Work Text:
Napoleon came to Illya’s apartment to help paint walls.
“What color did you get?” he asked, rolling up his sleeves.
“White.”
“How imaginative.”
“It was the cheapest they had.”
“You? Cheap? What a surprise.”
A productive hour passed.
“You’ve got paint in your hair,” Solo laughed. He reached out a hand to try to brush it away. Useless: it had dried.
The hand lingered—hesitant, hopeful. Could Illya possibly feel the same way? Napoleon had to find out.
Blue eyes, puzzled, searched brown. Suddenly, comprehension replaced confusion.
And a golden head leaned into the caress.
* * *
They never did finish painting.