Title: The Witching Hour Affair (1/1)
Author: Kei
Fandom: the Man From UNCLE
Pairing: Illya/Napoleon
Rating: PG-13 (violence)
Disclaimers: the Man From UNCLE and characters belong to MGM and I am only borrowing them without making any money. Please don't sue me as I am generally broke.
Archive: File 40 Slash, WWOMB
"The Witching Hour Affair" (1/1)
by Kei
Drops.
Pattering against rocks and soil.
Warm...
...red...
...not rain.
A low, muffled moan escaped his mouth, past the ball of cloth in his mouth, past the knotted rag that held it in place. A slight movement reminded his pain-drugged brain that his wrists and ankles were in a similar state. He would not be going anywhere for awhile...if ever.
He should have seen it coming.
Rare was the time that he dropped his guard, but he had been doing that more often lately -Napoleon's fault, he wanted to say. But he couldn't. The senior agent could not take all the blame. If any. No...in spite of himself, a childhood of want and loneliness had left an aching hole within him, a secret need that his usual veneer of ice and steel could not entirely hide...a need to be comforted and loved. Somehow, one Napoleon Solo had pierced his shield with x-ray eyes, seeing the longing his partner hid from the world, and had filled the emptiness with his love. The experience was at once wonderful and frightening -a yearning fulfilled and yet, the fear of truly giving himself heart and soul to anyone.
But the relationship had been going well, developing and growing as relationships do.
If only Napoleon hadn't said those "three little words". If only the senior UNCLE agent hadn't said them just as he was leaving their apartment to catch a short flight to attend some late-evening meeting with other UNCLE department heads. If only *he* hadn't rushed without thinking to answer the familiar knock at the door, suspecting that his lover and partner had forgotten something, himself suddenly ready and willing to say those "three little words" right back...only to come face to face with a stranger -and a THRUSH semi-automatic rigged with a silencer.
The moment had ended with an explosion of pain and he had awoken here, bound, hidden among the rain-wet brush in a ditch along some non-descript road. It was dark.
Illya Kuryakin blinked heavily, unconsciousness reaching for him again as he realized that what should have been said long ago, would now never be said.
He had so wanted to say those "three little words"...
********************
Three in the morning -the darkest hour. The time of night when the body is at its most vulnerable...when the desperately ill were likely to die and the healthy were enshrouded in sleep.
But not him.
No sleep for him just yet.
Napoleon Solo glanced at a wall-mounted digital clock, eyes reddened with weariness. Three in the morning -what a time to be in an airport, pondering the unlikelihood of easily finding a taxi at this ungodly hour, but it was well worth it. More to the point, Illya was worth it. The meeting hadn't taken as long as anyone had thought it might and though he could have taken the morning flight home, the knowledge that he had someone waiting for him...at home...made taking the "red-eye" well worth the effort.
Assuming that there *was* someone waiting for him. What he had done to Illya was far from fair. Somewhere along the line, the devotion of comrades-in-arms had become the caring of friends and then, one memorable night only months ago, the intimate devotion of lovers...and yet, because he knew that his Russian partner was skittish about matters of the heart, he had refrained from saying those special words "I love you"...until just before he had left to catch his flight only hours ago.
Napoleon sighed as he hefted his overnight bad, remembering the blank, open-mouthed look of utter astonishment on Illya's pale countenance. But he didn't want to take back the words -he *couldn't*. All he *could* do was hope that he hadn't frightened the reticent Russian away before he could make things right.
Now to find a taxi.
Napoleon scanned the pick-up/drop-off area. His dark eyes widened as it became his turn to wear a mask of astonishment...for not two meters away was a very familiar vehicle...with an equally familiar individual stepping out from the driver's side. "Illya! What the- How did you know I was coming in early?"
"Inspiration," the smaller, blond man murmured as he allowed himself to be drawn into an all-encompassing embrace. Napoleon shivered at his partner's chilled touch. Cold...it was like sinking into a snowdrift. How long had the Russian been waiting out here? "C'mon partner," the senior agent said anxiously, "we'd better get you back home before you develop pneumonia."
Illya laughed out loud, something he did all too rarely. "You should not concern yourself, Polya," he said, smiling still as he maneuvered the car past other waiting vehicles and headed out towards the open road. "*I* don't."
"Maybe you should." Napoleon traced the smooth pale jaw with a finger -so *very* cold. Perhaps the Russian was ill. "*I* worry about you."
"Why?"
"Maybe because I love you-" Napoleon drew in a sharp breath -he'd done it again; unwittingly, unthinkingly. Those words. He held the next breath, half-expecting -dreading really- Illya's response. The one that said: "Things were going so well -why did you have to ruin it?" But the explosion didn't come. Instead, Illya's eyes remained trained on the dimly-lit road ahead, a slight smile forming on the pouty lips. "Illya? Didn't you hear what I said?"
The smile widened. "Of course I did."
Napoleon's puzzlement grew -this was getting strange. "It...*doesn't* bother you?" It was then that Solo noticed that the road on which they were traveling was not the one they usually used and Illya was slowing the car down, bringing it to a careful stop. "Illya, what-"
"Sh... Please." A single finger was pressed against Napoleon's lips. "Polya, while we are here, while we are alone, while I have the chance -let me speak. I am *not* upset. I thought that I might be if you ever said those words, but I am not. It is...wonderful...and it makes it so much easier to say what *I* want to say."
Napoleon studied his blond lover with growing wonder, his voice a whisper. "What?"
Frozen hands drew the senior agent's face closer. The words were said in Illya's native tongue: "I love you." Their lips met, eyes closing as the kiss deepened. So cold. Napoleon's eyes flew open -he was alone; the car parked beside a ditch that ran parallel to the dark stretch of highway. "Illya..? Illya!" What the hell *was* this! Just then, something caught the agent's attention -there, maybe a meter ahead of the car, was Illya...hand outstretched and beckoning.
Napoleon threw the car door open, not questioning -not *daring* to question- and followed as the Russian descended the rough incline and disappeared amongst the brush. "Illya! Ill-" Napoleon grabbed his pocket flashlight and shone it along the snarled darkness -his voice caught in his throat. There, half-hidden, was a reflection of gold. He half-ran, half-fell down the incline, heart thundering. As impossible as it was, he knew what he would find. "Mother of God..." Napoleon's hand shook as he felt for his partner's pulse...and found it. Faint. Weak. But there. Oh God, it was there. Napoleon whipped out his communicator. "Open channel 'D' -emergency! This is Solo -we have an enforcement agent down-"
********************
"Ummn..." Napoleon woke and blinked, momentarily disoriented by strange smells and the feeling of cold, crisp linens against the side of his face, before he remembered where he was: UNCLE medical. He had waited, holding his partner's bleeding form seemingly forever before the ambulance had arrived. He had waited several hours as the operation to repair the damage six bullets had made to Illya's body had proceeded. It was only after Illya had been transferred from the I.C.U. that he had been able to relax enough for sleep to claim him.
April, who had been at UNCLE HQ at the time that they had arrived at the medical center, had waited with him...and so full of confusion and questions had he been that he had told her everything about his bizarre evening. Amazingly, all she had said in response was that when there was enough love, love like she knew he and Illya had for each other, miracles could happen.
Love... Napoleon reached up and brushed a few stray strands of gold from a sleeping Illya's pale brow -warm. Warm and *alive*. That was the miracle. He didn't have all the answers as to the *why* of it, but for now, it was enough that Illya was alive and would recover. Napoleon placed a gentle kiss on the pale, high forehead. "I love you, my Illyusha...and I don't mind you knowing it."
Though asleep, a slight smile turned the Russian's lips, a soft whisper parting them. "...love you too."
EPILOGUE:
Hands clutched the steering wheel, knuckles whitening as the driver's eyes strained against the darkness. He was in trouble. UNCLE was after him and THRUSH was turning a blind eye -that was their punishment.
They had not ordered the hit on Kuryakin.
They had no use for an operative that had gone on a rogue mission of personal vengeance.
He had to get away, out of town -out of this country- and he had to do it now...quietly and unnoticed. He knew a contact that would help if only he- Staring eyes blinked in disbelief -he wiped them with the back of a hand and blinked again. But what he saw remained; a figure, in the middle of the road, clearly seen despite the darkness -one Napoleon Solo, partner to Illya Kuryakin...
...and he was aiming a gun.
Jaw clenched, the former THRUSH pressed down on the gas pedal, propelling the car forward -he had come too far now. Too far to let the Russian's partner take him down. The vehicle barreled forward, but the figure did not move...as the car passed through it and the fleeing agent lost control of the vehicle, sending it smashing through a highway barrier...
...to tumble to a fiery crash far below.
---fin---
Author: Kei
Fandom: the Man From UNCLE
Pairing: Illya/Napoleon
Rating: PG-13 (violence)
Disclaimers: the Man From UNCLE and characters belong to MGM and I am only borrowing them without making any money. Please don't sue me as I am generally broke.
Archive: File 40 Slash, WWOMB
"The Witching Hour Affair" (1/1)
by Kei
Drops.
Pattering against rocks and soil.
Warm...
...red...
...not rain.
A low, muffled moan escaped his mouth, past the ball of cloth in his mouth, past the knotted rag that held it in place. A slight movement reminded his pain-drugged brain that his wrists and ankles were in a similar state. He would not be going anywhere for awhile...if ever.
He should have seen it coming.
Rare was the time that he dropped his guard, but he had been doing that more often lately -Napoleon's fault, he wanted to say. But he couldn't. The senior agent could not take all the blame. If any. No...in spite of himself, a childhood of want and loneliness had left an aching hole within him, a secret need that his usual veneer of ice and steel could not entirely hide...a need to be comforted and loved. Somehow, one Napoleon Solo had pierced his shield with x-ray eyes, seeing the longing his partner hid from the world, and had filled the emptiness with his love. The experience was at once wonderful and frightening -a yearning fulfilled and yet, the fear of truly giving himself heart and soul to anyone.
But the relationship had been going well, developing and growing as relationships do.
If only Napoleon hadn't said those "three little words". If only the senior UNCLE agent hadn't said them just as he was leaving their apartment to catch a short flight to attend some late-evening meeting with other UNCLE department heads. If only *he* hadn't rushed without thinking to answer the familiar knock at the door, suspecting that his lover and partner had forgotten something, himself suddenly ready and willing to say those "three little words" right back...only to come face to face with a stranger -and a THRUSH semi-automatic rigged with a silencer.
The moment had ended with an explosion of pain and he had awoken here, bound, hidden among the rain-wet brush in a ditch along some non-descript road. It was dark.
Illya Kuryakin blinked heavily, unconsciousness reaching for him again as he realized that what should have been said long ago, would now never be said.
He had so wanted to say those "three little words"...
********************
Three in the morning -the darkest hour. The time of night when the body is at its most vulnerable...when the desperately ill were likely to die and the healthy were enshrouded in sleep.
But not him.
No sleep for him just yet.
Napoleon Solo glanced at a wall-mounted digital clock, eyes reddened with weariness. Three in the morning -what a time to be in an airport, pondering the unlikelihood of easily finding a taxi at this ungodly hour, but it was well worth it. More to the point, Illya was worth it. The meeting hadn't taken as long as anyone had thought it might and though he could have taken the morning flight home, the knowledge that he had someone waiting for him...at home...made taking the "red-eye" well worth the effort.
Assuming that there *was* someone waiting for him. What he had done to Illya was far from fair. Somewhere along the line, the devotion of comrades-in-arms had become the caring of friends and then, one memorable night only months ago, the intimate devotion of lovers...and yet, because he knew that his Russian partner was skittish about matters of the heart, he had refrained from saying those special words "I love you"...until just before he had left to catch his flight only hours ago.
Napoleon sighed as he hefted his overnight bad, remembering the blank, open-mouthed look of utter astonishment on Illya's pale countenance. But he didn't want to take back the words -he *couldn't*. All he *could* do was hope that he hadn't frightened the reticent Russian away before he could make things right.
Now to find a taxi.
Napoleon scanned the pick-up/drop-off area. His dark eyes widened as it became his turn to wear a mask of astonishment...for not two meters away was a very familiar vehicle...with an equally familiar individual stepping out from the driver's side. "Illya! What the- How did you know I was coming in early?"
"Inspiration," the smaller, blond man murmured as he allowed himself to be drawn into an all-encompassing embrace. Napoleon shivered at his partner's chilled touch. Cold...it was like sinking into a snowdrift. How long had the Russian been waiting out here? "C'mon partner," the senior agent said anxiously, "we'd better get you back home before you develop pneumonia."
Illya laughed out loud, something he did all too rarely. "You should not concern yourself, Polya," he said, smiling still as he maneuvered the car past other waiting vehicles and headed out towards the open road. "*I* don't."
"Maybe you should." Napoleon traced the smooth pale jaw with a finger -so *very* cold. Perhaps the Russian was ill. "*I* worry about you."
"Why?"
"Maybe because I love you-" Napoleon drew in a sharp breath -he'd done it again; unwittingly, unthinkingly. Those words. He held the next breath, half-expecting -dreading really- Illya's response. The one that said: "Things were going so well -why did you have to ruin it?" But the explosion didn't come. Instead, Illya's eyes remained trained on the dimly-lit road ahead, a slight smile forming on the pouty lips. "Illya? Didn't you hear what I said?"
The smile widened. "Of course I did."
Napoleon's puzzlement grew -this was getting strange. "It...*doesn't* bother you?" It was then that Solo noticed that the road on which they were traveling was not the one they usually used and Illya was slowing the car down, bringing it to a careful stop. "Illya, what-"
"Sh... Please." A single finger was pressed against Napoleon's lips. "Polya, while we are here, while we are alone, while I have the chance -let me speak. I am *not* upset. I thought that I might be if you ever said those words, but I am not. It is...wonderful...and it makes it so much easier to say what *I* want to say."
Napoleon studied his blond lover with growing wonder, his voice a whisper. "What?"
Frozen hands drew the senior agent's face closer. The words were said in Illya's native tongue: "I love you." Their lips met, eyes closing as the kiss deepened. So cold. Napoleon's eyes flew open -he was alone; the car parked beside a ditch that ran parallel to the dark stretch of highway. "Illya..? Illya!" What the hell *was* this! Just then, something caught the agent's attention -there, maybe a meter ahead of the car, was Illya...hand outstretched and beckoning.
Napoleon threw the car door open, not questioning -not *daring* to question- and followed as the Russian descended the rough incline and disappeared amongst the brush. "Illya! Ill-" Napoleon grabbed his pocket flashlight and shone it along the snarled darkness -his voice caught in his throat. There, half-hidden, was a reflection of gold. He half-ran, half-fell down the incline, heart thundering. As impossible as it was, he knew what he would find. "Mother of God..." Napoleon's hand shook as he felt for his partner's pulse...and found it. Faint. Weak. But there. Oh God, it was there. Napoleon whipped out his communicator. "Open channel 'D' -emergency! This is Solo -we have an enforcement agent down-"
********************
"Ummn..." Napoleon woke and blinked, momentarily disoriented by strange smells and the feeling of cold, crisp linens against the side of his face, before he remembered where he was: UNCLE medical. He had waited, holding his partner's bleeding form seemingly forever before the ambulance had arrived. He had waited several hours as the operation to repair the damage six bullets had made to Illya's body had proceeded. It was only after Illya had been transferred from the I.C.U. that he had been able to relax enough for sleep to claim him.
April, who had been at UNCLE HQ at the time that they had arrived at the medical center, had waited with him...and so full of confusion and questions had he been that he had told her everything about his bizarre evening. Amazingly, all she had said in response was that when there was enough love, love like she knew he and Illya had for each other, miracles could happen.
Love... Napoleon reached up and brushed a few stray strands of gold from a sleeping Illya's pale brow -warm. Warm and *alive*. That was the miracle. He didn't have all the answers as to the *why* of it, but for now, it was enough that Illya was alive and would recover. Napoleon placed a gentle kiss on the pale, high forehead. "I love you, my Illyusha...and I don't mind you knowing it."
Though asleep, a slight smile turned the Russian's lips, a soft whisper parting them. "...love you too."
EPILOGUE:
Hands clutched the steering wheel, knuckles whitening as the driver's eyes strained against the darkness. He was in trouble. UNCLE was after him and THRUSH was turning a blind eye -that was their punishment.
They had not ordered the hit on Kuryakin.
They had no use for an operative that had gone on a rogue mission of personal vengeance.
He had to get away, out of town -out of this country- and he had to do it now...quietly and unnoticed. He knew a contact that would help if only he- Staring eyes blinked in disbelief -he wiped them with the back of a hand and blinked again. But what he saw remained; a figure, in the middle of the road, clearly seen despite the darkness -one Napoleon Solo, partner to Illya Kuryakin...
...and he was aiming a gun.
Jaw clenched, the former THRUSH pressed down on the gas pedal, propelling the car forward -he had come too far now. Too far to let the Russian's partner take him down. The vehicle barreled forward, but the figure did not move...as the car passed through it and the fleeing agent lost control of the vehicle, sending it smashing through a highway barrier...
...to tumble to a fiery crash far below.
---fin---