Fic: "The Codpiece Affair," Man from UNCLE

[kleenexwoman]

The codpiece Illya is wearing is at least six inches long. It’s hard to figure exactly without a tape measure, since it curves up rather noticeably at the end, and that will skew the measurements. And, of course, you would have to take into the account the enormous ruby at the end, which is at least an inch long. The ruby only adds to the weight of the codpiece, which is already made out of gold, and even though it’s hollow and gold is, all things considered, one of the lightest metals, it’s still quite a heavy object to have hanging off your genital area.

“It only goes to show,” Illya says, staring at himself in the gilt-edged mirror in disbelief, “that the rich have no better taste than anyone else, and never have.”

“Nonsense,” Napoleon says, and gives the codpiece an affectionate pat. “I think it’s very tasteful, myself.”

“Of course you would think so,” Illya grumps. “Would you prefer to be the one who’s going to spend the evening wearing it?”

“Oh, no. It’d be a crime of underrepresentation,” Napoleon says. “I think it covers up your shortcomings very well, though.”

Illya ignores him and tries to adjust the piece so that it doesn’t chafe too much. The ridiculous piece of ornamentation isn’t just a stupidly valuable bauble—it’s one of the crown jewels of the country of Picola, supposedly the representation of the fertility and prosperity of the entire country. Should anything happen to it, it is said, crops will wither and plague will descend upon the land.

Traditionally, the King of Picola wears this ornament on all royal occasions, including christenings, coronations, royal speeches, state dinners, and national holidays—and for the past ten years, at the lavish masquerade balls King Eremus throws every Halloween. However, whatever mystic power the codpiece may hold has not stopped the formation of an assassination plot against the king, which is why, rather than holding court over the ball tonight, he’s been hustled into one of the palace’s lavish guest villas with an assortment of fine liqueurs, snacks, and strapping, dedicated bodyguards.

And that would be that, except for the fact that nobody knows who will actually perform the assassination. The intercepted radio message gave the mission, date, and time. The king’s security force had been looking forward to a second message, anticipated a quick and dramatic apprehension of the assassin near midnight…but no message had been forthcoming, and more drastic measures had to be taken. Which involves Illya dressing in the king’s costume for that night, as—coincidentally—they are the same size.

Napoleon hands Illya the mask he is to wear. The mask is also gold, thin and beaten into layers, ornamented with bright jewels, in a familiar crenulated design that he can’t quite place at first. When he puts it on, Napoleon starts to laugh. “Flutter off to the ball, now, my dear.”

Illya adjusts the mask so that he can see his reflection out of the eyeholes, and groans. “I am disguised as a demented fritillary. I say again—no taste.”

*

Illya had been expecting his duties to include sitting on the throne and overseeing the party, not having to talk, and perhaps nibbling on an appetizer while the party went on around him—being stationary would have made his watch for an assassination attempt easier, in any case. But only an hour into the party, he’s been danced with, cosseted, had cups of sticky-sweet punch shoved at him, and had to feign laryngitis until it finally catches on with the partygoers that the king will not be talking tonight.

It’s hard to keep track of the guests with the constant whirl of the party around him. The ubiquitous masks make it even more difficult to keep track of who is really who, but make it simple to keep track of which mask is which. He knows the domino mask under the cowboy hat is Napoleon, who comes up to him every so often to whisper in his ear, bring him a glass of water, alert him to goings-on.

“The rabbit mask and the fox mask,” Napoleon says, the first hour. “I’m keeping an eye on them.”

“Mmm?” Illya peers through the crowd. “Which rabbit? Which fox?” There have been several of each, including a woman clearly dressed as a Playboy bunny rather than any sort of realistic animal. Perhaps she was, in fact, a Playboy bunny. Illya finds this kind of costume to be rather lazy and in poor taste. Even Napoleon has swapped out his usual pinstriped suit for a buckskin jacket, boots, and tight Levis that…leave very little to the imagination. He wasn’t joking about the underrepresentation. Illya suddenly feels very secure in his codpiece.

“They’re very realistic, for lack of a better word…except for the suits.” Illya follows the line of Napoleon’s finger to the far corner of the room, where a rabbit head and a fox head on top of two black suits are conversing, punch in hand. “They’ve been sniffing around. I know they aren’t bodyguards.” None of the king’s official bodyguards are wearing masks tonight.

Napoleon leaves to shadow the rabbit and fox, to scrutinize them for hints of malice, a gun, a vial of poison. Illya doesn’t want him to go; Napoleon’s presence is an island of sanity in the middle of an increasingly surreal party. There is a green-masked witch handing him another cup of punch, a sparkling fairy with glitter-smeared breasts suddenly draping herself all over him, whispering into his ear. “Your Majesty, it’s me…”

Illya stiffens up. It’s so annoying, when voluptuous women he’s never met throw themselves at him. After an experimental flicker of her tongue to Illya’s ear meets with no response, she sighs exasperatedly—“Later, then”—and whirls off into the crowd, leaving glitter all over Illya’s face. He takes a sip, another one. There’s glitter in his punch, on his tongue. It’s undrinkable. He tries to spit out the glitter onto the floor, but his saliva has suddenly dried up.

The lights are very bright, suddenly. Illya had thought the ballroom overlit before, particularly with all the gold and mirrors that reflect the millions of candles, but now it’s blinding. The noise had been unpleasant before, the people milling around talking and the squawks and screeches of the amateurish orchestra trying to play something between a waltz and a free-form jazz number, but now it’s nearly unbearable, every murmur and giggle pounding in his temples.

He stands, and his legs buckle almost immediately. How many cups of punch has he had? How much alcohol was in the sticky-sweet stuff? “Napoleon,” he calls, but his voice is lost among the din. The party is going to overpower him.

Pink Fairy appears at his side again. “Poor Errie,” she says sweetly, her voice dripping honey, “did you have a few too many? Why don’t we go for a lie-down, hmm?”

His limbs are too weak to push her away, his arms too heavy to draw his gun when the rabbit mask in the black suit appears in his field of vision. Rabbit Mask puts an arm around Pink Fairy’s waist. “Sweetheart,” he says, in a voice as bright as the candles that illuminate the room, “I don’t think the king wants a lie-down with you. I’m going to take him somewhere quiet and get him some aspirin, okay?”

“Wait,” Illya tries to say, but his mouth is numb, his tongue hanging loose, his vocal cords frozen. He can do nothing but walk slowly as Rabbit Mask steers him through the crowd, arms dangling uselessly at his sides, eyes flicking desperately across the crowd, hoping that Napoleon would catch a glimpse of him. Damn it, where was Napoleon?

*

Illya is on his back in the softest featherbed he has ever been in. It’s like floating in a sea of marshmallows. It feels exquisite, but it gives absolutely no assistance to his dubious mobility. He thinks he can feel the nerves firing up in his limbs, faint tingling and twinges of sensation running through his arms and legs.

Rabbit Mask is looming over him, the buck teeth that protrude from his mask-mouth suddenly menacing, the bulging painted-pink eyes grotesque. He slips off his black jacket, and Illya knows he will see a holster, a gun, a short burst of orange fire…

But there is no holster, only a white shirt, and then Rabbit Mask lifts his rabbit head off to reveal the most angelic face Illya has ever seen. Wide blue eyes, a short halo of golden curls, rosebud lips that are parted in a welcoming, loving smile.

Rabbit Mask smiles and crawls onto the bed, settling himself beside Illya. “The party was a little much for you, wasn’t it?” he asks, brushing the tips of his fingers over Illya’s exposed lips. “It was getting too loud for me, too. Just let me know when you feel better. Don’t hurry yourself—nobody will find us in here.”

Illya sighs and closes his eyes, taking the opportunity to evaluate the situation in his body and outside of it. He doesn’t think Rabbit Mask is the assassin—if he’d wanted to kill him, he would have already. Illya is perfectly helpless. As long as he stays in here, with Rabbit Mask and nobody else, he will be safer than he would be almost anywhere else in the palace. The only thing wrong is a lack of Napoleon, but he fervently hopes that Napoleon will twig on to Illya’s absence before long.

After a few minutes, he’s at least able to breathe normally. He’s never noticed the odd sensation of breathing, how much effort it takes to operate his lungs, the air rushing over his tongue and lips. Rabbit Mask seems to notice, and smiles at him again. “Feeling a little better?” he asks, and slips his fingers under the edge of Illya’s mask. “Maybe it would help if this wasn’t weighing you down.”

Illya shakes his head, but he’s too lethargic to do much but move it back and forth, once, slowly. Rabbit Mask is pushing up the butterfly mask, and Illya squeezes his eyes shut, waiting for the moment of revelation.
*

Napoleon curses to himself. He’s hungry, his mask is getting sweaty, and Illya’s gone. It happened so quickly—one moment Illya was safely tucked away with a cup of punch and a gorgeous woman hanging all over him, and the next he was nowhere to be seen. He’s made a quick circuit of the ballroom, just to make sure Illya hasn’t been lost in the crowd; he’s checked the balconies, the dark corners, even the bathrooms. Nothing.

Perhaps he slipped away with the pink fairy—but no, he sees her out of the corner of his eye, heading out of the ballroom in a twinkle of glitter and fluffy lavender wings, her stride purposeful and her wand tucked under her arm. He almost laughs. Of course Illya got bored and arranged a rendezvous with the girl. He would have done the same thing. Anyway, Illya will be easier to keep track of in a bedroom.

The light and noise fades as he follows the fairy through the halls of the palace. It’s easy to conceal himself in the shadows, a little harder to keep the heels of his boots from clicking on the tile. He watches her as she puts one ear against each door she passes, listening carefully—for what?

After a few doors, she smiles and places her hand on the doorknob. This must be the one. Napoleon clears his throat, and when Pink Fairy turns her head to see him, he tips his hat. “Howdy, ma’am. I happen to be the bodyguard for the night for this here king, and—”

She frowns and draws her wand. The last thing he sees is a cloud of glitter, impossibly silvery and sparkling, and then the glitter turns to fireworks before his eyes, and everything goes black.

*

Rabbit Mask bolts upright as the door slams open. Illya opens one eye, then the other, to see Pink Fairy bursting into the room, wand drawn. He would laugh if he could move his mouth.

She frowns at Rabbit Mask. “Get out of here,” she says. “Right now.”

Rabbit Mask shakes his head. “The king is not well,” he says. “I’m staying with him. And you won’t—”

“Then I’ll have you get you out of here myself,” Pink Fairy says, and aims her wand at him. Illya half-expects to see Rabbit Mask turn into a frog…or a real rabbit. But there’s a brief moment of sparkling glitter, hanging in the air like a cloud, and then Rabbit Mask is slumping back on the bed, blue eyes staring at nothing, red lips parted. Illya fears he’s dead, but he can still hear the faint sound of his breathing.

Illya’s strength is returning to him, and he can just barely prop himself up on his elbows. “If you wanted to kill the king…” he murmurs, and coughs.

“What?” Pink Fairy holds her wand in the air as Illya moves his hand slowly up his chest, his neck, his chin. “What are you doing?” She strides over to the bed and rips the mask off of Illya’s face. “Where’s King Eremus?” she demands.

Illya shrugs.

“Never mind that. He’s not important.” Pink Fairy’s hands linger on Illya’s face for a moment, and then retrace the path his own hands took, down his face, neck, chest. She hesitates for a moment, and then her hands head down across his stomach, towards his waistline…

…towards the codpiece. Illya tries to wriggle away, but the lingering effects of the glitter and Pink Fairy’s strong hands keep him immobilized as Pink Fairy yanks down his pants. She wraps her hand around his codpiece, and Illya wonders for a moment if she’s not a bit confused about what the genitals of a king might be made of, until she finally disentangles it from his clothes. “Got it!” she crows.

“That’s all you wanted?” Illya croaks out. “That ridiculous bauble?”

Pink Fairy smiles. “The shell isn’t important. It’s what’s inside that counts.”

“That organ isn’t detachable,” Illya reminds her. “Mostly.” But Pink Fairy is inspecting the codpiece, turning it this way and that. Finally, she tugs on the glittering red head of the ornament, and the ruby lifts up.

She fishes a piece of fabric out of the codpiece, and shakes it out. The crumpled silk resolves itself into a recognizable and highly intimate piece of clothing. “The queen’s,” Pink Fairy explains. “Ugh. How long has this been in there? She left for Monaco three years ago and never came back.”

She shakes it over the bed, and a metal object lands on the bed with a soft thud. Pink Fairy tosses the panties over her shoulder and grabs at it, holding it up to the light. “At last!” she says, and drops the key between her capacious bosoms.

“I don’t imagine that’s the key to King Eremus’s heart,” Illya mutters. His voice seems to be returning very quickly, and as he begins to stretch out his legs, so does his mobility.

“Nothing so useless,” Pink Fairy retorts. Her lips stretch out into a wicked smile. “In just a few hours, the kingdom will be mine.”

Illya moves his arm back and forth experimentally. Is he limber enough to get his gun out of his holster? “You wouldn’t mind telling me how, would you?”

“Yes,” Pink Fairy says. “I think I would mind.” She draws her wand again, and Illya’s last thought before he gets a face full of glitter is that if she has to test every door and safe in the palace, it should give him and Napoleon plenty of time to gain consciousness.


originally posted here