ficlet: carnelian stars and bars [Man From UNCLE]

[raven]

First wee ficlet. For curuchamion, who wanted Man From UNCLE, smart!Napoleon.

ficlet:: carnelian stars and bars
by Raven
700w, Man From UNCLE, gen, ish, Napoleon & Illya. "Illya, be a good secret agent and finish your vodka."

---

"The problem," Illya says, thoughtfully, "is the lack of subtlety."

"You don't want subtlety in an UNCLE Special," Napoleon snaps back, gesturing with his glass. "You want people to stay where they land."

"Subtlety," Illya insists, and lifts up his own glass, spinning on his barstool. He has a centre of gravity lower than most people's, Napoleon notes, with the tiniest flash of amusement. Only the balls of his feet touch the ground. "A word, I am told, with more than one meaning in English. There is no... guile to this."

"This" is accompanied with the slightest gesture, a flick of the fingers to his hip. Concealed weapon permits aren't a legal requirement for UNCLE agents, but it's easiest to just avoid the explanation. The bar is quiet, the jazz soft. Lights mounted in red globes hang just at the edge of his peripheral vision. This is the sort of place Illya likes.

"Guile," Napoleon repeats. "My friend, you're a fine sight with a little vodka in you."

A flash of a smile in the dimness. "Explosions," Illya says, softly. "Bombs that go whoosh, uncontrolled. Long, rounded missiles that gush shrapnel. All so" – a hand at the base of his neck, an inclined head, very like a Victorian maiden – "bourgeois."

"Bourgeois," Napoleon says, grinning. "Are you sure that was the word you meant?"

A quirk of an eyebrow. "Perhaps it was not."

Napoleon snorts. "American armaments lack elegance, is what you're saying."

Illya glances over his shoulder, then down the length of the bar. He leaps off, light as air. "Come."

"Illya," Napoleon's saying, "Illya, be a good little secret agent and finish your vodka" – but he's gone, bouncing between tables and stacked chairs, out into the night. Napoleon sighs and heads after him.

Outside, the sound of traffic is distant, muted, filtered through into the alley. An airliner crosses the sky far, far above, a slow-moving jewel of light. Napoleon shivers suddenly. Illya, dressed in black, is barely visible against the gloom, a familiar figure made strange by the patterns of shadow.

"Like so," Illya says, and if he weren't an UNCLE agent, with many years of training, Napoleon would have startled. "Like so."

Something's in his hand. Something curves into the air as he throws it upwards, and then before Napoleon can do anything, Illya's pulled the UNCLE Special from his holster and fired. There's an explosion of light and flame, so bright Napoleon sees stars, Illya illuminated below in a flash of blond hair and a wicked expression, and then whatever-it-is it hits the ground, dies spluttering into rainwater and murk.

"Elegant," comes Illya's voice from out of the darkness.

"While UNCLE agents do have immunity from local prosecution, I suspect Mr Waverly would object to our testing the theory," Napoleon says, dryly, and then gives in. "Illya! What did you do?"

"Tell me," Illya says softly. He's standing so close, all but invisible. It's startlingly intimate.

Napoleon thinks about it. "You weren't carrying any explosive, as far as I know," he says, quickly. "And if you had been, you'd have blown up a building. Not... elegant. You had your Special. You had your" – a smile, more for himself in the darkness – "subtlety. And guile. You had... let me see, a handkerchief? A small shotglass of vodka, which you hadn't finished. One soaked in the other. The glass turned in the air and you fired into it as the vodka started to fall. Ignition." He bends down and inspects the smoking mass in the puddle at close range, identifies the shards of glass as sharp pricks against his fingers.

Illya's eyes gleam in the murk. "Well done, comrade."

Instinctively, Napoleon follows him back into the bar. In the relative light, Illya looks oddly satisfied. "When I was young," he says quietly, "we made do with what we had."

"Make do with another vodka," Napoleon says, and nods at the bartender. "You didn't drink the first."

"What is it, Napoleon?" Illya asks, alert to the changing air between them.

"You're not the only one," Napoleon tells him. "We all learn to make do with what we have."

Illya looks at him and says nothing; Napoleon thinks of him standing under a soaring burst of light. They stand in silence but for the vodka pouring into the glass.

end.

Comments

[loneraven.livejournal.com]

just the way I like him. :) Thank you!