaze with puppy expression and almost blow cover. Eventually, enough is enough. Who would think it is I who must make first move?"

Napoleon just stares at him, thinking he must have drunk too much scotch and be in the middle of the most vivid dream he's ever had. But when Illya's fingers tighten and he leans down to kiss him, Napoleon knows it must be real because it's better than anything he could have imagined.

He bursts out laughing.

Illya springs back as if burned, hurt blazing from his eyes.

"Oh, no, Peril!" Napoleon immediately cries, inwardly kicking himself for ruining the moment. "I'm not laughing at you. I'm laughing at me."

Illya still looks defensive, his arms crossed tightly over his chest, his expression wary. "Why?"

"You said it yourself," Napoleon says. "I'm an idiot."

He closes the distance between them, relieved when Illya doesn't back further away. Taking hold of Illya's arms, he gently pulls them free and puts them around himself instead, stepping inside Illya's embrace. He looks up into the beautiful, wounded, hungry face.

"I've wasted so much time," he says. "And now we definitely have to make up for it."

THE END