Work Text:
Napoleon Solo has always been a collector of beautiful things.
He’s lost count of the number of earrings he’s lifted from an unsuspecting duchess. He has stashes all over the world filled with bracelets, vases, statues and paintings.
He treasures those most of all. Paintings speak to Napoleon. They are life, captured in a moment on blank canvas. The good ones catch his eye. The great ones make him feel, something he doesn’t do all that often.
Napoleon has enough introspection to know that he can become obsessive. Thankfully, this has never transformed into romantic attachment. Things, however, things are different. Paintings fall into this category beautifully. They inspire him, move him, allow him to safely confront his emotions in a softly lit room with a nice glass of scotch. Their masters are long dead, but Napoleon can still have a conversation with them.
It’s a beautiful relationship.
Napoleon has one storehouse that the CIA will never find. No one ever will, it’s rigged to blow if anyone but Napoleon enters. The best way to stop a thief is to destroy the object they wish to obtain, and Napoleon can be a selfish man. He’d rather his treasures burn than share them with the world.
One artist in particular has a claim over Napoleon’s soul. No one knows who he is, but he produces a piece 2-3 times a year. Always black and grey paint, always on a 3X4 feet canvas. “The Artist” is a man of skill, finesse, and with an appreciation for beauty.
Napoleon has 8 pieces of this man’s work, and they are his most valued possessions. Every piece he does not own, cannot collect, leaves him sleepless for days. He is consumed by the need to possess, the need to own, in a way he is not with anything else.
Or anyone else. He won’t allow it, no matter how intensely blue eyes may bore into him, no matter how he longs to hear his name sighed in pleasure with a Russian lilt. People are much more complicated, and even harder to keep. Especially a person in their line of work, where loyalties change with a phone call.
No, Napoleon will stick to art. To his paintings, that call out to him and beckon him. At least his paintings do not mind that he stares at them in longing. He’s quite certain his Russian partner would remove his teeth if he ever gazed upon him the way Napoleon wishes to. He wants to admire Illya, his Red Peril, wants to shamelessly take in his form and note the nuances in his body, his face, that make him so fascinating.
He’ll settle for his paintings. “The Artist” fills him with fascination aplenty.
Using no color, every scene is simplistic yet so full of life, Napoleon is left a bit breathless every time. “The Artist” paints scenes of everyday life, images found in every culture:
A window with laundry hanging from a line, an elderly woman hanging the last sheet up. Though her face is obscured, Napoleon feels and sympathizes with the weariness in her form. He, too, is tired. He’s always loved the thrills and chases that come with his lifestyle, but lately he wishes he had just one thing permanent in his life.
Something that glowered at him and made sarcastic comments about his decadent American ways. Something that would welcome him back from reconnaissance with cold, calloused hands. Hands that would rub away the soreness of the night, the ache that came with maintaining the same position and noting guard changes.
Another painting is of a bedroom in the morning, with an unmade bed. Napoleon sees the folds in the covers and just knows that a night of passion occurred before the masterpiece was painted. The tangle of the sheets, the way the pillow is slumped. Yet the bed stands alone, and there’s a sense of loneliness and emptiness about the entire scene.
It’s the exact feeling Napoleon ignores whenever he leaves one of his conquests nowadays, whenever he has to pretend to strut home victorious to Peril, who watches him with judgmental eyes. Napoleon refuses to think about how he wouldn’t have to walk anywhere if he woke up in his partner’s bed. How they could spend the morning together, messing the sheets up even further.
His favorite, though, is of a scene from a balcony terrace. It must be somewhere in South America, because in the courtyard below there are dancers and a small band, and the dance is clearly the tango. The trees and flowers in the courtyard and apartments are exotic, and there is so much life coming from the celebration below.
Yet the viewpoint is removed, detached and once again lonely. The painter must have fiercely wanted to join in, but some circumstances prevented him. He can only watch as life goes on around him, while he is isolated at his view from the top.
Napoleon can barely stand to look at this piece most days. It hits too close to home, the joy he will never truly feel, but can only witness in the civilians around him. The war, the thieving, the CIA took that from him. Where could he find another person who could stand with him on the sidelines, watching the normal people go about their lives in bliss?
One face always springs to mind. The tall, beautiful blonde in his life. The one who gazes at Napoleon every once in awhile with fondness, the one who broke the neck of the last henchman who slapped Napoleon a bit too hard. Every once in awhile Napoleon can’t help but picture that face gazing at him with open tenderness, in a bed on a beautiful, brightly lit morning, as those giant hands trace his lips with reverence.
Napoleon’s been gazing at the terrace painting less and less. He’s been staring at Illya more and more, so much so that he’s beginning to imagine Illya is staring back.
But that’s just an affect of the painting- of all “The Artist’s” paintings. As much as they make him feel alone, they also make him desperately want. He wants Illya in his bed, he wants Illya waiting for him to finish cooking dinner, he wants Illya to teach him chess strategy, he wants Illya to hold him like he’s something to be treasured.
He’ll make due with the paintings. After all, one of his best contacts has gotten in touch: “The Artist” has a new work, and Napoleon plans on taking it.
----------------------
It’s laughably easy to break into the baron’s estate. Napoleon almost wishes there was more of a challenge, as it tends to make the victory that much sweeter. Still, the satisfaction of having “The Artist’s” latest work will be more than enough. Napoleon is itching in anticipation. It’s taken 2 months to get a job with U.N.C.L.E. that was close enough to the baron’s home for Napoleon to be able to sneak away. And now, all his planning is about to pay off.
He doesn’t look at the painting when he takes it. Puts it in a trash bag (the irony is not lost on him) and walks out with the rest of the trash crew, one hand carrying a priceless treasure, the other carrying a bag of potato skins.
He rushes back to his hotel room, successfully tiptoeing past his Russian partner, who snores softly as Napoleon crosses the bedroom and enters the living room. He shuts the door behind him quietly, then takes off his black sweater, leaving him in a black t-shirt. He removes his shoes next, then socks, as he pours himself a scotch on the rocks. He knows he should wait until he’s absolutely secure, but he’s decided a long time ago (and quite unintentionally) that he trusts his partner. Besides, patience was never one of the few virtues he possessed.
He tears open the plastic separating him from the latest creation of “The Artist”. His eyes widen, and the glass of scotch shatters as it unceremoniously drops to the floor.
For the first time ever, “The Artist” has painted a portrait. Napoleon stares at the beautifully drawn arches of cheekbones, the masterful touch in creating texture in the curls of hair. Napoleon stares, and the longer he stares the more the painting’s subject sinks in.
It’s a portrait of Napoleon.
The work is entitled “The Thief”, and it’s a ¾ profile of Napoleon’s face, collarbone and the tops of his shoulders. His eyes are twinkling and looking off in the distance, and his mouth is in one of his patented smirks. Yet despite the cocky gaze, Napoleon recognizes the lines of world-weariness he desperately tries to hide from the world. Napoleon takes in with shock the amount of longing in the painting, once again the loneliness asserted by the painter.
It is clear Napoleon is a thief, because he has stolen “The Artist’s” heart. He has been immortalized as a fleeting being, one “The Artist” will never possess.
He knows, for the first time, where “The Artist” painted this scene.
There isn’t much of a background, but what is there is distinct. It’s a little town in Southern Switzerland, during the spring. The street looks ordinary to any other, but Napoleon recognizes the layout of the shop signs hanging in the painting. He sat across from Illya that day, the two of them drinking coffee and waiting for Gaby to return from delivering her latest report to Waverly. That particular day they had discussed books, politics, and art. Napoleon had shared with Illya a piece of himself that meeting, had hinted at a favorite artist and set of paintings that were his pride and joy. He’d been talking of them the moment the portrait had captured, and there was only one person who could have had that view.
“Cowboy, you waste good alcohol. Is unlike you, everything alri-“
Illya freezes. He stares as well, Napoleon sees it out of the corner of his eye. He can’t stop staring at the painting. As vain as he is, all he sees when he looks at the portrait is Illya. Illya and his desire, Illya and his big, long fingers, immortalizing him into a work of art. Into something that was worth something.
Illya hasn’t moved. When he does, his voice is too light, and Napoleon almost smiles. His Russian is the worst liar.
“You have been seeing a painter? Vanity is a sin, Cowboy. You really need a portrait, mirror is not enough?”
“We both know damn well I didn’t have this commissioned, Illya.”
Illya stiffens. Napoleon rarely calls him by name, always ‘Peril’ or ‘Kuryakin’ even, only Illya when there’s an emergency. Napoleon continues,
“I have eight of your works. Well, nine now. You’re my favorite, the most talented painter I’ve ever seen. Your paintings are the things I treasure most in this world.”
Napoleon turns and approaches Illya slowly now, the three steps between them a vast distance, and each step Napoleon takes feels like a tremendous victory.
“Your work makes me feel, Illya. It makes me feel like I’m alone, yet that I’m not the only person who feels that I’m alone. Your work fills me with longing, Illya. You fill me with longing, like no one or anything else.”
Napoleon is standing directly in front of Illya now, eyes on Illya’s face. Illya is staring directly ahead, face a neutral expression that Napoleon knows means the Russian is trying to hold onto his control.
“I seem to fill ‘The Artist’ with longing too. Illya, please…”
Illya’s eyes snap down, and Napoleon is once again struck breathless by the intensity of the blue in that look. They breathe together, chests nearly touching, until finally Illya raises his hand oh so slowly, and cups Napoleon’s face with all the tenderness Napoleon never let himself imagine.
“I have painted you in hundred different ways, Napoleon. My works do nothing to capture your beauty.”
Napoleon’s delivered quite a few lines in his time, but that’s the best one he’s ever heard.
“You don’t need to capture what you already possess, Illya.”
His Russian growls, and smashes their lips together in a kiss that is exploratory and conquering all at once. Napoleon feels his heart burst with joy, and he kisses back with enthusiasm and hope. Their tongues stroke each other, and Napoleon sighs as Illya bites at his lip, digs his fingers into his neck and holds him tightly, fiercely. Napoleon holds on as Illya presses their bodies close, wraps his arms around Napoleon’s shoulders and forces their bodies together as much as possible.
Napoleon gasps as their cocks press together, Illya’s considerable length against his own. Illya takes the opportunity to bite kisses and marks into Napoleon’s neck, and Napoleon laughs at the blatant display of possession. He groans when a hand wraps in his hair and pulls, forcing his eyes to look up at a breathless Illya.
“You laugh at me, Cowboy?”
“That- that’s no way to talk to your muse.”
Illya’s eyes go dark then, and his other hand creeps teasingly up Napoleon’s torso to rest against the hollow of Napoleon’s throat. Napoleon swallows, and feels his cock twitch.
“I still must paint you as I want, Napoleon. Soon, I will not need to imagine what your face looks like in ecstasy.”
“Promises, promises. I’m beginning to think you’re only good for your art.”
“Trust me, Solo. I am best at fucking.”
-----------------
Napoleon wakes up the next morning alone in bed. He’s almost alarmed, but then he hears the tell-tale sound of a pencil sketching on paper. He cracks his eye open, and sees Illya sitting in a chair, naked as the day he was born, drawing. Illya smirks and doesn’t look up from his paper.
“Sleeping Beauty, awake. Beginning to think I wore you out.”
Napoleon would argue, but the sheets are barely covering the swell of his pleasantly-sore ass, and the sun is warming his skin. Illya proved he was a man of his word last night, and Napoleon is feeling rather hoarse this morning. Screaming your partner’s name will do that.
“Another portrait? Really, Illya, you flatter me.”
“Do not move. Just started drawing you this way.”
Napoleon cocks a brow. There are pages littering the floor. Illya nods his head towards one and explains,
“That one, that one is when you first take off your shirt. You look so eager, could barely wait. Look so happy, finally stripping for me. Will you strip whenever I demand now?”
Napoleon’s mouth falls open, and he gasps an affirmative. His cock has impossibly started to harden, even though he swore he couldn’t get it up again for at least a week after last night. Illya seems to have surprised him once again.
“I thought as much. That one, when you look up at me as you suck my cock. Finally figured out way to shut you up, Cowboy. I like that sketch, you can almost hear you moaning. You almost make me go when you look up at me, eyes begging. Not enough for me to stuff your mouth, though. Greedy, not satisfied. Even after I cum on your face. That is other drawing I have, somewhere.”
Napoleon is humping the mattress now, and he shudders when he feels a hand press his ass against the bed, stilling his movements. He hadn’t heard Illya move, but that’s not surprising.
“Over there, how you look when I fingered you open. Had to stop you from cumming, naughty. Over here, how you look when you ride my cock. I would paint that one, but I do think finding a buyer would be too easy.”
Napoleon gasps as Illya removes the sheet, as long artist fingers probe his still sensitive hole. It’s too much, too soon, but God Napoleon wants it.
“Illya, please-”
“Yes, beg so pretty, Napoleon. My muse, my favorite subject. I will not share you with anyone else. I promise this, now promise me.”
Illya’s fingers thrust in, seeking and finding Napoleon’s prostate with the accuracy expected of an expert marksman. Napoleon howls, thrashes against the pillow. Illya’s other arm has come up between his shoulder blades, pressing Napoleon down into the mattress and holding him there, no matter how much Napoleon squirms.
“I-I will not share you with anyone, Peril. It’s just you now, please, just you. Only you.”
Illya hums, low and dark, and Napoleon shivers because he already knows what that means. His scream is breathless as Illya thrusts into him in one long, smooth stroke. Napoleon hears Illya exhale slowly, and if it weren’t for the vice grip he has on the back of his neck, Napoleon would think him unaffected.
“Still, I do not capture your beauty. I must study further.”
Napoleon is then fucked, hard and fast and thoroughly, with Illya bent over him, hand on the back of his neck and breathing hard onto Napoleon’s ear. Napoleon is so grateful, because he can just hear the sounds of Illya keening over the squeak of the mattress. Then Illya tilts his hips, and brushes Napoleon’s prostate with every stroke. Soon Napoleon’s world is full of bright lights as he tenses everywhere, cumming onto the mattress underneath him and wailing his lover’s name. Illya follows a mere two thrusts after, whispering Napoleon’s name like it’s a precious secret, and Napoleon feels.
A short time later, Illya tenderly pulls out, running his hands over Napoleon’s exhausted form. He gets out of the bed and returns to his drawing chair, and Napoleon flops over and throws an arm over his eyes. He’s naked, there’s cum leaking out of his ass, and he’s sweating in the morning sun.
“Perfect, do not move.”
Napoleon smiles as he hears the pencil start scratching once more. It seems that, for once, he is the beautiful thing being collected.
“No, that is smug smile. Now I must put sated smile back on your face.”
“Good Lord, Illya. Mercy, the West can only take so much of this Russian assault.”
“I am perfectionist in my craft, Napoleon.”
Napoleon smiles brightly at that, and at the hand slinking up his leg. He supposes it won’t be so bad, being someone else’s most treasured possession.