Fic: The Camera Never Lies (UNCLE AU)
Aug. 31st, 2010 10:06 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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au_bingo:
Title: The Camera Never Lies
Fandom: Man from UNCLE
Prompt: Other: Celebrities
Words: 1600
Pairing: NS/IK
Warnings: None
Summary: In which someone has a temper and someone else is running late...
Kuryakin's tantrums were legendary, not just in the art world but outside it as well. He wasn't someone who threw stuff about when he got angry - not unusual for an artist, highly-strung as many of them were - his anger was icy cold and controlled, sucking all the air out of a room till everyone ran for cover.
He'd been warned about this, of course. If his inane assistant Brett had told him once not to be late, he'd told him a dozen times. And was telling him again now.
"He doesn't like to be kept waiting, Nap."
Solo pulled off the bluetooth headset, shoving it into his pocket to end the conversation rather than respond like he wanted. Gary might be inane but he was a good assistant and the last thing Solo wanted to do right now was break a new one in, not with the latest movie about to hit the publicity circuit. But if he could control the traffic in New York, he'd be the most popular man on the East Coast right now, not to mention on time for his appointment with Kuryakin.
"Mr. Solo." The voice was glacial, as he'd expected it would be. Kuryakin didn't even look round from his camera equipment as he spoke. "How good of you to grace me with your presence."
"Look," Solo said, "I'm sorry about that."
"Do you think I have nothing better to do, Mr. Solo," Kuryakin continued, straightening up from the camera bench and turning to face the object of his scorn. "Than to wait..." His eyes flicked to a large clock on the nearby wall, then back to Solo, chips of blue ice. "...thirty eight minutes for the latest two-dimensional action hero to bother to turn up for a very expensive photoshoot?"
Against his better judgement, and everything everyone had told him about Kuryakin and his firecracker reputation, Solo found himself bristling at the photographer's words.
"I said I was sorry," he snapped, his usual suave expression deserting him for a moment. Solo was aware of the tension between them, also certain his new-found attitude wasn't helping that one bit, but he was more than just another action hero, no matter what Kuryakin thought. "Now let's get to it, shall we?"
To Solo's surprise, Kuryakin just nodded, then turned back to the row of cameras without another word.
"Sit down over there," Kuryakin said, after a long moment had passed and Solo hadn't moved, other than to shift his weight from one foot to another as he tried to figure out if he'd just made the biggest mistake in his life. Kuryakin gestured towards a stool, not the chair that was currently set up in the middle of a fearsome array of photographic lights, a ripple of dark material curling round its feet. "If you please."
Not scorn, this time, but certainly sarcasm. Solo bit his lip rather than respond again - he'd ridden his luck further than was wise already, without antagonising Kuryakin more than was necessary to get the job done.
From where he sat, Solo had a good view of Kuryakin fussing over his cameras, deft hands checking the aperture on one, the winding mechanism on another. He was wearing a black turtleneck, the very model of a bohemian and artist, his slightly-too-long hair brushing the collar at places - it should have looked out of place, out of time, but on Kuryakin it looked just right. It didn't hurt either that both the turtleneck, and the black Levis Kuryakin wore with it, clung in all the right places, hinting towards the musculature under the cloth.
"You have seen enough?" Kuryakin's words broke into Solo's thoughts and he was startled to see the man standing in front of him, no further than eight feet away, hands cradling a camera. "Now it is my turn."
Solo schooled himself to sit still under Kuryakin's scrutiny, one knee a little higher than the other as his foot rested on the bar of the stool, hands clasped loosely together in his lap. He was certain he was blushing, aware of how awkward he must seem - the movie star uncomfortable about someone looking at him? Except this was different, more personal somehow than even the most intimate of love scenes - even when his face was projected many times larger than life on a cinema screen, that wasn't Napoleon Solo up there. This was more personal, more intrusive, and Solo wasn't sure he liked it very much.
"Good," Kuryakin said, after what seemed like a lifetime of silence. "But your clothes..." He shook his head.
"What's wrong with them?"
Kuryakin looked at him like he was an idiot, his eyes no longer cold but sparking with fire - was that amusement?
"Here," he said, shoving the camera he held into Solo's hands. "At least take off that hideous jacket." Kuryakin was pulling at the sleeve before Solo could respond, making him juggle the camera - doubtless horribly expensive, given the size of the lens attached to it - from hand to hand as the other man helped him to remove his jacket. "Better, though the tie is ugly too."
Kuryakin's hands were as deft undoing the knot of Solo's tie as they had seemed before, when Solo had been watching from a safe distance. If there was a safe distance where Kuryakin was concerned, or at least one smaller than a city block. His fingertips brushed the skin of Solo's neck as he pulled off the tie and then opened the top button, letting the discarded item fall to the floor in a puddle of silk.
"You are uncomfortable." The words were clearly not a question; Kuryakin hadn't stepped back, the warmth of his body almost palpable, and it was all Solo could do not to lean back from the other man's presence. "It does not make for a good photograph."
Kuryakin took back his camera, the tips of his fingers brushing the palms of Solo's hands as he did so; a step back and he was examining Solo once more, head cocked to one side like a bird examining a particularly interesting worm. He shook his head, once, a brisk movement before Kuryakin turned on his heel and headed back to the rest of the cameras.
Solo let out a breath as he studied the floor. He wasn't sure when he'd taken the breath in question, whether it was when Kuryakin's fingers had been undoing his tie or before that. He was turned on. Really turned on. Against his better judgement, of course, but that was usually the case. Life would be too easy if he fell for people who were sensible or sane; instead, Solo had developed something of a reputation for wanting the unattainable and it seemed Kuryakin's name had been added to that list, for no apparent reason he could explain.
"I'm sorry," Solo began again, without looking up. "For wasting your time." It didn't look like there were going to be any photographs taken, not if Kuryakin's response was anything to go by. He'd heard the Russian was temperamental but there was no denying his genius, when he decided he was prepared to work with someone, a decision he'd clearly not made in Solo's favour. "None of this was my idea, you know?"
He'd wanted the studio to use someone more mainstream, someone he could dazzle with a few thousand dollars worth of Hollywood white teeth and a persona that wasn't who Napoleon Solo really was but who the studios wanted him to be. Who his public, if he was going to have a public when the new movie finally aired, would want him to be. And certainly not this perceptive Russian who seemed to be able to read him like a book. A book Kuryakin apparently didn't find particularly interesting, or at least not interesting enough to warrant his full attention.
He hadn't heard Kuryakin approach, so when Solo lifted his head and found the other man standing just in front of him, it was all he could do not to draw back. Kuryakin looked more interested now, a spark of something unreadable in his eyes as he studied Solo; if anything the scrutiny made Solo more aware of every inch of his body and how it was responding to Kuryakin's proximity and everything about him.
"Not your idea?" Kuryakin echoed. He took a step closer, crowding in on Solo now, his hands coming to rest on Solo's thighs, warm and capable hands full of a thousand possibilities and each one of them making Solo's throat tighten, his pulse throb. "No, you did not want to be here. But now you do."
Kuryakin's mouth was on his before Solo could respond, stealing any words he could have said in reply.
After a moment, he went to pull away but Solo's hands held him in place, fingers wrapped in wool and hair as he responded in kind. Kuryakin was pressed against him, body to body, the curve of him fitting against Solo's body like the two of them were made to be that way.
When Solo did let go, reluctant, Kuryakin's eyes were still on him; he wondered what he looked like, just kissed by Kuryakin, whose own eyes were wide with arousal and dark with promise.
"Now I should get my camera," Kuryakin said. "But this is one picture I would not wish to share."
au_bingo:Title: The Camera Never Lies
Fandom: Man from UNCLE
Prompt: Other: Celebrities
Words: 1600
Pairing: NS/IK
Warnings: None
Summary: In which someone has a temper and someone else is running late...
Kuryakin's tantrums were legendary, not just in the art world but outside it as well. He wasn't someone who threw stuff about when he got angry - not unusual for an artist, highly-strung as many of them were - his anger was icy cold and controlled, sucking all the air out of a room till everyone ran for cover.
He'd been warned about this, of course. If his inane assistant Brett had told him once not to be late, he'd told him a dozen times. And was telling him again now.
"He doesn't like to be kept waiting, Nap."
Solo pulled off the bluetooth headset, shoving it into his pocket to end the conversation rather than respond like he wanted. Gary might be inane but he was a good assistant and the last thing Solo wanted to do right now was break a new one in, not with the latest movie about to hit the publicity circuit. But if he could control the traffic in New York, he'd be the most popular man on the East Coast right now, not to mention on time for his appointment with Kuryakin.
"Mr. Solo." The voice was glacial, as he'd expected it would be. Kuryakin didn't even look round from his camera equipment as he spoke. "How good of you to grace me with your presence."
"Look," Solo said, "I'm sorry about that."
"Do you think I have nothing better to do, Mr. Solo," Kuryakin continued, straightening up from the camera bench and turning to face the object of his scorn. "Than to wait..." His eyes flicked to a large clock on the nearby wall, then back to Solo, chips of blue ice. "...thirty eight minutes for the latest two-dimensional action hero to bother to turn up for a very expensive photoshoot?"
Against his better judgement, and everything everyone had told him about Kuryakin and his firecracker reputation, Solo found himself bristling at the photographer's words.
"I said I was sorry," he snapped, his usual suave expression deserting him for a moment. Solo was aware of the tension between them, also certain his new-found attitude wasn't helping that one bit, but he was more than just another action hero, no matter what Kuryakin thought. "Now let's get to it, shall we?"
To Solo's surprise, Kuryakin just nodded, then turned back to the row of cameras without another word.
"Sit down over there," Kuryakin said, after a long moment had passed and Solo hadn't moved, other than to shift his weight from one foot to another as he tried to figure out if he'd just made the biggest mistake in his life. Kuryakin gestured towards a stool, not the chair that was currently set up in the middle of a fearsome array of photographic lights, a ripple of dark material curling round its feet. "If you please."
Not scorn, this time, but certainly sarcasm. Solo bit his lip rather than respond again - he'd ridden his luck further than was wise already, without antagonising Kuryakin more than was necessary to get the job done.
From where he sat, Solo had a good view of Kuryakin fussing over his cameras, deft hands checking the aperture on one, the winding mechanism on another. He was wearing a black turtleneck, the very model of a bohemian and artist, his slightly-too-long hair brushing the collar at places - it should have looked out of place, out of time, but on Kuryakin it looked just right. It didn't hurt either that both the turtleneck, and the black Levis Kuryakin wore with it, clung in all the right places, hinting towards the musculature under the cloth.
"You have seen enough?" Kuryakin's words broke into Solo's thoughts and he was startled to see the man standing in front of him, no further than eight feet away, hands cradling a camera. "Now it is my turn."
Solo schooled himself to sit still under Kuryakin's scrutiny, one knee a little higher than the other as his foot rested on the bar of the stool, hands clasped loosely together in his lap. He was certain he was blushing, aware of how awkward he must seem - the movie star uncomfortable about someone looking at him? Except this was different, more personal somehow than even the most intimate of love scenes - even when his face was projected many times larger than life on a cinema screen, that wasn't Napoleon Solo up there. This was more personal, more intrusive, and Solo wasn't sure he liked it very much.
"Good," Kuryakin said, after what seemed like a lifetime of silence. "But your clothes..." He shook his head.
"What's wrong with them?"
Kuryakin looked at him like he was an idiot, his eyes no longer cold but sparking with fire - was that amusement?
"Here," he said, shoving the camera he held into Solo's hands. "At least take off that hideous jacket." Kuryakin was pulling at the sleeve before Solo could respond, making him juggle the camera - doubtless horribly expensive, given the size of the lens attached to it - from hand to hand as the other man helped him to remove his jacket. "Better, though the tie is ugly too."
Kuryakin's hands were as deft undoing the knot of Solo's tie as they had seemed before, when Solo had been watching from a safe distance. If there was a safe distance where Kuryakin was concerned, or at least one smaller than a city block. His fingertips brushed the skin of Solo's neck as he pulled off the tie and then opened the top button, letting the discarded item fall to the floor in a puddle of silk.
"You are uncomfortable." The words were clearly not a question; Kuryakin hadn't stepped back, the warmth of his body almost palpable, and it was all Solo could do not to lean back from the other man's presence. "It does not make for a good photograph."
Kuryakin took back his camera, the tips of his fingers brushing the palms of Solo's hands as he did so; a step back and he was examining Solo once more, head cocked to one side like a bird examining a particularly interesting worm. He shook his head, once, a brisk movement before Kuryakin turned on his heel and headed back to the rest of the cameras.
Solo let out a breath as he studied the floor. He wasn't sure when he'd taken the breath in question, whether it was when Kuryakin's fingers had been undoing his tie or before that. He was turned on. Really turned on. Against his better judgement, of course, but that was usually the case. Life would be too easy if he fell for people who were sensible or sane; instead, Solo had developed something of a reputation for wanting the unattainable and it seemed Kuryakin's name had been added to that list, for no apparent reason he could explain.
"I'm sorry," Solo began again, without looking up. "For wasting your time." It didn't look like there were going to be any photographs taken, not if Kuryakin's response was anything to go by. He'd heard the Russian was temperamental but there was no denying his genius, when he decided he was prepared to work with someone, a decision he'd clearly not made in Solo's favour. "None of this was my idea, you know?"
He'd wanted the studio to use someone more mainstream, someone he could dazzle with a few thousand dollars worth of Hollywood white teeth and a persona that wasn't who Napoleon Solo really was but who the studios wanted him to be. Who his public, if he was going to have a public when the new movie finally aired, would want him to be. And certainly not this perceptive Russian who seemed to be able to read him like a book. A book Kuryakin apparently didn't find particularly interesting, or at least not interesting enough to warrant his full attention.
He hadn't heard Kuryakin approach, so when Solo lifted his head and found the other man standing just in front of him, it was all he could do not to draw back. Kuryakin looked more interested now, a spark of something unreadable in his eyes as he studied Solo; if anything the scrutiny made Solo more aware of every inch of his body and how it was responding to Kuryakin's proximity and everything about him.
"Not your idea?" Kuryakin echoed. He took a step closer, crowding in on Solo now, his hands coming to rest on Solo's thighs, warm and capable hands full of a thousand possibilities and each one of them making Solo's throat tighten, his pulse throb. "No, you did not want to be here. But now you do."
Kuryakin's mouth was on his before Solo could respond, stealing any words he could have said in reply.
After a moment, he went to pull away but Solo's hands held him in place, fingers wrapped in wool and hair as he responded in kind. Kuryakin was pressed against him, body to body, the curve of him fitting against Solo's body like the two of them were made to be that way.
When Solo did let go, reluctant, Kuryakin's eyes were still on him; he wondered what he looked like, just kissed by Kuryakin, whose own eyes were wide with arousal and dark with promise.
"Now I should get my camera," Kuryakin said. "But this is one picture I would not wish to share."
