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Defeated by the Russian winter

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Up on the rooftop the czech winter wind felt like daggers. It was early morning and they were set to quietly finalize an arms dealer that had put Miss Teller in trouble while she was infiltrated in his entourage. She was now putting miles between the sketchy millionaire and herself, escorted by an extraction team that had taken her out of her hotel room, avoiding the vigilance put on her by that madman after she put an end to his advances.

Solo was wearing a tactical jumpsuit, several inner layers of clothing, and a thick wool pullover, plus gloves, a scarf and a fuzzy trapper hat. He wasn’t trembling —providence forbid he was caught showing any kind of weakness by Illya—, but he was uncharacteristically stiff and quiet. Next to him, Kuryakin took sips of black coffee from a thermos, and checked the entrance of the target’s house through the scope of their sniper rifle. He wore a black jumpsuit and a matching stocking cap.

“You should have worn more layers. You are going to freeze before the target steps out the door”.

“I am not the one hugging my own body for dear life. Are you sure you don’t want to get a blanket, or twenty?”

Solo would have made a dismissive face if he had felt his face. Getting a blanket didn’t seem like a terrible idea. He leaned on the chimney, against which their dark silhouettes were barely visible in the dim light of the dawn and their high position. He huffed. He then leaned on Kuryakin’s shoulder, most definitely not seeking his body warmth, and whispered, not bothering to hide his annoyance:

“Are you completely sure you are not cold?”

Kuryakin chuckled, not even giving his colleague a mere glance.

“Maybe nights in the Far West are cold, Cowboy, but unlike you I was risen to withstand Russian winter. Besides”, he added and paused for effect, turning to face Solo, who became suddenly greatly aware of their proximity, “you keep me warm”.

Against his training, his disposition, and his own will, Napoleon Solo gaped at that, eyes wide and heart racing. Shameless but ambiguous flirting felt oddly confusing and unexpectedly arousing from the receiving end. He closed his mouth, cleared his throat and trained his eyes on the target’s front door. Kuryakin took another sip of coffee and made a theatrically long and loud sigh of satisfaction. The tables may have turned, thought Solo, but the game was still on.