A/N: I had this idea for a while but had no excuse to write it so thanks and a happy (belated) birthday to @el3anorrigbyworld on tumblr! <3 (super belated cuz it took me a month to cross post this to wattpad oof)

Also, tis my first tmfu fanfic, please don't kill me ;p

Evening falls as the three U.N.C.L.E agents rendezvous at a small, lesser-known bar after having split to shake off anybody who’d decided to try and follow them from their primary recon location.

“Boys.” Gaby nods as she slides into the seat opposite where the two of them are sat, rather close together if she does say so herself, and smiles when they look up, Napoleon seemingly amused and Illya already on edge. “What can you possibly have done already?”

Napoleon nods his head to their left, feigning a cough. “The group over there seem to recognise us from somewhere. I did warn you wearing the same outfits as yesterday would be a bad idea.”

“We need to leave, soon as possible,” Illya mutters bluntly, quickly looking Gaby up and down. “You are unhurt, yes?”

“Yeah, I’m fine. I’ll go get our car working and, in the meantime, why don’t you boys give our stalkers a little show to satisfy them, hmm?” She smirks, standing up before they can answer.

Gaby’s only gone for a few seconds before Napoleon and Illya exchange a weary look and nod to one another, pushing their chairs back and cracking their knuckles, mutually agreeing to start this personal brawl for the sake of their team’s reputation.

Both of them whirl around each other when the other gang surrounds them and initiates the fight, leaning on one another when they need and using each other as support. They even manage to trade a small smile at one point, then replacing the expression with ire once more, their fists flying.

They dive into the fight and stop focusing on each other so much until one of the other men somehow gets the upper hand on Napoleon and he crashes down onto a table, breaking the wood and groaning as he does. Of course, he rolls over and jumps up immediately, but even Illya, who’s juggling half a dozen angry men, can tell that Napoleon has slowed down considerably, his blows weaker than before.

When he goes down again, this time staying down, Illya’s eyes roar as he sees red and he all but growls at the remaining men before lashing out ferociously, the previously overconfident gang either falling to the floor or fleeing to the exits.

“Back off!” Illya snaps at the bartender, putting himself in between the curious man and Napoleon, then kneels down. “Napoleon?”

Napoleon peers up at Illya, blinking awkwardly as blood runs into one eye.

“Are you hurt?” Illya methodically runs his fingers along Napoleon’s jaw when he receives no answer, checking for breaks. “Where is your irritating voice, Cowboy?”

Napoleon bats Illy’s hands away, shifting his weight so he can sit up properly, wincing minimally. “Hands to yourself, Peril, I won’t be brought down by some amateur boxers and a table.”

“That is not what blood on your shirt says,” Illya mutters pointedly, pressing his hand to Napoleon’s side and frowning when he receives a soft hiss of pain.

Still, Napoleon shakes his head, clearing his throat. “Okay so I might have gotten some sort of splinter?” he admits, grinning sheepishly, moving to try and stand up.

The fact that he doesn’t resist when Illya puts an arm around him or when he helps steady him says a lot, but Illya doesn’t make a comment, knowing that Napoleon would not appreciate it right now.

The two of them make their way to the car that had been left outside the bar for their getaway, where Gaby rolls her eyes at them but sighs when she sees the red seeping into Napoleon’s shirt. “Get him to the hotel, I’ll sort this out.”

“Really, I’m-” Napoleon starts.

“Nobody was talking to you,” Gaby interrupts, glaring at him, “Illya, don’t leave him unsupervised, I’m now almost sure the guys you just fought with have men stationed at the hotel.”

“Understood,” Illya replies, pulling Napoleon to the other side of the car and gently placing him on the seat, waiting until he settles before quietly closing the door, a contrast to the way he usually slams car doors shut as if they’d all personally assassinated his loved ones.

Gaby, of course, notices this change and raises a knowing eyebrow at him but doesn’t give him time to process it, waving a hand before marching into the bar, rolling up her gloves and painting a confident smirk on her face.

“Eyes open, Cowboy!” Illya barks as he starts driving, noticing how Napoleon seems to have drifted into sleep. He frowns at himself; he hadn’t noticed the injury being that bad.

“Stop fretting, I’m fine, see?” Napoleon smirks, nudging Illya’s arm.

He is fine, sure, but he won’t be for much longer unless they find a way to stop the bleeding with a more reliable method than his own shaky, bruised hands.

Gritting his teeth, Illya presses his foot down and speeds up, not caring about the lecture he’s sure to receive from Waverly about standing out later, twisting and turning around other cars, occasionally driving on the wrong side of the road, until they reach the hotel, where he parks - or rather, stops the car at a random empty spot - and glances at Napoleon.

“Nice driving,” said spy mutters, looking a little pale under the light of the obnoxious hotel sign.

Illya says nothing, getting the two of them out of the car and leading Napoleon into the lobby, nodding at the incompetent receptionist before navigating his way to their room, his grip on Napoleon’s waist basically the only thing keeping him upright.

“Would be nicer if you had been better fighter,” Illya comments absently, focusing on unlocking the door with one hand and getting it to shut behind them without leaving suspicious bloodstains anywhere.

Napoleon gasps as they stumble into the centre of the room but still manages to shake his head and argues: “Gaby’s the one who told us to fight them!”

Then his knees are buckling underneath him and strong, steady hands are around his arms, holding him up, keeping him stable. It takes him a minute to realise that his head is spinning, not the room, and he practically sags into Illya’s comforting, cool touch before shaking his head, trying to shake himself out of his thoughts.

They’re moving and one of the hands is gone before something is pressed against Napoleon’s lips and he opens his mouth without thinking, trusting the gentle voice telling him to swallow and promising freedom from the pain shooting out of his side.

Napoleon only finds the strength to stand on his own when Illya replaces the glass of water on the table, but his head feels a little fuzzy and he has to blink to clear his vision again, keeping a hand on Illya’s arm just in case.

Neither of them moves when Napoleon stares up at Illya, when he looks into Illya’s concerned eyes with a childlike wonder, or when Illya finds him staring back, admiring the way his partner’s eyes look so much softer, so much more dazzling than usual for one reason or the other. Silence hangs above them like a stormcloud for much longer than it ever has before Illya clears his throat. “Can you walk?”

“Maybe,” Napoleon answers honestly, his voice hoarse, his eyes unblinking as he watches the way Illya’s forehead crinkles.

“What is it, Cowboy? I have something on my face?” Illya asks, trying to figure out why he is suddenly so afraid of Napoleon’s potential scrutiny.

Dimly aware that he’d been given painkillers that are obviously taking an effect, but ignoring the fact, Napoleon shrugs. “I wish it was my face…”

Illya blinks, startled. “What?”

Confidence surges through Napoleon and he wobbles closer to Illya, inhaling the scent of copper and lavender and warmth. “Peril, will you do something for me?”

He might usually have rolled his eyes but there’s something both attractive and amusing about Napoleon right now - or maybe it’s always there and he’s never given himself an excuse to look - so he just nods, raising an eyebrow.

“Kiss me?” Napoleon’s voice is quiet but smooth, free of his usual arrogance and full of hope, sincerity, and something deeper, something Illya cannot yet name.

Illya frowns, cocking his head at Napoleon, wondering why he’d ask something like that when they were clearly sharing what Gaby would definitely call ‘a moment’ but chalking it up to the drugs currently running through his veins.

Despite what might be heavy disappointment settling in his gut, he steps back, surprised when Napoleon stumbles as he hadn’t realised how close they’d been, and widens his stance, taking in his partner’s position and how much force it would take, figuring that the pain must have suddenly gotten much worse for him.

Too late, Napoleon notices that Illya has moved away and is doing the opposite of what he’d wanted. He has to push past the painful rejection thrown at him to realise that he should probably say something more, act upon his request to help it be fulfilled, but, as soon as he opens his mouth, there’s a sharp but muted pain in his head and the world’s going black.

He doesn’t feel Illya catch him before he hits the floor and then gently carry him to the bed, tucking him in as if he were a child to be protected; he doesn’t hear how Illya mutters to himself about stupid tables and drugs making everything more confusing; and he doesn’t see how maddeningly fast Illya paces along the room, occasionally glancing to Napoleon to see if he’s comfortable, wringing his hands as he does.

He does, however, wake up with a soft hiss of both pain and confusion.

Within seconds, Illya is there, sitting beside him, placing a hand on his forehead, checking for a temperature as if he hadn’t done that before, as soon as Napoleon had slightly stirred.

Napoleon sucks in a breath, only mildly shocked when he feels the familiar pull of a bandage around his middle; it’s not like they haven’t fixed each other up before. Still, it somehow feels different this time, slightly more personal.

“Illya? What- Wait, did you seriously knock me out?” Napoleon asks incredulously.

Frowning yet again, Illya nods briskly. “That is what you asked of me.”

Groaning, Napoleon pinches the bridge of his nose and sighs. “Why on earth would I have asked you to do that?”

Illya shrugs, having asked himself the same thing at least a dozen times, simply waiting for Napoleon to crack a grin and explain himself. When he doesn’t, Illya squints at him, noticing the look of hurt in his eyes.

“Are you still in pain?”

Napoleon lets out a bitter laugh and hesitantly takes Illya’s hand, stroking the rough skin with his thumb. He lifts his gaze to Illya’s eyes, sitting up a little better. “I really don’t think you understood what I meant.”

Illya shakes his head. “You were in pain and asked me for the kiss. That is what I gave.”

Shifting so he’s facing Illya, Napoleon swallows. “No, no, I didn’t ask you for the kiss. Peril, I- I asked you to kiss me,” he says gently.

“What is difference?” Illya asks, shrugging slightly, still not getting it.

Instead of saying anything, Napoleon uses his grip on Illya’s hand to pull them closer together, and, using that momentum, presses their lips together, softly but firmly, stealing Illya’s breath away.

The contact between them, as small as it is, sends ripples of electricity - the good kind, not the torture kind - along his skin and he shivers, his eyes sliding shut despite having wanted to see Illya’s reaction.

He doesn’t feel Illya reciprocate so he pulls back, guilty, averting his eyes as he bites his lip, pushing down the hint of euphoria that he’d felt. “I’m sorry, I thought-” he mumbles, shuffling back, hoping this won’t affect their missions, even if their friendship is ruined.

“That was not kiss,” Illya remarks eventually, his voice hard and oddly hollow, as if he’s not truly paying attention to what’s happening. He pauses and Napoleon feels downright shameful - hating the idea of exploiting Illya, wishing he’d never done anything - but then a small smirk plays on his lips and he moves further onto the bed, killing the space between them, adding a hushed: “This is kiss.”

And, before Napoleon can ready himself to be knocked out again, or worse, there’s a hand cupping the side of his face, another wrapped around his waist to keep him steady, and a kind pair of lips connected to his, pushing harder than he had previously, as if fighting to prove something.

He gasps, leaning into it without thinking, one of his hands reaching around Illya’s neck as his eyes close again, a small yelp escaping him as Illya carefully bites down on his bottom lip, the taste of mint and surprise and smug love overwhelming his other senses.

Breathing is a task and a half when they break apart, both equally as flushed, letting their foreheads touch as they smile, free of confusion and full of relief, panting, relishing in the feeling of being so close, so intimately close, to one another.

“You’re right,” Napoleon admits, his voice still shaky, “that was definitely a better kiss.”

They leave the pending conversation about the next level of their relationship to later, choosing instead to just lean against the headboard with their arms around each other, Napoleon practically curled into Illya’s side because Illya refuses to let him pull his stitches for the sake of cuddling.

And, when Illya plants a soft kiss on his forehead, forget his skin, Napoleon’s entire soul feels kissed.

I love our terrible spy boys! Thanks for reading!