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applecameronTitle : "The Mile High Club Affair"
Author : SV. 1999. Reprinted by permission.
Category: standalone
Rating : PG-13
Spoilers: None
keywords: slash, m/m, Solo/Kuryakin relationship
disclaim: I do it for love, not money.
Two men sat in first class upon a large, commercial jetliner. It was an unscheduled flight, for them, with few amenities. Food and drink, if any, would be served not by a pleasantly smiling hostess, but an armed agent of THRUSH.
Napoleon Solo was as yet unaware of the cocktail arrangements, but would surely voice a complaint when conscious enough to do so. Illya Kuryakin waited patiently until that time. If there were parachutes somewhere, he would still prefer his partner awake and alert to use one, and there had, as yet, been few slips in THRUSH security. He held his head in his hands, feigning headache and weakness and asking for water.
Slowly, over the course of about an hour of waiting in undisturbed silence, Kuryakin became aware that his partner was waking. Solo remained slumped in his seat, and it was only one or two small details, culminating in a nudge against Illya's shoe, that notified him of Napoleon's readiness to take action should it be required.
The Russian played his card with care. "I believe he is waking."
Then leaned over and began ministering to his partner, ostentatiously checking the other man's pulse and other vital signs while palming one of his cufflinks. "Napoleon? Do you hear me? Are you going to be ill?" That was Solo's cue.
The slumped man emitted a horribly realistic noise, groaning and coughing as if he were going to bring up a whole week's worth of previous meals. Perfect. Illya played the solicitous partner, and requested permission of their hijackers to escort his companion to the lavatory. It was convincing enough, and Kuryakin made a point
of looking rather green himself as he stumbled, legs cramped from sitting so long, towards their initial destination.
It was good to stand and stretch, and the pair made the most of it. Napoleon supplied a series of highly realistic retching sounds in the tiny cramped lavatory. Under that cover, Illya briefed him on what he knew of the plane, contents, location of possible parachutes, and number of armed men he'd counted. The pair had been taken at the airport in an elevator. Illya resolved to use stairs in the future. Having been drugged initially, neither man knew how long the plane had been in the air. If they were over the Atlantic, leaping blithely out into the ocean might not be the wisest thing.
They would focus on capturing the cockpit, and only abandoning ship if they could blow the jet in the process, to ensure rescue crews regardless of location.
Illya held up Napoleon's cufflink before his partner's face, his eyebrows arched. The two men's eyes met. Napoleon whispered: "I'll click the intercom twice if I can take the cockpit. Otherwise, blow it and jump." Kuryakin nodded once and breathed deep, then held it as he tucked the small explosive in a pocket.
There was a moment, heads forced close together, where it was entirely natural, expected even, that their gazes should solidify in meaning, their lips meet almost chastely, then part for one single, incredible, exploratory gesture. Blame it on the drugs.
"I thought you were already a member of the Mile High Club, Napasha." He smiled, saying it.
There was a sardonic lift to the other man's answering obscenity, issued in a whisper. Then, "first things first."
Illya threw open the small lavatory door and the game was afoot.
Author : SV. 1999. Reprinted by permission.
Category: standalone
Rating : PG-13
Spoilers: None
keywords: slash, m/m, Solo/Kuryakin relationship
disclaim: I do it for love, not money.
Two men sat in first class upon a large, commercial jetliner. It was an unscheduled flight, for them, with few amenities. Food and drink, if any, would be served not by a pleasantly smiling hostess, but an armed agent of THRUSH.
Napoleon Solo was as yet unaware of the cocktail arrangements, but would surely voice a complaint when conscious enough to do so. Illya Kuryakin waited patiently until that time. If there were parachutes somewhere, he would still prefer his partner awake and alert to use one, and there had, as yet, been few slips in THRUSH security. He held his head in his hands, feigning headache and weakness and asking for water.
Slowly, over the course of about an hour of waiting in undisturbed silence, Kuryakin became aware that his partner was waking. Solo remained slumped in his seat, and it was only one or two small details, culminating in a nudge against Illya's shoe, that notified him of Napoleon's readiness to take action should it be required.
The Russian played his card with care. "I believe he is waking."
Then leaned over and began ministering to his partner, ostentatiously checking the other man's pulse and other vital signs while palming one of his cufflinks. "Napoleon? Do you hear me? Are you going to be ill?" That was Solo's cue.
The slumped man emitted a horribly realistic noise, groaning and coughing as if he were going to bring up a whole week's worth of previous meals. Perfect. Illya played the solicitous partner, and requested permission of their hijackers to escort his companion to the lavatory. It was convincing enough, and Kuryakin made a point
of looking rather green himself as he stumbled, legs cramped from sitting so long, towards their initial destination.
It was good to stand and stretch, and the pair made the most of it. Napoleon supplied a series of highly realistic retching sounds in the tiny cramped lavatory. Under that cover, Illya briefed him on what he knew of the plane, contents, location of possible parachutes, and number of armed men he'd counted. The pair had been taken at the airport in an elevator. Illya resolved to use stairs in the future. Having been drugged initially, neither man knew how long the plane had been in the air. If they were over the Atlantic, leaping blithely out into the ocean might not be the wisest thing.
They would focus on capturing the cockpit, and only abandoning ship if they could blow the jet in the process, to ensure rescue crews regardless of location.
Illya held up Napoleon's cufflink before his partner's face, his eyebrows arched. The two men's eyes met. Napoleon whispered: "I'll click the intercom twice if I can take the cockpit. Otherwise, blow it and jump." Kuryakin nodded once and breathed deep, then held it as he tucked the small explosive in a pocket.
There was a moment, heads forced close together, where it was entirely natural, expected even, that their gazes should solidify in meaning, their lips meet almost chastely, then part for one single, incredible, exploratory gesture. Blame it on the drugs.
"I thought you were already a member of the Mile High Club, Napasha." He smiled, saying it.
There was a sardonic lift to the other man's answering obscenity, issued in a whisper. Then, "first things first."
Illya threw open the small lavatory door and the game was afoot.