Work Text:
Following Orders
By Blondie
“Solo!”
Napoleon took a deep, calming breath and glared at the phone in his hand. The hairs on his neck always rose at the sound of that hated voice, the lazy drawl of his handler, Sanders, who – how did the Russian put it? – had his balls on the end of a very long leash. He could feel his testicles tighten in response.
“Yes,” he replied, forcing himself to sound pleasant. “What can I do for you?”
“It appears you’ll be working with the Russian indefinitely. In which case, we feel we need a little… insurance. Something we can dangle over his head, should the need arise.”
Puzzled, Napoleon frowned. “Um, I’m not following you.”
“We need a little blackmail material, just in case.”
“In case of….?”
“In case we need his cooperation. A few photos should do the trick.”
Napoleon pinched the bridge of his nose, his patience tested. The man often spoke in riddles, an infuriating tendency that Napoleon despised. “I’m sorry, you’re going to have to spell it out for me.”
“We want you to seduce Kuryakin.”
=========================================
“We want you to seduce Solo.”
Kuryakin’s grip on the glass in his hand tightened. His lunch time vodka had been interrupted by a call from Oleg, his superior. As usual, he came straight to the point.
“I’m sorry,” Illya said, “you want me to what?”
“Seduce him,” Oleg repeated. “As you’ll be working together out of the Soviet Union, we need some leverage. Just in case.”
Did he mean leverage against Solo or himself? Probably both. The KGB were never subtle when it came to blackmail and exploitation, and they were paranoid over their citizens working outside of their influence. Illya felt his hand begin to tremble and he put the glass down before he spilt its contents – it would be a shame to waste it. He took a deep, steading breath, trying to push back his rising anger, but found he couldn’t respond.
“Did you hear what I said?”
Another deep breath. There, that’s better. “Yes, sir.”
“We will need some incriminating photos of the two of you. As soon as possible.”
Illya hated to point out the obvious. “But he may not be interested in men.”
“Then if you can’t seduce him, drug him. But we want those photos.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Don’t fail me again, Kuryakin. Unless you wish to join your parents in the gulag.”
The line went dead. No further explanations, no goodbyes. Illya picked up the glass, gulping down the vodka like it was a cool glass of water. He stared at the crystal in his hand for a moment, then turned and flung it at the wall. The crashing sound of it shattering was satisfying, but his breathing sounded harsh in the silence that followed. He took several deep inhalations, trying to push back the red mist that descended when he was angry.
He found destroying things helped.
Following a call from Napoleon Solo earlier in the day inviting him to a post-mission drink, Illya found himself standing outside the door to Solo’s hotel room, bottle of wine cradled under one arm, the other hanging loose at his side. He told himself it wasn’t nerves that made him reluctant to be here - it’s not like he hadn’t done this kind of work before – but this felt, somehow, duplicitous, even if he had no choice in the matter. To his handler, he was just a tool – whatever was needed to get the job done.
On the drive over, he’d considered how to go about this. Women were relatively easy. He knew he had the looks, though being pleasant and attentive for prolonged periods required all his acting skills. The only other man he’d been ordered to compromise had previously shown interest in him, so that had simply required him to make himself available. If he was being honest with himself, it hadn’t been too much of a chore. He had needs, after all.
This American however, was a horse of a different color. The man was smart, if arrogant, and very self-assured, but he was a hedonist, that much had come across in their short acquaintance. Now Illya was here, though, he wasn’t confident what tactics he should use. Flattery, perhaps. Appeal to his vanity. Admire one of his many, many suits. Compliment him on his taste. And try to relax, he told himself.
He put the bottle he held down on the floor and unbuttoned the top two buttons of his shirt. Once he’d wiped his sweaty palms against his jacket, he reached out his hand to knock. He paused, deciding it was too much and refastened one of the button. He picked up the bottle of wine and reached out to knock again, but before his knuckles could make contact with the door, it was opened with a jerk.
“Peril. Come in, you’re right on time. ”
Illya walked in, taking time to look around the sumptuously appointed room as he did. When he’d broken into this room earlier to plant a camera, he’d been in too much of a hurry to notice the décor. Now, while the artist in him could appreciate the opulence of the room, the Soviet in him regarded his surroundings with disdain.
In the centre of the room was a large leather L-shaped sofa, with a glass and chrome coffee table sitting before it. Behind the sofa, a queen sized bed with crisp white cotton sheets, neatly made covers pulled back. He glanced at the camera’s hiding place, to make sure it hadn’t been moved. It appeared to be intact.
He held out the bottle for the American, who glanced approvingly over the label. Illya turned to place it on the coffee table, removing a small tin of caviar and a packet of crackers from his pocket. He paused, noticing for the first time the ice bucket, chilling a bottle of champagne, next to a plate of oysters.
He almost jumped as Solo’s hands slid over his shoulders, fingers grasping his collar. “Let’s get you comfortable, shall we?” he said, pulling Illya’s jacket off and draping it over the end of the sofa.
He turned in Solo’s direction, feeling suddenly nervous as the American gave him a lingering, assessing look from head to toe and back again, a smile curling the corners of his mouth. “That shirt looks good on you.”
Illya looked down at the navy blue garment. “Thank you.” In fact, he’d chosen the shirt specifically for this meeting. It fitted him snugly, showing the muscles that defined his shape to the best advantage. “And you look….comfortable…” Slow to realise, he frowned, “… in your dressing gown.”
Napoleon waved the comment off. “Oh, just got out of the shower. Didn’t seem any point getting dressed just yet.” He pulled the belt tight. “You don’t mind do you?”
“Not at all.” It suited Illya’s plans perfectly. “You look very relaxed.” He ran his hand down the fluffy material. “White shows off your tan.” He smiled to himself as Solo coloured slightly. Good, Solo was susceptible to compliments. Now, if he could just get him drunk…..
As if reading his mind, Napoleon backed away, picked up the opened champagne bottle and poured two glasses. He handed one to Illya, who held it aloft, apparently observing the bubbles, but in fact checking there was no tablet residue in the bottom of the glass. “Champagne?” Illya said. “How decadent.”
“Champagne for my real friends, real pain for my sham friends,” Napoleon quoted. His glass clinked against Illya’s. “Bottoms up.”
Illya acknowledged the toast with a nod. He preferred a drink that seared his gut, not tickled his nose, but in the absence of hard liquor, he gulped it down. He moved casually over to the sofa, took a seat without waiting to be asked, and toed off his shoes. As he did, the light suddenly dimmed. He turned to look at Solo who was just moving away from the switch.
“I hope you don’t mind. I have a headache coming on.”
“Then perhaps champagne is not a good idea,” Illya suggested.
“It helps me to relax.”
“You need to relax?”
Solo moved behind the sofa, champagne bottle in hand. “I think we both need to relax, don’t you?” He leaned over, filling Illya’s glass to the brim.
“Perhaps you would relax more if you sat.” Illya patted the sofa seat next to him and leaned forward to put his untouched glass on the coffee table. It wouldn’t do to drink too much, not if he wanted to keep in control of the situation.
Solo sat close to his guest despite the sofa being large enough to seat six. He crossed one bare leg over the other and leaned back, draping one arm over the back of the cushions, almost brushing Illya’s neck. Illya tried not to let his gaze linger on the opening in the dressing gown. Solo’s bare, muscular legs were as tanned as the rest of him. Illya imagined vanity kept Solo under a sun lamp in his spare time.
Napoleon suddenly leaned forward, snagging the plate of oysters. “Would you like one of these?”
Illya eyed the delicacies. “Oysters. They are considered an aphrodisiac, are they not?”
“I believe they are. “ Solo’s smile was shark-like. “Take two.”
Illya shook his head. “Thank you, no. I am allergic to sea food.”
“Really?” Napoleon glanced at the coffee table. “And yet you brought caviar.”
That self- satisfied smile. It irritated Illya. How he’d like to remove that smug look off Solo’s face. He sucked in a calming breath, and bit back a sarcastic retort. Instead, he said, “Russian Caviar. I thought it would appeal to your sophisticated palate.”
“How thoughtful. Later, perhaps, when we’ve worked up an appetite. After a few drinks, I mean,” Solo added, hurriedly. He returned the oysters to the table and sat back, looking intently at Illya, head cocked to one side. “You know, you have very blue eyes.”
Illya smiled to himself. It was a poor attempt at flattery and not the first time he’d heard that line. “Yes I know. All the better to see you with.”
“Isn’t that what the big, bad wolf said?”
“Yes. Red Riding Hood. A children’s fairy tale written by a Russian author.”
Napoleon cleared his throat. “Actually, I believe that was Charles Perrault. And he was French.”
“But he plagiarised the idea from a Russian.” Illya gritted his teeth. What was it about this American that set his nerves on edge? He took another slow, deep breath. He had to remember what he was here for - he would not let Solo get to him.
Napoleon, however, seemed intent on doing so. “You seem a little tense,” Napoleon said, rising and moving behind Kuryakin. He leant over the back of the sofa, his lips near the Russian’s ear. “I can help with that,” he said.
“I am fine.” Illya frowned. “Really. It was a difficult assignment.” He coughed for effect. “I swallowed a lot of water.”
“Well, it’s too late for the Kiss of Life, but I give a pretty good massage.” Without waiting for permission, Solo’s hands settled on his shoulders, gripping the flesh there. “Ooh, you’re strung tighter than a balalaika.”
“What are you doing?” Illya asked, as casually as he could, as his heart began a drum beat against his chest.
Thumbs rubbed circles, digging into flesh. “I once worked as a masseur for the Chicago Bears, you know.”
Puzzled, Illya twisted round to look at him. “You massaged bears?”
Solo looked thoughtful. “A couple of them may have been.”
“What?”
“Never mind.” Napoleon pushed Illya’s head back to face the front as he began kneading the flesh beneath his fingers. “Relax. You’re trapezius is as hard as rock. See, that’s tension.”
“That’s muscle tone. I am not tense.” But he was. And he wasn’t especially happy about being manhandled. Perhaps, though, if he allowed this physical contact he could use it to his advantage.
He winced as Solo’s thumbs smoothed along his neck muscles and bit his tongue to stop a moan escaping his lips. Solo’s persistent, kneading fingers were already working their magic. He had to admit, Solo was good at this. His hands glided slowly over skin, stroked each knot till his muscles began to feel like soft taffee. And annoyingly, he found himself enjoying the sensation, unconsciously leaning his head back against the sofa, eyes closing in bliss.
Solo’s hands moved down his arms, then up again, down and up, smoothing along his collar bone, thumbs pressing into the base of his neck. The touch was firm but gentle, soothing and almost hypnotic. The warmth of Solo’s palms bled through the thin material of his shirt, heating his skin. It was sensual in its action and coming too soon after his time with Gaby. He and the girl had come close to kissing, several times, but each time his passion had been denied, leaving him frustrated. He could still remember the sensation of her body against his, the smell of her perfume, the feel of her hands on his shoulders…
His cock twitched and he willed it to subside. He was beginning to respond to the stimulus of Solo’s massage. It’s been too long,he thought, trying to remember the last time he’d been intimate with anyone.He shifted, trying to ease his discomfort, but the friction of his pants against his cock only made matters worse.
He should put a stop to this. If anything, he should be the one giving a massage, he should be the one getting Solo aroused, not the other way around. Solo had been so attentive since he arrived - champagne, oysters, flattery… and now this? It was almost as if….as if…
Illya’s eyes flew open. He jumped up and turned to face the American. Angrily, he shook a finger at him. “You….you…” He took a deep breath and let it out between clenched teeth. “I know what you are trying to do, Cowboy!”
Solo looked the epitome of innocence. “Really? And what would that be?”
Illya rounded the sofa, stalking up to Solo. “I think you are trying to seduce me.”
Solo had the good grace to look shocked. “Me? Seduce you? Why on earth would you think that?”
Illya leaned close, nose almost touching nose. “Because I recognise the signs. Plying me with alcohol, complimenting me, touching me. I am familiar with the art of seduction.”
“Really?” Napoleon regarded him quietly a moment, considering his words. His eyes narrowed as he sucked in a quiet breath. He flicked a finger indolently against Illya’s chest. “Hence the shirt.”
“Shirt?”
“Yes. Don’t think I didn’t notice how it’s designed to show off your….” he waved a hand up and down, “…assets.”
Illya pulled back a little. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Don’t you?” Solo gestured towards the coffee table. “Wine and caviar?”
Illya glanced at the table. “Champagne and oysters!” he threw back.
The anger between them dissipated rapidly as realisation hit both men simultaneously. They took a step away from each other. Illya was the first to speak. “You have been ordered to seduce me!”
“And you have been ordered to seduce me.” Napoleon exhaled loudly and crossed his arms over his chest. “Well, this is awkward.”
Panicked, Illya glanced around at the room, looking for obvious hiding places for microphones. Solo, apparently reading his mind, sighed and ran a hand through his hair, shifting the carefully combed strands into disarray.
“Calm down, Peril, there are no bugs in here. We can talk. They just wanted to see snap shots, not listen to you moaning.”
“I do not moan!”
“I bet you don’t,” Napoleon muttered to himself.
“What is that supposed to mean?”
Napoleon stalked up to him. “Just that you’re wound so tight a simple shoulder rub gave you a hard on!”
Stung, Illya glared at him, teeth grinding in anger, hands clenched at his sides. Suddenly, with a sharp intake of breath, he turned away.
Napoleon was getting a headache. He sighed and rubbed at his temples, resenting the position he’d been put in. With a stranger, seduction was simple. He knew he could charm, when required to; manipulation was something that came naturally to him. But he and Illya had worked together, albeit briefly. During their assignment they’d developed a begrudging respect for one another. They had saved each other’s lives, for God’s sake.
Their respective handlers had put them in this untenable situation. He hated Sanders even more for this.
If they failed, what would be the outcome? For Napoleon, failure meant a dressing down from his handler. The sarcasm he could take – the threat to rescind his pardon was usually just that, a threat. He knew he was too valuable to Sanders.
The risk for Illya, though, was greater. The Soviets weren’t known for their benevolence towards spies who disappointed. Napoleon wasn’t sure, but he was fairly certain it might involve relocating to Siberia.
He approached the silent Russian cautiously. “If you don’t get your photos, what will happen to you?”
Illya turned back towards him, the muscles in his jaw twitching. “After my failure to prevent you and Miss Teller from escaping East Berlin?” He swallowed visible. “I will be severely punished. Two failed missions in a row is unacceptable.”
He knew Illya’s superiors would expect results, not excuses. Napoleon tugged thoughtfully on his lower lip. He felt guilty, a negative emotion he disliked immensely. This wouldn’t do. He needed to come up with something that wouldn’t put either of them in bad books. Choices were limited and time was short. By his reckoning, there was only one logical but simple course to take - if Illya would only trust him now.
He cleared his throat. “There is another option,” Napoleon said slowly.
Illya turned to look at him, a hopeful expression on his face. “What?”
Napoleon gestured with an open palm. “We could comply with their demands.”
Illya frowned. “What are you suggesting?”
Head cocked to one side, he looked Illya over speculatively. “We give them what they want.”
Illya’s eyes narrowed. “If you think I’m going to jump into bed with you, Cowboy—“
“You were willing to before we both realised what the other had planned.”
Confused, Illya shook his head. “That was different.”
“How?”
“I... I…”
“It is no different. Besides, it’s an excellent idea.” He stepped closer. “Look, if it offends your sensibilities, pretend we never had the last five minutes of this conversation. Instead, do what you came here to do.”
“You wish us to go to bed together?”
“And make like bunnies, yes.”
Illya rubbed his chin, his mind sifting through alternate possibilities. “Perhaps we can fake it,” he suggested.
Napoleon looked deeply offended. “I don’t fake sex! I’m not that good an actor.” He could see Illya needed a little push in the right direction. “Look, I think we could both get something out of this, besides photographic evidence, I mean. A night of guilt free sex, and all at the behest of our handlers.” Napoleon looked him over with a predatory smile. “And frankly, if I’m being honest, you’re not too hard on the eye. The way I see it, we might as well make the most of it.”
He almost foundered under Illya’s hard stare, but then the Russian, hands on hips, began to pace, face skyward as if looking for answers on the ceiling.
After several long moments of silence, Napoleon tried again. “Look, Peril—“
“Be quiet! I am thinking.” His pacing continued again before he finally slowed to a stop, head cocked to one side. His chin raised, he regarded Solo a moment, pursed his lips and puffed out a sigh. “Fine.”
“Fine?”
“Yes. I agree. We have sex.”
“Really?” Napoleon said, surprised. “Well… good. It’s the sensible thing to do.”
“I do not want to end up in a gulag. It is small price to pay.”
“Well, here’s something else to consider, too. The KGB and the CIA won’t be aware that the other has photographs.”
“That is true.”
“If we both have blackmail material, then one can’t have an advantage over the other.”
It was a persuasive argument. Napoleon could see Illya visibly relax. “They have nothing to threaten us with.” Illya looked Solo over, head to toe, and shrugged one shoulder. “And you, too, are not exactly repulsive to look at. It might even be pleasant - if you can stop talking long enough.”
Solo ignored the insult – he was already becoming aroused by the idea. “Good.” He slapped his hands together and looked around at the bed. “No time like the present.”
“Agreed.”
“Okay, then.” Napoleon planted his hand against Illya’s chest, pushing him back towards the bed. “Let’s scratch our respective itches in accordance with our bosses’ wishes.”
Illya shrugged as he walked backwards, stopping as the back of his legs hit the bed. “We are only doing as we are told.”
Napoleon nodded agreement. “Just obeying orders.” His lips parted in a soft sigh. He leaned forward and pressed a kiss to Illya’s lips, pleased when Illya responded enthusiastically. After an eternity, they moved apart, regarding each other in silence.
He reached for the buttons on Illya’s shirt as Illya, stock-still, watched him. The shirt slipped to the floor and Napoleon sighed in appreciation. The body he’d glimpsed beneath the blue material matched his expectations. He ran his hand slowly down the chest and abdomen, to the waistband of Illya’s slacks. He unfastened the button there, but before he could pull down the zipper Illya’s hand covered his. “What about you?”
Napoleon tugged at the belt on his dressing gown and let it slip off his shoulders to the floor. “I’m ready.”
Illya’s lips twitched. “Oh, Cowboy, this is going to be fun.”
Napoleon’s delight was genuine. “Is that a smile on your face?”
“You tell anyone, I kill you,” Illya threatened, but there was no heat in his words.
“My lips are sealed.”
“Hm. Not for long, I think.” Illya ran a finger along his lower lip and Napoleon moaned with pleasure, resisting the temptation to suck on the calloused digit. Maybe later. Now, though, he wanted to make Illya groan and scream and beg. Oh, yes, especially beg. He yanked down the zipper on Illya’s slacks and shoved him impatiently onto the bed,
“Now, let’s give them something for their photograph album, shall we?”
Somewhere, out of earshot, was the soft sound of shutters clicking in unison
The End