Fandom: The Man from U.N.C.L.E.

Pairing: Napoleon Solo/Illya Kuryakin

Category: gen

Rating: G

Word Count: 349

Summary: Maintenance wants to repaint.

Notes: Written for the Colours Table Challenge – “blue”

 

 

“I’m older, I’m taller and I’m, ah, more successful with the ladies, therefore I choose.”  Napoleon did that down and up look at Illya that almost always made his partner roll his eyes at him.

“I don’t think your success with women is a genetic trait, Napoleon.  You are only ten months older than me and two inches taller.  Not as much of an edge as you’d like when I get you in the headquarters gym.”  Illya’s look said that Napoleon might want to schedule his workouts to take place while Illya was running experiments in the lab for the next few weeks.

“Fine, for, ah, your birthday tomorrow, you can be as old as me and almost as tall, but I’ll always be more dashing,” Napoleon continued to give his partner a look of smug satisfaction.

“Napoleon, the illegitimate child of Errol Flynn and Rudolph Valentino couldn’t be more dashing than you.”  Illya turned back to the menu posted on a chalk board behind the deli counter.

Napoleon just looked at his partner for a moment.  “Thank you?”

Illya’s only response sounded suspiciously like a snort. 

They found a corner table.  Halfway through the lunch, paid for by Illya as usual, Napoleon finally spoke again.  “Blue would be a better choice.”

Illya’s attention came off his food, a rare enough occurrence that Napoleon smiled when he saw the surprise in Illya’s blue eyes.  Illya only raised an eyebrow at his partner.

“Well, it would be a soothing color, and…” Napoleon stopped himself from saying that it would set Illya’s eyes off nicely.  “It would be good to have soothing surroundings, for the rare occasions we actually get to spend time in our office.”

“I will call maintenance and inform them of our choice when we return to headquarters.”  Illya’s satisfaction was barely hidden as he returned his focus to lunch.

“Happy early birthday, tovarisch.”

“Spasibo.”

“You’re welcome.”  Napoleon continued his own lunch then.  And a moment later, “You know though, your real gift isn’t until tomorrow at dinner.”

“And you’re paying.”

“And you’re choosing.”

“Da.”

Napoleon just smiled.