Chapter Text
Illya Kuryakin stood by the wall watching the dancers move - some graceful and certain, others more tentative - his eyes fixed on one pair in particular. There were a number of professional dance partners here, their sinuous moves marking them out from the amateur, and the man who he studied was one of them.
"American," Detective Inspector Slate said, from where he stood beside Illya, "if I don't miss my guess."
Illya didn't respond, just carried on watching the dark-haired man, who was now laughing at something his partner had said. She smiled too, pleased to have garnered such a reaction, from the way she blushed a little at the same time. The man - Solo, wasn't that his name? - was attentive to her every word, every inch the gentleman. Every inch the paid companion, according to the gossip that sped round this particular seaside hotel.
The couple separated when the music was over, Solo bowing over the woman's hand and making her smile once more, then pressing a kiss to the back of it as he made his farewells.
He was good, Illya had to grant him that. Solo might do this for a living, but he made it look effortless, natural.
The two of them followed Solo out of the ballroom, trailing him down a carpeted corridor and out into the fitful autumn sunlight. A few paces ahead of them, Solo pulled his jacket a little tighter around himself in response to a gust of wind from the sea and Illya was suddenly grateful for his own overcoat, even if he had been born and bred in colder climes than these.
"Mr Solo?" Slate called out, when they were some distance from the hotel. "Could we have a word, please?"
Solo turned, his face an inquiry, though Illya could tell he was sizing them up; whatever he did for a living now, this man had experience of assessing whether he was in trouble, which was interesting in itself. Where would a man like this, all smooth hands and slicked back hair, gain that kind of an understanding?
"And you are?" The voice was much as he'd expected it would be, a soft approximation of the Hollywood tones of a dozen leading actors. Not Solo's own, Illya would be prepared to put money on it, though he couldn't have said how he knew. "I'm afraid my dance card is full for the next few hours." The smile was more real, somehow, and Illya decided there and then that he could have liked this man, if they'd met under different circumstances.
"Detective Inspector Slate," Slate said, showing his warrant card. "And this is Mr Curry."
Solo's intelligent brown eyes were fixed on him now, taking in what Slate had said about his own rank and what he hadn't said about his companions. No fool, this American.
"Not police, then?" Solo asked, his eyes still on Illya. He cocked his head to one side, considering. "Something else?" His accent changed, before Illya could realise what was happening. "Something hush hush we don't talk about?"
"Precisely," Illya said. "Though of course if I were to confirm that officially, I would then have to kill you."
Solo raised his hands.
"Don't shoot, guv, it's a fair cop," he said, in the most appalling mock-Cockney Illya had ever heard. Solo's smile widened when he saw Illya wince at the awfulness of the accent. "Sorry," he continued, lowering his hands and returning to his original accent. "Couldn't help myself."
Illya nodded, all the forgiveness Solo was going to get, but he seemed pleased to have it anyway.
"This is just a quiet word, Mr Solo," Slate said. His voice was quiet, but still full of a certainty that Illya knew all three of them heard. "You've been associating with a certain lady here, the mother of a certain Member of His Majesty's Government."
"I'm a professional dancing partner, Detective Inspector," Solo said. "It's what I do."
"Let me finish," Slate said, distinctly unimpressed. Solo shrugged, shoving his hands into his trouser pockets as Slate continued. "You will leave this particular lady well alone. Ideally, you'll leave this hotel and find yourself somewhere else, if you know what's good for you."
"Or else?"
"Or else," Slate said.
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There was something about Solo's easy acceptance of being warned off that didn't quite sit right with Illya; he made it his business to be certain about everything. His life so far had taught him things were simpler that way.
On receiving Slate's ultimatum, Solo had just nodded once and headed back towards the hotel. Somehow, Illya was sure it wouldn't be that easy. He gave Solo a head start, letting him enter the hotel lobby. A few quiet words had Detective Inspector Slate heading for his car, back to headquarters and a well-deserved supper. Illya had other fish to fry.
The ballroom was busier now, the room filling with a new set of women for the professional dancing partners to charm, including one particular lady who he hoped he wouldn't see with a certain American. Unless that American had a death wish, of course, and wished to see just how sincerely the British government wanted to be taken seriously.
Illya found himself a position, shaded by a large parlour palm in an ornate brass pot, where he could see but not be seen, and watched the dance floor intently. After a moment, he saw Solo, standing by the side of the dance floor. As Illya had suspected would be the case, he was not alone - a gloved hand rested on Solo's sleeve, the hand of that self-same lady he had been warned to leave alone only minutes earlier.
Solo's head was lowered; he was clearly listening intently to whatever it was this lady had to say, and Illya wondered just what that something was. If Solo knew who it was with whom he spent time, as Illya was certain was the case, then he had to know that her son was high up in the Foreign Office. It didn't look good for Mr Solo, regardless of what he was being told by the lady in question.
After what seemed like an eternity, Solo patted the woman's hand where it still lay on his arm and she reluctantly removed it, allowing him to leave her side. Illya didn't follow immediately, letting Solo get halfway to the ballroom door before he followed. As it was, he was just in time to see Solo cross the lobby and disappear through another door, one marked 'Staff Only'.
Cursing to himself in Russian for his caution, Illya followed suit; ignoring the sign on the door, he found himself in a dimly-lit corridor, bare wooden floorboards echoing under his feet. It was only as he turned the corner, certain he was heading into the back of the hotel, towards the kitchens, that he realised he was no longer alone.
Solo was quick, Illya had to give him that - he found himself pressed against the wall, Solo's body leaning heavily into him, one muscular thigh inserted between his own. One of Solo's hands had covered his mouth, the other quickly relieving him of his gun before he could protest.
"Looking for me?" Solo asked. He gave the gun - a standard issue Webley - a quick glance and then stowed it in his jacket pocket. Illya didn't squirm, biding his time till the opportunity arose to turn the tables on his captor. "What's a nice boy like you doing all alone in a place like this?"
Illya glared at him, his temper rising when he saw Solo's grin widen. Something else was reacting too, responding to the warmth of Solo's body pressed against him, the thigh pressed against his groin, despite Illya's best efforts to control himself.
"Temper temper," Solo said, then removed his hand from Illya's mouth. "Before you say it, I'll have you know my parents were married long before I was born."
"Didn't we tell you to keep away from her?" Illya heard his voice, a low growl full of menace that made Napoleon's eyes widen.
"I take it all back," Napoleon said, stealing a glance downwards. "You're not a nice boy at all." He shifted his weight, allowing his thigh to rub against Illya's groin deliberately, once, then again. "And I had to say my goodbyes, like a gentleman."
The other man was hard too, Illya realised, as Solo moved against him, the movement as slow and tantalising as any tango. Both of them reacting the same way to the current situation, regardless of the danger in which that placed them, here and now.
"You're no gentleman," Illya said, "you're a..."
"It's a living," Solo replied, interrupting. "Though I have other talents." He smiled, then leaned forward, capturing Illya's mouth for a kiss that made the universe turn inside out.
"I bet you do," Illya replied, once he had got his breath back.
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There was something about the smug expression on Solo's face that made Illya want to punch him, though that would have been difficult given their current positions. He couldn't deny the obvious, which was that he found Solo - or at least the presence of another warm, hard body rubbing against his - arousing enough to contemplate something illicit in this depressing corridor. That in itself was upsetting enough to Illya's equilibrium, given that he had never thought of himself as overly driven by his libido.
"Shall we take this somewhere a little more private?" Solo asked, his smug expression still firmly in place.
"Don't trouble yourself on my account," Illya replied.
He was quite pleased at how cold his voice sounded, given that he was desperately trying to get himself under control - Illya wondered how much of that battle was obvious to Solo. In any other circumstances, there was nothing he might have liked more than to take the American up on his offer, but he was still technically on duty and Solo was still technically a suspect.
"Oh, it's no trouble," Solo said. "None at all." But still, he took a step back, letting go of Illya's wrists as he did so, though his expression was wary now. He obviously expected some kind of retaliation on Illya's part, one way or another. "See, I can play nice."
"Nice enough to return my gun?" Illya asked, holding out his hand. It remained empty for a long moment, before Solo shrugged and then extracted the Webley from his pocket and placed it on Illya's palm. "Thank you, Mr Solo." Illya replaced the gun in its holster, then turned his attention back to Solo. "Now, if you could tell me what you're doing here..."
Solo had lowered his hands, shoving them back into his trouser pockets without any concern about how that looked, given that he was half-hard. Illya had to steel himself not to check out just what Solo was doing and concentrate on the job at hand, namely discovering exactly what Solo was up to.
"When you interrupted me," Solo began, "I was collecting my belongings so I could do as you and Slate told me."
"You were leaving?" Illya could tell when Solo heard the scepticism in his voice, even as he heard it himself. "Of course you were."
Solo shrugged, staring down at the toes of his thin-soled dancing shoes, which had clearly seen better days despite their immaculate polish.
"Why shouldn't I get the hell out of Dodge?" he asked. "Even if I've done nothing to be ashamed of, unless you count giving an old lady some pleasure a crime."
Illya tried not to take these words on face value, not liking the idea that Solo's enterprise with the admiring females of his acquaintance extended beyond the dance floor. He was no innocent himself, of course, but the thought of anyone being reduced to something they probably didn't want because of lack of money was an unappealing one. It had only been good fortune, after all, that had ensured his own family had a degree of wealth to fall back on when they fled the Bolsheviks, otherwise he too might be in a similar position to Solo right now.
"Fine," Illya said, after a long silence had grown between them.
He dug into his pocket, pulling out a silver case - Illya could sense Solo watching his movements out of the corner of his eye, though he pretended to still be fascinated by the toes of his shoes, even as he extracted a card from the case.
"That's my telephone number," Illya said, holding the card out to Solo, who slowly removed a hand from his pocket so he could take it.
He wasn't completely sure what had prompted this gesture, other than a sudden sense of the possibility he and Solo were more alike than he cared to think, despite the American's flippancy. Certainly Illya had no intention of another liaison like the abortive one that had almost happened here. That could never be countenanced, given his line of work.