Chapter Text
Napoleon hates the color red.
It’s silly, he knows. He also knows that it’s gratingly cliché to hate red seeing as it is the color of rage, the color of blood, the color of…well, hate. And if there is one thing that he hates more than the color of red, it’s being prosaic.
Even still, this office has no less than four bright red pieces of furniture or artwork in it. Possibly to evoke some kind of subconscious deference to the superiority of their self-governed agency. (At least, if he were still with the CIA that would be the reason.) More likely, it was chosen here at UNCLE simply because it looked nice in one of those new home magazines that Napoleon pretends not to read.
And truthfully, read them he doesn’t. He merely flips through the glossy photos to see if there is anything he can critique for being gauche or unseemly. Like the crime that is mixing oranges and greens. Or herringbone floors and straight paneled walls. Horrid, he’d tell you. Too much!
But these are the absurd thoughts that he twirls around in his mind as he stares at the embodiment of everything he is supposed to despise, trying in his presently growing irritation to remember why he is not practically clawing the walls to get away from him.
Illya Kuryakin.
The Communist.
The Russian.
His partner.
An alpha.
Which, coincidentally, makes him all things red.
The reason is rather simple if inconceivable to a younger Napoleon: he is actually sleeping with the man. As in, regularly. With the intent of it continuing. And not for any machinations or manipulations, but just because…he for some strange reason really likes the alpha.
Truly remarkable, indeed.
Younger Napoleon would not only be appalled, he would be putting a stop to it immediately with deadly force. Trusting any alphas, let alone gorgeous red Russians, was outrageous.
And older Napoleon knows this. Older Napoleon even kind of agrees, considering the state of where he is in this very moment. So then why is he simply watching the man from their seated position across from Waverly? Why is he not moving his leg away from Illya’s as he challenges their CO’s directives? Why is he not chiming in? Why is he allowing this alpha to speak for him?
He resists the urge to shudder at himself and notices Gaby out of the corner of his eyes. The pretty, dangerous, little beta swirls her drink and rolls her eyes at the scene before her like watching alpha posturing is merely a nuisance. Probably wondering what short straw she drew at the beginning of her life to get such insufferable fools for partners – but in German.
Waverly, bless him, has kept his composure this entire time as he has allowed Illya to get more and more heated. Napoleon can’t scent him anymore than he can Gaby since he is also a beta, but it would take a particular kind of moron to not see his patience running very thin.
A particular kind of moron named Illya Kuryakin that goes by…
“…for the last time, we are not needing the Red Peril in for this mission, Mr. Kuryakin.” Waverly stresses and for the first time in this meeting – or ever – shows real irritation as he reaches forward to grab his teacup. “What we need is subtlety. Grace.”
“An omega,” Napoleon finishes for him quietly, absently, as he snaps out of his reverie.
Illya whips his head over to Napoleon with a near snarl. “No,” he says with an edge that sounds like the beginning of an alpha growl, which did finally begin to raise the hackles of Napoleon.
“You do not get to make that call for me,” Napoleon sniffs and finally pulls his leg away to resituate himself more assertively in his chair. “I am an omega. The only omega in UNCLE currently. And the most experienced in this form of espionage besides. I will do this.”
At this, Waverly nods a relieved smile at him as he takes a sip of his tea. “Thank you, Mr. Solo.”
“Cowboy,” Illya starts, mouth set in a grim line.
“Illya,” Gaby snaps over him. “You’re not the boss of him and we are professionals. If he says he will do it…”
Shaking his head, “I did not say I am boss! I am just…” Illya looks back and forth between an exasperated Waverly and an unimpressed Napoleon near desperately, “yes, he say he do it, but…”
Having heard enough, Napoleon glares over at his partner and stands to turn and address Waverly directly. “I expect the device to be brought to my quarters with instructions on how to safely place it in Margot’s rooms within the hour. Am I to assume transportation is already secured? Or am I going in dark and silent?”
Mildly affronted, but still pleased at Napoleon’s effort in compliance, Waverly scoffs, “I never send agents in dark and silent. We’re not MI6. A flight has been chartered. You are arriving with two other agents marked as your bodyguards. Your cover is drafted as being a wealthy, spoiled heir to an American oil empire, looking to mingle and find your mate. However, your parents are trying to marry you off for the connections while you are still of a – uh...”
Napoleon raises a brow and sighs. “While I’m still young enough to be a worthy broodmare? We’re all adults here, we can speak plainly.”
Illya’s jaw twitches and his eyes blaze in fury while Gaby merely sets her mouth a firm line of distaste.
Clearing his throat, Waverly chews that and continues, “Still no need for crassness, Solo. Your partners will be monitoring from their respective positions. They will not be your bodyguards. That will be Powers and McCallum.”
Illya cuts in, “Absolutely not!”
While Napoleon nods with a sigh, “Powers is a bore and McCallum an ass, but at least it will fit the narrative,” and ignores Illya’s swears in Russian.
“Your objective is to place the explosive device in Lester Margot’s safe to destroy the plans he has drawn up, and to distract him while we move to get the authorities to apprehend him for his other crimes. No one is to know you were there, and those plans for their new missile technology cannot be found. We have determined no hands are to be trusted with them.”
“Not even our own. Understood,” Napoleon nods stiffly, excusing himself, but not surprised in the least to hear the scraping of Illya’s chair as he practically jumps out of it to follow.
“Cowboy!” Illya calls after him, and Napoleon refuses to slow his stride as he clips corners and decidedly does not turn around.
The great menace will catch up. He always does. Especially when sufficiently motivated. And the opportunity to prove a point or win an argument is always enough motivation.
“Napoleon!” Illya says again, trying to get his elbow and grumbling when it’s pulled away from him forcefully.
“Not out here!” Napoleon snaps at him over his shoulder and walks even faster than before. “I think we’ve embarrassed me enough for one day.”
Groaning, Illya mutters, “I wasn’t trying to.”
The chase continues until Napoleon reaches his door and pulls out his keys, coolly ignoring Illya’s simmering ire at being ignored for a solid three minutes. He lets his partner follow him into the room and waits for the door to close before quickly turning and poking him – hard – in the chest.
“How fucking dare you!” he hisses.
Sighing, “Napashka…”
Snarling, Napoleon pokes him again, “You embarrass me and then have the nerve to call me that, you мудак*1?”
Grabbing his flailing arms Illya shushes at him before Napoleon rips away angrily.
“милый*2, I am sorry,” Illya sighs.
Scoffing, “врун*3.”
“No! I am, I just…” Illya deflates, putting his hands on his hips before leaning back into his space, and Napoleon crosses his arms pulling away. “I just know you do not want to do this, Napashka,” he coaxes, reaching forward to get Napoleon’s elbow. “Cowboy. Please listen, yes?” Blue eyes full of affection and practically begging to be heard meet his own. “Let me tell them no for you. Let me-”
“You can’t tell them no, you пошлая свеня*4!” Napoleon snarls again. Even in the face of Illya’s sincere contrition, his anger is white hot. “You are not my alpha!”
That does illicit a growl from his partner as he draws up to his full height. “We may not have a marked bond, Napashka, but you are mine.”
“They don’t know we are together that way,” Napoleon almost shouts ripping away from the alpha again and going to his kitchenette to get a drink. “Although after that display with Waverly, that may not be true anymore.”
“Good!” Illya huffs.
Stopping to breathe through the frustration, Napoleon responds as levelly as he can. “Illyusha. We talked about this.”
“Da,” the alpha agrees, crossing his arms. “We did.”
“We have an agreement.”
Illya shakes his head. “No. No, we agreed we are together, just do not have marks. And that there would be no others!”
Napoleon feels his inner omega start to whine as his anger dials up even further from the subtle accusation. He stops mid turning of a glass to hiss, “There haven’t been others, and you know that.”
Pulling back, Illya shakes his head, “That is not what I meant…”
“You’d have smelled it!” He talks over the alpha and comes back around the counter. “But good to know that you think so little of my loyalty to you that I could have somehow been able to cover up cheating between being fucked by you and trying not to die while we run from Thrush.”
“You purposely take my meaning wrong, Cowboy,” Illya sighs and rubs his face.
“I mean really,” he gesticulates, “I know I’m good but considering you don’t even think I am that talented of a spy…”
“Not this again!” Illya groans and rubs his face in frustration.
Narrowing his eyes, Napoleon huffs. “Peril, this is my job…”
“…and you did not agree to be Waverly’s honeypot!” Illya shouts. “You leave that kind of stuff behind in CIA!”
Stunned, Napoleon walks back another step. Solemn, he asks steadily, covering up the roaring in his ears, “Прошу прощения. можете повторить?*6”
“You hear me!” Illya replies. “You do not need to be honeypot and do that. You will put yourself around bad alphas, get hurt, and no. No, you don’t do that anymore.”
“Do what, Illyusha?” Napoleon asks with false sweetness that he knows the alpha didn’t notice.
Scoffing, the alpha agitatedly gestures at him as he moves forward back into the omega’s personal space, “You know.”
“No,” Napoleon says innocently. “No, I don’t think I understand. What do I not do anymore, that I did before?”
“ты не блядь!*7” Illya shouts. “They can’t make you do it anymore! Whoring for them.”
The words hang in the air a moment while it feels like neither of them even breathe.
Finally, Napoleon pulls back nodding. “Get out.” It comes out cool and detached as he walks towards his bags, feeling every single one of his shields come up over his consciousness to block out the pain wanting to escape.
Whore. Illya thinks he’s a whore. After everything, he equates him to a whore.
Napoleon feels his eyes water and growls at himself. Of course, the alpha does. He’s a broken, used up omega who has had to use his body to get what he needs to survive in a life he couldn’t escape. What else was there to call it?
Confused, Illya watches him move away. “Napashka…”
“I said, get out!” Napoleon all but screams as he turns around with enough force to knock the paper containers from their takeaway meal the night before off his small desk and onto the floor. “And don’t ever call me that again! We’re done.”
“Napash-Napoleon, please,” Illya begs, eyes getting wide with desperation. “I didn’t mean it like…”
The knock at the door stops all conversation as they both freeze.
The device. Right.
Clearing his throat, Napoleon glares at him. “If you’d excuse me, Mr. Kuryakin. I need to prepare for my whoring,” and walks past Illya to open his door. “It appears my pimp calls,” He calls over his shoulder.
The device is being held by one of the smaller, newer alpha techies gingerly. Napoleon has yet to learn his name but reflexively pulls on his most gregarious of smiles.
“Is this a bad time?” the alpha asks, looking very uncomfortable and no doubt smelling their strong anger and hurt emotions hanging heavy in the air.
Shaking his head politely, Napoleon gestures at Illya casually. “Oh, no. No, he was just on his way out. The instructions are in the parcel, I assume?”
“Yes, sir,” the alpha beams, seeming glad for the diversion back to the topic at hand. “It’s been designed to be slim enough to hide on your person even in…umm…more omega-y outfits.”
Gritting his teeth as he nods his understanding at the tech, Napoleon ignores the annoyance that statement brings and mentally decides not to learn the man’s name for a whole year.
Right as he is about to dismiss the young alpha, Illya shoves past and nearly knocks him over with strong waves of *pissed OFF and ready to kill* pheromones rolling off him. Shocked and off balance, Napoleon gapes after him.
“Are – are you okay, Mr. Solo?” the techie asks, clearly disturbed by what he just witnessed.
No. He is decidedly not okay.
“Yes,” he says and is proud of how strong it sounds. “Mr. Kuryakin is just in a hurry. As am I. Appreciate the device. Good day, yeah.”
He quickly shuts the door and locks it.
Illya didn’t mean it. He didn’t. (He did, though. The omega knows he did, he did, he did…)
Taking the device out of the parcel, Napoleon shuts it all down as background noise. He has a job to do.