Rating: PG
Genre: Slash, fluff, humor
Note: In my mind, this is set post-series, but you can really slot it in anywhere that pleases you.
"Do you know, I don't think I've been into an optician's before," said Napoleon.
The shop was small, but almost all glass and mirrors, which, along with the bright lights and light-colored carpeting, made it seem large and airy. The glasses, in more colors of frame and lense than Napoleon had ever suspected to exist, were perched on glass or mirrored shelves, glittering in the spotlight lamps like jewels.
"Why would you have?" Illya said sourly. "You have twenty-twenty vision. Is that why you're looking so obscenely cheerful?"
"Oh, come, now," said Napoleon. "Isn't it about time you got a new pair?"
"My prescription hasn't changed. There was no reason."
Napoleon put a hand on Illya's back and steered him further inside, away from the doorway they were blocking. "They weren't very flattering, anyhow."
"I liked them." Illya frowned at a pair of glasses on one shelf, then led the way to the back of the store, where the reading glasses were displayed. He picked up one pair and examined the price tag. "You're paying."
"Me?" said Napoleon.
"You broke mine."
Napoleon's eyes darted surreptitiously round the store; the proprietor was behind the sales counter, a couple yards away, and the other two patrons were on the opposite side of the shop. "As I recall," Napoleon said quietly, "it was you who lay on them."
"And who, pray tell, pushed me down on that precise spot?"
"Oh, Illya, they looked like you got them out of a cereal box attached to a fake nose and moustache."
"So you did it on purpose!"
"No, of course not," Napoleon said hurriedly. "I'm just saying it's no great loss--"
"I. Liked. Them."
Napoleon held up his hands. "All right. Mea culpa. I'm sorry. I'm paying."
Illya harrumphed. He set down the pair he held and picked up another.
"Can we at least look at it as an opportunity to get you something better?"
"I intend to get something better."
"You do?"
"I haven't much choice, have I? The shop where I got my old ones was in Moscow, and it closed."
"Thank god," Napoleon muttered.
"What was that?"
"Nothing. I, uh, I'm just a bit surprised you didn't have a spare."
"I had three. One went the way of the dinosaur when I was captured by THRUSH in Greenland, two years ago. The second was lost with the rest of our luggage in that unscheduled landing in Arizona during the Golden Hills Affair, and you sat on the last a month ago." Illya narrowed his eyes at his partner. "You said you were concussed. If that was a lie..."
"You saw the lump!" said Napoleon, backing up a step.
Illya grumbled suspiciously, but resumed his perusal of the shelves. "At any rate, that's why you're here: to help."
Napoleon perked up. "Really?"
"Yes, so help."
"I live to serve."
"No, you don't."
"Well, true. But I'm happy to help, this time." Napoleon went off among the displays. After a few minutes, the store owner noticed him going around with glasses between all his fingers and brought him a felt-lined tray. Napoleon filled it with likely candidates and returned to where his partner was frowning into a mirror, wearing a pair of thick-framed spectacles that bore a striking resemblance to his old ones. "They're not you," said Napoleon, and set his tray in front of the mirror. "Try these."
Illya looked at the assortment for a long moment, then reached out. His hand hovered over the tray as if he were using it to divine for water. Finally, he selected one, and lifted it gingerly between thumb and forefinger like it might bite. Napoleon sighed inwardly. It was his least favorite among his choices, and he'd meant to put it back, but it was still an improvement over Illya's selection. Illya's only selection, it appeared, because there were no other pairs sitting near him.
Illya donned the glasses. He looked at himself in the mirror, first straight on, then from each side, then looked at Napoleon.
"They're not bad," said Napoleon, impressed with his own good taste. "They suit you. But I bet some of these others--"
Illya pulled the glasses off his nose and returned them to the tray, then pivoted on his heel and marched towards the door.
Napoleon hurried after him. "Wait! What about the others?"
"I don't like them." The shop door jingled as Illya went through it.
"You hardly looked at them." Napoleon trotted to come abreast of his partner.
"They weren't my style."
"What about that pair you picked?"
"I didn't like it."
"And that was the only likely one you saw?"
"Yes."
Napoleon huffed, exasperated. "So, you're giving up?"
"No, we'll try another shop."
The next optician's was larger, but its selection of reading glasses smaller than at the first store. Illya didn't happen on any glasses he liked and could only be convinced to stand still long enough to try on one of the three pairs Napoleon had selected, a pair of silver wire-framed spectacles. "Those look really good," Napoleon said, smiling.
Illya regarded him through the round lenses a moment, then pulled them off. "No." And he was out on the sidewalk again, Napoleon scrambling after him.
Napoleon wasn't sure where they were, anymore. That was a feat, given how well he knew New York City. Somewhere between the fifth and sixth optometrist's, buried in a warren of Manhattan backstreets, he'd lost all sense of orientation. They might be in Canada by now, for all he knew. Or Mexico.
Still, when Illya led him into the seventh store, as the sun sank below the skyscrapers outside, Napoleon put on a brave face and set diligently to his task. When Illya had to squint to read Chekov, it put him in a bad mood, and Napoleon could sympathize--a particularly bad concussion had once blinded him for three days. As well, there was the hope of putting his partner in a more flattering pair of spectacles than those hideous welding goggles to which he'd been so attached.
Fifteen minutes later, he met Illya at a large mirror at a counter at the back of the store, where he had several pairs of glasses arrayed in front of him, all monstrous. He looked up at Napoleon through a pair that was almost a solid rectangle of maroon plastic across his face. "What do you think?"
"If I met you in a dark alley, I'd shoot first."
Illya snorted and set them down. "What have you got?"
"Voila." Napoleon presented his seventh selection of the day, on his third felt-lined tray. "I really put my heart into this batch."
Illya smiled out of one corner of his mouth, hummed pensively, and chose one from the back. The frames were rectangular, but small and thin. Stylish, Napoleon thought. On Illya's face, however, they didn't quite work--they looked like they had their own statement to make, regardless of the face on which they perched. Still, he wanted to be encouraging. "Not bad," he said.
Illya put them aside and chose one of the ones in front of him--a massive pair of horn-rimmed spectacles. Napoleon made a face. "Halloween only."
Illya considered his reflection. "We'll call these a 'maybe'."
"Maybe? Children across the country are checking under their beds for something that looks like you."
"I can't help what Americans tell their children to prime them for Christianity." Illya put the horn-rimmed horrors to one side. "Maybe."
Napoleon sighed and held out another of his own choices. "Here, try these." Illya slid on the new pair, which had delicate blue frames and round lenses--not too large. He looked at Napoleon, who smiled widely. "Those are great! They really go with--"
"No." They were returned to the tray.
"But--"
Illya was already trying his next choice.
"Ugh," said Napoleon.
"Hm," said Illya. "Maybe."
"Those suit you."
"They pinch my nose."
"Don't go around horses in those."
"Definite maybe."
At the end of another quarter hour, and a few more eliminations, Illya's 'maybe' tray held three candidates, none of which Napoleon had chosen, and Napoleon, with only two of his selections left untried, was trying not to scowl. "Why did you bring me along, if you were going to ignore everything I said? I would have given you the money."
Illya blinked at him through the horn-rimmed spectacles which he was trying on for the third time. "What do you mean? I'm listening very carefully to your opinion."
"But you've put down every pair I--" Napoleon's eyes rounded. "Aha!"
"Don't point, Napoleon. It's rude."
Napoleon glared. "You're deliberately doing the opposite of what I suggest. That's why you wanted me along!"
"Oh, don't be absurd," Illya said. "I'm taking your opinion into account as I weigh several crucial factors."
"Prove it! You haven't tried that pair, yet." Illya lifted one of the last two of his choices as yet untried. "Yes, that one. Go on."
Illya gave him a look like he was humoring a small child in a tantrum, and slipped them on. "Well?"
Napoleon narrowed his eyes. "They're beautiful. You should buy them immediately."
"Napoleon, if you don't give me your honest opinion--"
"Then you can't ignore it properly! That's the truth, isn't it?"
"Napoleon..."
"Fine, I think you'd cause riots in theatres as people try to escape the eyewear that ate Long Island, but they're not half as bad as what you're considering over here!" Illya raised an eyebrow, then set them down with his rejects. "Aha! Aha!" said Napoleon. "They're in the 'no' pile because I said you had worse!"
"There's no pleasing you, is there?" said Illya. "And don't be so loud; where were you trained?"
"Same as you," Napoleon sniffed, but lowered his voice. They both looked at the three remaining pairs of glasses. One from Illya's collection, two from Napoleon's. "Well, go on, then," Napoleon sighed.
Illya tried his own choice first. Napoleon shrugged. "Eh, they're all right," he said. Illya put them into the 'no' pile. He picked up one of Napoleon's two remaining pairs. It wasn't the best fit Napoleon had seen on his partner all day, but it was fifty percent of his remaining chance to stave off calamity. "I don't know," he said. "They don't really work."
Illya removed them. "So you don't mind if I put them with the rejects--Oh, Napoleon, don't look as though I've just run over your dog. Will it make you happy if I put them with the maybes?"
"Maybe," Napoleon said guardedly. Illya did, with a condescending lift of the eyebrows. Napoleon glowered.
"All right," said Illya, moving aside the rejects and centering the maybe tray before him, "let's eliminate. Be honest." Napoleon harrumphed. Illya took that for assent. He put on a pair that clung to his face like a massive, mechanized spider, poised to turn him into a slave drone in a B movie.
Napoleon did his best to keep his expression neutral. "They're okay," he said.
Illya considered the mirror. "They hurt my ears," he said.
They have designs on your brain, Napoleon thought as Illya set them with the rejects, but kept silent.
Next were the horn-rimmed horrors. Napoleon repressed a shudder. "You know, on reflection, they're not so bad."
"For Halloween?" Illya asked.
"Oh, for any occasion. Quite fetching, really."
Illya set them with the rejects, as well. Napoleon looked at the trays. All that remained were Napoleon's last untested choice, and a pair of glasses almost precisely like Illya's old ones. Sweat broke out along his hairline. Lie detectors, he could handle. Truth serum, he could work with. Why did U.N.C.L.E. training never prepare you for the important lies?
Illya put on the thick, black, square-framed glasses. Napoleon made a show of consideration. "They're not bad. I kinda like them." It wasn't an out and out lie; he had enough good memories of Illya in the old pair. But was his tell showing? And could Illya see him sweating?
Illya reached for the last pair. It had been a last minute addition to Napoleon's tray and hadn't looked like much on the shelf, but now it was Napoleon's only hope. Time seemed to slow as the glasses arced through the air towards Illya's face. He slipped them on, brushed back the hair caught by one leg, and turned to his partner.
"Oh," said Napoleon. They were wire-frames, of an almost thread-thin gold that touched the narrow oval lenses only along the top edge. The gold caught the highlights of Illya's hair, and the small lenses managed just to add a bit of a gleam, like a beauty mark, to draw extra attention to his blue eyes. If he had to cover his face at all, this was how to do it. "Illya," Napoleon said, "they're perfect."
Napoleon blinked, and his brain caught up with him. "I mean, no! They look awful! You look like a mad scientist bent on world-domination! THRUSH recruitment officers will be beating down your door! Ohhh, no, not with the rejects! Illya!"
Napoleon trudged through the streets at Illya's side, a broken man. There were two identical pairs of those goggling black monstrosities in the carrier bag Illya held. He would have paid for a third himself, but there had only been two in stock. Illya had tried twice since they left the shop to engage him in conversation, to which efforts Napoleon had replied with single grunts.
"Oh, a flock of typists," Illya said suddenly.
Napoleon looked up in spite of himself. Half a block away, a large group of young women, in similar black skirts and white blouses, had turned the corner together. Napoleon smiled. There was just something about women in uniform. That's right, Random House was nearby. He turned and glared at Illya. "Are you mocking me?"
"No," Illya said patiently, "I want you to observe something."
"My god," said Napoleon to the sky, "he's putting them on in the street. Do you want to see just how badly you can frighten a group of young, marriageable women? Is that how you get your kicks?"
Illya gave him a wry look and kept walking, gesturing to Napoleon to watch. They walked on, and, a minute later, through the group of women, who obligingly broke ranks to let them pass. Napoleon looked at Illya. "What was I watching, exactly?"
Illya raised his eyebrows. "Not finished." He crooked a finger at Napoleon and went back after the retreating women. Napoleon frowned in incomprehension and followed. Illya cleared his throat as he approached the girl in the rear. "Excuse me," he said, and tapped her lightly on the shoulder.
She turned around, a nice-looking girl in her late twenties, perhaps, dark curly hair, green eyes. Two of her friends, both redheads, turned as well.
"I'm sorry," Illya said, giving her a charming apologetic smile, "I'm new in town, and I'm afraid I've utterly lost my way. Could you possibly direct me to the Chrysler Building?"
"Oh, sure," said the girl, smiling. She rattled off the directions, then again, more slowly, when Illya produced pen and paper to jot them down, with the other two girls offering suggestions. By this time, most of the other women had turned round to see what the holdup was.
Illya nodded as the three girls finished their explanation, repeating the last few steps under his breath. He nodded to himself and clapped his pen to the notepad. "Thank you ever so much," he said, with another truly dazzling smile.
"Oh, no trouble," said the girl, and turned to go. "'Bye, now."
"Ah," said Illya. "Er, this part here, on 35th Street--" He pulled off his glasses to point to the notepad with one leg.
The sound of a dozen women gasping in unison was every bit as erotic as Napoleon had always thought it would be. Suddenly, they were all thronging Illya. Npaoleon received three consecutive elbows in the side, and had to pinwheel his arms at the edge of the curb to keep from falling into the street.
"I'm Eileen!"
"Kate!"
"Helen!"
"What's your name?"
"How long are you in town for?"
"I'll walk you to the Chrysler Building! It's on my way."
"No it isn't--it's on mine!"
"And mine!"
"What are you doing tonight?"
Napoleon stood back and stared as Illya had scraps of paper with telephone numbers thrust upon him, and hands tug at his sleeves, and was all but bodily lifted by the press of women around him. It cannot possibly make that much difference, Napoleon thought. They're ugly, but they only cover a third of his face. They cannot possibly--
"I'm so sorry," Illya said, his voice, though quiet, somehow cutting across the chorus of feminine tones, "but I must hurry on. I'm supposed to meet my wife in fifteen minutes."
There was a collective moan of disappointment such as Napoleon only heard in his more exotically themed nightmares.
"Oh, she can wait."
"That's right, what she doesn't know won't hurt her."
"Come have coffee, and--"
Illya replaced his glasses. "I'm afraid she's a most possessive and jealous woman," Illya said. He backed up a step. "I really must hurry, or she'll be intolerable for weeks."
"Oh, well..." The girl who'd given him directions--Kate--frowned and squinted at him as if she'd gotten something in her eyes. "I guess you'd better go."
The other girls looked similarly confused, and though they didn't turn away, the protests faded quickly, and their ranks around Illya loosened. He continued backing up till he was clear of them and abreast of Napoleon. "Thank you again for the directions." He waved, then tapped Napoleon's shoulder, turned, and strode off. Napoleon tore his eyes from the flummoxed group of typists and hurried after him.
"There you have it," said Illya, when they'd turned off onto a quiet alley.
Napoleon stared at him for half a block without saying anything. All right. He hated these glasses. They were ugly, yes. They looked like only the guy who got bullied for his chemistry homework in high school would ever be stuck wearing them, yes. But honest to anything you like, they didn't change Illya's face that much. You could see through them, for crying out loud. Those girls had seen him without them, and even a pair of glasses that belonged in a horror movie about the chess team couldn't induce amnesia.
Napoleon stopped, took Illya's shoulders, and walked him backwards into the rear wall of a restaurant. Illya raised his eyebrows. Napoleon frowned seriously at him. He carefully removed the glasses with both hands and frowned some more. Then he just as carefully slipped the glasses back on, as Illya's one eyebrow outpaced the other.
It wasn't that Illya was ugly in his glasses; it was just that without them, Illya had only enough flaws to let people know he was human. When you were used to that, unfiltered, it was hard to settle for a censored version. The glasses made just enough difference that someone unfamiliar with the real thing could doubt the evidence of their senses, assume the vision of even a moment before had been a fluke of the light, their mind playing tricks, and it really was just a good-looking man--with poor taste in eyewear--before them, not an Adonis.
Napoleon was insulted on Illya's behalf that a full dozen women could be put off by so little. The glasses really were in such helplessly bad taste that Illya looked cute in them. Tragically misguided, but cute. Napoleon rested his forearms against the wall either side of Illya's head and kissed him.
Illya rose onto his toes to kiss him back. When they parted, he was smiling brilliantly. "Hideous or no, you still kiss me in them."
"I'd kiss you in worse," said Napoleon. "I have, actually."
"The Petra Affair?"
Napoleon made a silent whistle. "I was thinking of the Alexandrine Affair, but good point." He stepped back into the alley. "Am I forgiven for breaking your glasses?"
Illya followed, bumped shoulders with him before they resumed walking. "Yes."
"And for telling the truth about your abysmal taste?"
"Mm. We'll see."
The Man from U.N.C.L.E. Fanfiction
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