#TMFU15

[scriptserpent]

#illya kuryakin #tmfu15 #scriptserpent art #just practicing

[scriptserpent]

Corporality of Water Lilies- CH 1

[Rating: M]

READ ON AO3 HERE

[Pairing: Naploeon Solo/Illya Kuryakin]

Summary: When the CIA asks UNCLE to investigate a group of terrorist using stolen paintings as untraceable funding, Napoleon finds himself in New York City and hunting down ghosts from his past. Or, in which Napoleon Solo steals a Monet on behalf of the CIA

Cars rumbled by below and the sweet smell of flowering cherry drifted into the stairwell window as Napoleon trudged up the stairs to his fourth floor apartment. He held back a yawn, shifting the weight of his suitcase in his hand and rounded the railing for the third floor. The apartment building had an elevator, but after an unfortunate time in Prague nearly four months ago, he chose to take the stairs whenever available.

London’s weather had taken a turn towards an unusually warm April. Sweat prickled along the edge of his shirt collar where it pressed too warmly against the nape of his neck and he smoothed the lapel of his jacket, mind already falling away to how long he was going to fall asleep in his bed, a long hot shower that was decidedly not the tepid water in medical, and where he was going to dine at night. He was not about to deny himself any pleasures this week.

As he opened the door to the fourth floor, Napoleon sucked in a slight breath, stopping in the silent stairwell as his hand stayed listlessly on the cold metal handle. He could almost feel Illya’s glare hovering over his shoulder even though the Russian agent was miles away, probably collapsing into his own bed this very moment like any sensible man should. Damn. He probably should have stayed a little longer. Illya had frowned when Napoleon had been released from medical’s post mission checks so quickly, but he also hadn’t said anything to stop the American from slipping out of headquarters and falling happily into a cab. Napoleon’s arm still hurt from when it had been twisted harshly behind his back two days ago, an unfortunate kink in their plan while infiltrating a hospital in Bombay and he’d been dragged out of a ventilation shaft in a ridiculously ungentlemanly fashion. But it was nothing that wouldn't heal with a bag of ice and time. Besides, he had to leave before they really tried listening to his heart.

While he was mostly fine, sometimes his heart would pound arrhythmic and hard against his ribs. An unfortunate present from Rome. He would sometimes be left with little air in his lungs while the world would tinge gray for just a few horrifying and dizzying seconds. It passed. It always did, but Napoleon wasn’t going to chance to being sidelined and chucked back under Sanders just because his heart decided to thump the wrong way during an exam. He rolled his shoulder, gritting his teeth against the sharp twinge of overused muscle and opened the door.

Napoleon walked past five doors, stopping at the sixth on the left and rapt his knuckles against it sharply three times. A soft voice was muffled from the other side of the door and after some shuffling and the loud clack of the lock being undone, a small woman’s face popped into the open doorway, lips immediately splitting into a bright Hollywood smile.

“James! Back from Cairo already?” she said with a thick Kentucky accent. Her blonde hair was set in curlers and a cigarette hung between two fingers, nails painted a bombshell red. “C’mon in.” She stalked into her apartment, stopping at an ashtray on her way in and Napoleon walked in, shutting the door behind him quietly. “How was it?”

“Hot,” Napoleon said glancing at a new painting on her wall. That was new. And from an up and coming artist. She had good taste. He turned back to the woman, Jeanie, his next door neighbor and resident mail collector when he was on trips. He always brought her something back, usually not from the place he’d actively been working in. Napoleon had only had a layover in Cairo for three hours, two of which he had spent drinking at the airport lounge. “But I’d rather be back home. Nothing like a pretty face to come back to,” he said with a wink.

“Charmer.” She took a long drag of her cigarette and chuckled as she exhaled. “I’m sure you say that to all the girls.”

“Only the beautiful ones,” Napoleon responded and took out a small brown paper parcel from his jacket. “I thought you might like this,”

“Oh,” she said as he walked over to her where she sat perched in a canary yellow armchair, “you didn’t have to bring me anything.”

“Of course I did.” Napoleon watched her open the paper and smile at the two items parceled together. She lifted a small stone replica of the pyramids, turning it and admiring it in the warm amber afternoon light.

“I love it,” she said, brown eyes crinkling in joy and she set it down gently on the table. She then turned to the simple looking bracelet. It was strips of even metal all lined up, a brilliant gold cuff when put on. “Oh, James,” she said.

“It was nothing,” he said, stepping forward to help put the clasp on. “I haggled it from the bazaar. It’s not real, I’m sure, but I thought it would look stunning on you.” Really, it had once belonged to the secretary of their mark and it was in fact 24 karat gold. He’d lifted it off of her while annoyed during a function three days before they had tried to break into the facility. Of course, now she was quite dead. He doubted anyone was about to notice it missing.

“It’s beautiful, thank you,” Janice said and admired it similarly to how she had looked at the tchotchke. She stood up and pecked him on the cheek. “Now, your mail.”

“A hostage exchange,” he chuckled. “Would I still get it if I hadn’t brought anything back?”

“Well you did, so it’s not a problem, is it?” Janice laughed and walked over to her kitchen table, pulling a paper bag over and pulling a stack of envelopes and a magazine out. She handed it heavily over to Napoleon. The edition of Gourmet had already been thumbed through. “That letter on the top, by the way,” she said. “I think your girlfriend stopped by to give it to you.”

“Which one?” Napoleon said back lightly, but he was intensely studying the letter on top. Heavy paper. Expensive. Blue fountain pen ink scrawled in cursive. A smudge where the ink hadn't dried on the address. Apartment 408.

“Thick brown hair. Exotic green eyes. Maybe Italian?” She was trying to stuff it under your door, but I took it from her telling her you had stepped out for milk.”

“Thank you,” he said and flashed an easy smile. “Long milk run.”

Janice tapped her cigarette against the ashtray again and shrugged. “I’m not stupid to say you’re gone. Don’t want thieves hearing that. But anyway, darling. I’m sure you’re tired from your trip. Brandy?”

“No, thank you. I have a wonderfully comfy bed waiting for me.” He tucked the non postmarked letter into his jacket breast pocket. “Maybe tomorrow.” He made his way to the door. To think he had ever thought of her being a CIA plant to watch him. But no. Her husband Frank of fifteen years was from Brighton and had gone to the US to study accounting. Janice had met him at an office as a typist. It was just fate that two Americans had ended up living next to each other.

“Do you think you’ll be around that long?” Janice teased. “Maybe you should just forward all your mail to me.”

“I doubt Frank would like that.”

Janice snorted and left the cigarette in the ashtray, crushing it out. “I’m sure. Goodnight, James.”

“Goodnight, Janice.” Napoleon closed the door quietly and stepped across the hall to his own apartment. The suitcase thumped heavily as he let it go, shoulder groaning in protest from carrying the weight of it. He pulled out his key and opened the door. The apartment was plain. It was a bare bones room, only holding enough to keep him entertained until he found a suitable home. He liked this apartment, but he wasn’t sure UNCLE was about to keep their headquarters in London. When he had a better idea of what was stretched out on the horizon, he’d make some place his home. For now, this was just a boring room with his things in it. And several expensive bottles of vintage wine.

He left the case by the door as he turned the locks and tossed the mail over to the counter, pulling loose his tie as he flipped the odd letter over in his hand. He sniffed it. No perfume or anything acrid that could be dangerous. Napoleon left the letter on the table, stopping at the small bar cart to fix himself a drink before proceeding. He picked up a letter knife and opened it sharply and at a slight distance, angled away from his face. No strange powder came out and he dumped the contents on the table, taking a sip of his drink as he realized it was photographs folded up inside a piece of paper. He flipped the first one over and felt the blood in his veins go cold.

The photo was warped in color, acid blue and yellow in the corners and distorting the subject just slightly. It was of himself, nearly a year ago. His face was screwed up in pain, mouth clamped and twisted in what Napoleon remembered had been a tremendous struggle to keep himself from screaming in agony. Red blood glistened from his nose, garishly bright against the rest of the photo’s muted hues.

Colors so vivid…you can almost taste them.

Napoleon tossed the photo down as if it had tried to bite him. He realized his pant leg was wet and glanced down. In his haste he had toppled the glass, pouring scotch all over him. The glass lay shattered on the floor. He hadn’t even heard it.

His heart thudded loudly in his head, drowning out the rest of the world. Two more photos sat in his fingers. He stared at his fingers, at the minute tremble, and took a long stuttered breath before flipping the other two over. Both were distorted and oddly colored. Heat damage, his brain supplied unhelpfully. A focused shot of his bound hands, clenched in pain and digging into the wood of the chair armrests. Another shot, this time red and orange and blackened from the chest down, of his parted lips. A cry he hadn't held back.

He swallowed thickly against the bile raising in his throat. His legs jittered and Napoleon stood up fast enough that as his chair screeched back, it wobbled over. He glanced at the windows. The shades were drawn, blind turned enough for the light to come in, but not enough fro a sniper to watch him. Not enough for anyone to watch him as he crumbled. His breathing was short and Napoleon swore he could smell something burning. An oily and sooty smell that couldn’t leave his nose for weeks after the mission in Rome.

He walked over to the corner of the room, prying loose one of the floorboards and pulled out a cloth bundled package. Passports. Fraudulent papers. Cash and jewelry. He’d expected to use it in the first months when UNCLE had taken him, ready for when the CIA was going to show up anytime on his doorstep on a nondescript night. Napoleon went to his closet, quickly trading out his clothes from the mission for new suits and underclothes. He left the tactical gear in it. The rest of his equipment was waiting at HQ for a new mission to be assigned to. The papers and money was shoved into the case and snapped shut so fast he nearly trapped his own fingers. Napoleon stood over the case, staring down at the scratches of the leather and fabric before righting himself and snatching up the photos and placing them back in the envelope. It felt like they were burning in his hands.

Napoleon left. He took the stairs and ignored the painful beating of his heart against his ribs. His arm hurt. He went all the way to the basement, taking a door used only by the plumber and the maintenance crew for the building. He emerged from the building in the shadow of its loading dock and pulled on his sunglasses, slipping into the pedestrian traffic of London.

He took the train, walked for half an hour to stop at a store, took the train again, and then took a taxi, switching rides halfway before he came to nondescript hotel that he would normally never stay in. He paid cash for the room. After barricading his door, Napoleon tossed the letter onto the dresser in the corner and went to the bathroom, immediately heaving into the toilet. He stayed there until his stomach had nothing coming up and he was retching spit and air. His abdomen ached and his shoulder screamed. He walked out of the bathroom when his stomach settled and grabbed the bottle of scotch he’d purchased halfway through his mad dash about the city. He drank straight from the bottle and his stomach lurched in warning, but he didn’t throw up again.

Napoleon leaned against the wall furthest from the door and out of sight of the solitary window in the room. Soon he found himself on the floor, bottle between his knees, and the amber light of the streetlamp burning bars of light across his legs and hands.

-Thanks for reading :)

#The Man From Uncle #TMFU15 #scriptserpent writing #Napoleon Solo #Illya Kuryakin #TW: torture mention #TW: PTSD #Coporality of Water Lilies

[scriptserpent]

The Naked Truth

Oh, one of my first real ventures into this fandom. I just really want to play with Gaby and Napoleon’s friendship you guys. 

Read it here on AO3

Summary: Five times Gaby walked in on Napoleon naked and one time he wasn’t

Gaby was exhausted. Listening to Janice natter all day (who was the wife of their current mark) was draining in a way that running through the city during a mission never brought. The only good that had come of the whole day- for it had brought no fruitful information- was that the wife had absolutely no idea of the going ons of her husband and Gaby was doubtful she would have to spend another day pretending to befriend the woman. The staircase to the apartment she was sharing with Illya and Napoleon smelled musty. She doubted the carpeted stairs had been cleaned in some time and her new orange manicure gleamed in glossy contrast to the worn and chipped railing.

She made her way up the stairs and pondered over if they had any nail polish remover. She didn’t actually like the color- Janice had been the one to pick it out– and she knew that my the end of the night the paint would be chipped after she had dug into her radio project. The poor thing had laid neglected all day and she was itching to get her fingers busy. It should be a quiet night anyway. Illya was on the outskirts of town, watching the boats come in and watching where the shipments to an Oxalide Toothpaste Company was really going to. She didn’t expect him until late that night. Napoleon should be quiet as well. Should be was the key.

He had received a nasty gun shot wound to his side last night while returning from his own surveillance. Cooped up in a bar with the gang they suspected were moving the new hallucinogenic drugs through the county, he’d been the victim of a surprise police raid. He’d been befriending the leader, charming his way in through his usual eloquence, wit, and gambling skills. The police raid had caught him off guard and he’d gotten in the way of an unfortunate bullet. Fortunately, by the bullet hitting him, he had inadvertently saved the life of the leader and cemented his place and trust within the Redbird gang.

“You always go looking for trouble,” Illya had groused last night as Gaby stitched up the wound.

“Peril, you should know by now,” Napoleon had said through a pain thinned smile. “Trouble comes looking for me.”

Napoleon of course had tried to go that morning, claiming to strike while the iron was hot, but Illya had watched him stand and list to the side and growled in no uncertain terms, that Napoleon was to stay and rest.

So naturally Gaby was curious to see what he had gotten up to today.

She did expect him to lay low, though. He had been pale from the blood loss and and unsteady that the morning. And although he never voiced it, Gaby knew he was hurting. She could see it in the tightness around his eyes and the reticence in his normally fluid movements. When she reached the door and quietly took out the loft key, she was surprised to hear the staccato and heavy footfall of someone running and Napoleon’s loud curse.

She pushed open the door, pulling out her gun.

“What–“

“Ah Ms. Teller,” Napoleon said, staring at her in surprise from his place in front of the stove, “I wasn’t expecting you so early.”

And Gaby’s voice was lost because Napoleon was standing in the middle of the room without so much as a sock on.

“Why are you naked?” she asked as she stepped in and shut the door firmly behind her, locking it quickly.

Napoleon glanced at the smoking pan in his hand and calmly walked to the sink, dousing it in cool water. It hissed, steam instantly billowing up to the ceiling and curling around his head. Eventually it quieted and he dropped the pan into the sink.

He dried off his hands with the dishtowel and returned it back to its place on the oven door. “Damn. That was a good steak too,” he muttered, but it was more to himself. He wasn’t attempting to cover himself up at all, and Gaby realized her cheeks were a little hot.

“You don’t seem to be very embarrassed,” she said and raised a brow cooly.

“Should I be?”

“Most people would, yes.”

“Well, I don’t think I look like most people either,” Napoleon said and winked.

Gaby turned, realizing her face was fairly warm by now and looked for an apron to toss to him. “Confident,” she retorted.

“Only when I know it’s true.” She heard him walking away towards the bedroom and listened as the door shut. She turned, looking discreetly over her shoulder, and turned around fully when she confirmed the room was once again empty. The kitchen was filled with gray smoke and the acrid air of burnt meat. She walked over to the windows, cracking them open and letting the cool air of late September struggle through.

She left the pan for Napoleon to clean himself and perched her purse on the table. Something white caught her eye and Gaby turned to look at the towel Napoleon had apparently dropped in his haste to make it to the stovetop in time. With a sigh Gaby walked over and picked it up with a sharp pull, ready to remind the American agent that she was, absolutely and positively, not playing mother. Bright red stains withered the words on her tongue and she stared down at it dumbly and then walked over to the bedroom, knocking once and entering without waiting.

“Hey,” Napoleon started.

“I just saw you completely naked,” she reminded him and walked into the darkened bedroom. The blinds had been closed and the room felt cooler for it. Napoleon looked up from the edge of the bed where he sat and was in, thankfully, pajama bottoms. His torso was bare still and Gaby held out the towel. “Let me see.”

“It’s nothing to worry about,” Napoleon said. He turned to ignore her and presumably put on the white undershirt that was in his hands.

“Did you re-bandage it?” she asked. She folded the towel haphazardly and walked closer. Water glistened on his shoulder in the weak light, trailing down from his hair. Ah. He had been taking a shower. That explained some things.

“I’m perfectly fine,” he reiterated.

“I’m sure,” Gaby said dryly. She stood in front of him. “And I can let our lovely friend Illya know you were running through the apartment when you should have been resting and pulled your stitches that I spent so long on last night.”

Napoleon glanced up at her and sighed, putting the shirt to the side. “I didn’t pull them.”

“Oh, I know.” she said and knelt down to examine the wound. The skin around it was irritated and red, but not with infection. In fact the skin and the stitches were dry. She stood back. “You should put more bacitracin on it and cover it. How did you keep it dry?”

“Shopping bag and tape,” Napoleon said and twisted slowly to look down at the wound. His lips quirked when he tugged at the skin too much and he sighed as he gently returned to his original position.

Gaby wordlessly walked out to the common bathroom and pulled out their first aid kit. She walked back in, and took her place back on the floor to bandage the wound. “Do you need medication?” she asked as she put on more bacitracin.

Napoleon hissed through his teeth at the cold ointment, but quickly silenced himself when Gaby looked up at him with a frown. “No.”

She hummed and capped the ointment, placing gauze over the wound and taping it. Napoleon watched her careful ministrations from under dark lashes and she stepped away when she was done. “Thank you,” he said quietly.

“You’re welcome.” she said and disposed of the gauze wrappers and trash. She tossed out the bloodied towel as well. After scrubbing her hands, she returned to the kitchen, pausing at the entry to Napoleon’s room and looked at the sink. “What happened? It’s not like you to let something burn.”

That was truly what had set off her concern. Napoleon was as good in the kitchen as he was out in the field. Graceful, fast, and capable. She didn’t think she could remember ever having seen him ruin a dish before. At least on purpose. She and Illya had more than once quietly complained that sometimes too much seasoning was worse than none for simple foods.

“I forgot that I left the burner on when I went to take a shower. Realized I had left it on when I smelled something burning,” Napoleon said from the edge of the bed. He had been staring at the wall in front of him as he spoke, but finished by turning to Gaby and giving a bright and perfectly unreal smile. Gaby frowned, knowing her partner better than he perhaps hoped.

She watched him from the door silently and his smile dropped, like a bird twirling out of the air. “I’m afraid you’re taking too many notes from our Russian friend. Lurking in dark doorways isn’t really a good look for you.”

Gaby snorted. “I’m not lurking.”

“Ah, and that’s what he says as well.” They both grinned. Gaby crossed her arms and leaned against the door frame. “I hope you didn’t choose that shade,” Napoleon commented.

“No,” Gaby said, fanning out her fingers of her left hand to look at the pumpkin manicure. “I let Janice choose it. She doesn’t know anything, by the way. And doesn’t care either. She’s kept her nose out of whatever Pablo is doing.”

“A waste of a day then?” Napoleon questioned. She pulled one of his legs up, turning to look at Gaby more square on.

“It seems so,” Gaby said sourly. She tucked her fingers back into her arm. “So what did you do all day other than burning your lunch and becoming a naturalist?” She glanced out at the kitchen. “Rest well?”

“Of course,” Napoleon said easily. He fanned his fingers along his thighs (Which had a scar on the back of the left one, and freckles above his right knee her brain unhelpfully provided) and briefly kneaded at the muscle there. “It was downright luxurious.”

Gaby laughed at that. She glanced at the threadbare apartment, “I’m sure.”

“Well it’s not often I get to send out Peril to do the work and I just get to lounge in bed. “

And now that he had said that, Gaby realized what was off.

The bed was still perfectly made. She knew Napoleon was fastidious and clean, but even she was sure that he wouldn’t turn down the same exact corner to the same length of the bed after sleeping in it and remaking it. She’d put money on that the idiot hadn’t rested.

“You should take a nap,” she said.

“Sure,” he said. “I’ve been asleep all day though.” She watched him brush aside his damp curls, putting them in place and becoming more the image of his usual coiffed self.

Gaby shrugged and pushed off the door frame. “I’ll be out in the living room working on that transmitter.” She left without argument, and went to collect her things from her room.

She set up shop, putting out a towel to not stain the coffee table she sat on the floor next to. She was messing with her screwdriver as she tried to pop off the cover to the prototype she was tinkering with. It was calming to work with her hands, and she had taken an instant liking to it when Illya had shown her how to work with some electronics while he had been toying with a new tracker. So now she had this radio and communicator project to pass the time with. It was easier to carry around than a car.

She looked on in satisfaction when her forefinger nail chipped, peeling off a corner of the outrageous nail color, when Napoleon came out of his room about an hour later. “Mind company?” he asked.

She shook her head and gestured to the old green couch behind her. “Be my guest.”

Napoleon silently took a seat on the couch, a paperback in his hand. It was well worn and he flipped to a page near the beginning, silently reading. A minute sluggishly passed and she found herself asking, “Where did that scar on your thigh come from?”

When he didn’t answer for a moment, she turned to look at him. She shouldn't have asked. Maybe it was tied to bad memories. But it had looked old and was unusual as it was in the shape of a cross. instead of the closed off expression or frown she was expecting, Napoleon's blue eyes sparkled as she met his gaze.

“So you were looking.”

She huffed and turned back to her work, ears surely pink as he chuckled. But he fell silent again and she muttered, “You don’t have to answer.”

“I got it as a kid,” he said and put the book down. She glanced at him over her shoulder, pliers in hand as she was ready to strip a wire. “I was messing with my friend Jack and jumping off a retainer wall into a leaf pile bellow. Anyway, I slipped and fell into a freshly cut stump of a bush. That’s why it’s criss-crossed.”

“It looks like a cross,” Gaby agreed.

“My mom always said it was Jesus’ way of claiming me.” He chuckled. “Not that that seems to have done much.” He looked back up to the ceiling and a shadow of something passed over his eyes. Gaby wondered what kind of memory it had stirred. He turned back, hair rasping against the pillows of the couch and Gaby smiled.

“Thank you.” None of them really talked about their pasts at all and the rare glimmer of insight was always treasured.

He gave a one shoulder shrug and returned to his book. “Thanks for patching me up.” He paused and then looked down, “Although your stitches could be a bit smaller next time. I’m not a needlework project.”

“Have Illya stitch you up then,” she sniffed and returned to her work. She hummed at the smile she caught on Napoleon’s face before returning to his book. They sat in companionable silence until the light got too low and Gaby went to turn on the lamp in order to see. She stopped when she realized Napoleon was asleep, fingers curled loosely around the paperback.

Gaby shook her head and pulled down the afghan from the side of the couch, cover him loosely with the blanket. She stopped in the kitchen for an apple and some cheese and retired to her room, turning on the light to read. She could finish the communicator in the morning.

#scriptserpent writing #Gaby Teller & Napoleon Solo #TMFU15 fanfiction