Title: "Without You"
A Man From U.N.C.L.E. Story
Author: Marie Whi Mitshue
Pairing: Napoleon Solo/Illya Kuryakin
Type: male/male
Archive: If ya want it, sure, just ask first, please.
Feedback: DriftingPetal@gundamwing.org
Rating: Definitely NC-17. Not all chapters will be rated that high, but there is going to be male-male sex here, and probably lots of it, plus blood, angst, torture, etc. BE ADVISED THIS IS A *SLASH* STORY. That means it deals with same sex romantic and sexual situations. You don't like that, DON'T read it. I am absolved of all responsibility if you do, cause you were WARNED!
Summary: Illya is lost on a mission and presumed dead, and Napoleon has to try and deal with the loss of his partner and secret love.
Disclaimer: I do not own "The Man From U.N.C.L.E", I make no claims on them, this fic in no way refers to the *real* sexual orientation of Napoleon Solo, Illya Kuryakin, Robert Vaughn, or David McCallum. This was written purely for enjoyment and not for profit.
Author's Notes: Right.
I've just been flamed by some ignorant, narrow-minded cretins on FF.net for some ENTERPRISE Slash I posted, and now I just want to post as many GOOD SLASH fics as I can just to piss them off!! You don't like what I write? Too bad for you. You think your narrowmindedness is going to stop me from writing what I want to write?! HELL, NO!!! In fact, because of being flamed, I think I'll write MORE slash, and not only for ENTERPRISE.
Thus, from spite and pride (and an intense love for Illya & Napoleon) this fic is born!!! I hope y'all enjoy… *especially* my flamers!
Hugs and Napoleon, handcuffs and Illya,
-Marie
//thoughts//
*emphasis* (the more **, the greater the emphasis)
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
"ILLYA!!"
Napoleon Solo bolted upright, dark eyes wild.
Alexander Waverly himself was there to push his number one agent back down on the infirmary bed.
Solo's dark eyes cleared a little, and he clutched at the dull ache in his shoulder.
"Where's…" His voice came out hoarse and dry and he had to stop to cough.
But Mr. Waverly understood what the question was. He spoke as he lifted a glass to Solo's lips and let him drink.
"Where's Mr. Kuryakin? We don't know. I was hoping you knew. Our rescue team found only you, and you were in fairly bad shape."
Napoleon slumped back against the pillow, face aghast as memory came rushing back.
"I…I do know…Illya…he's…" The words stuck in his throat, and his eyes stung with unshed tears. "He's…gone, sir." He had to lower his chocolate- dark eyes from Waverly's pale blue ones, knowing what despair was gathering there for the entire world to see.
//My Illyusha…he's gone…//
"Gone, Mr. Solo?" Waverly asked, startled. "You mean he isn't captured, he's…"
"Yes, sir." Solo croaked. "Illya's…dead."
~~~
((Begin Flashback))
"Run, Napoleon. You aren't *that* old!" Illya called over his shoulder.
Napoleon gave him a *look* but kept running after him.
Behind them, the local T.H.R.U.S.H. satrap went up in a huge fireball of flame and debris.
The shorter blond spared a moment for a satisfied smile as he scaled a chain-link fence with all the easy agility of an acrobat. He shimmied down the other side as Napoleon scrambled up the fence with only slightly less grace than the Russian had.
Illya took two steps towards the raging river and the sagging, brick- and-wood bridge beyond the fence, then dropped suddenly to a crouch, pulling out his Special.
Napoleon dropped from the fence as shots rang out. He glanced up to see a few T.H.R.U.S.H. agents had apparently survived and were haring after them.
"Go!" Illya called from his crouch, coolly aiming and firing. A gun- wielding foe dropped. "I'll cover you."
Napoleon drew his own weapon as he ran for the bridge. He could cover Illya from there.
Sudden white fire burned through Napoleon's shoulder.
"Napasha!"
He heard Illya cry out as he fell over a brick rail and onto the worn planks of the bridge, blood spraying in the air, sparkling like a raindrop of scarlet rubies. He'd been shot.
He rolled, saw Illya take out the man who had shot him, saw Illya turn to look at him. No one else would have seen the frantic fear in Illya's sky-blue eyes.
"Napasha, are you all right?!" He yelled, unable to run to his partner's aid because of the sporadic fire of the remaining enemies.
"I'm fine, just a graze." He lied, one hand pressed to the wound. Blood spurted against his fingers, and he felt the hot flow of it down his back. The bullet had gone clean through.
"Go on. Keep me covered from the other side." Illya instructed.
Napoleon scrambled to his feet and hurried across the bridge to the cover of the trees beyond. The front and back of his suit jacket was soaked in blood. He reached the trees.
Illya ran for the bridge. Napoleon took out a man trying to aim at Illya. The Russian put one hand on the crumbly brick to vault over the rail Napoleon had fallen over.
Napoleon's horrified eyes locked with Illya's startled ones as the brick cracked and crumbled beneath Illya's grip and sent the blond tumbling down the side. He fell headlong into the turbulent water.
"Illya!" Napoleon shot the last T.H.R.U.S.H. man and ran along the side of the river, wound and pain forgotten, eyes desperately searching the raging waters. "Illya!!"
Further up the swift torrent, Illya's head, blond hair dark with water and plastered to his skull, broke the surface.
"Na…poleon…" He cried out, one hand reaching desperately towards the dark-haired man, so near and yet too far away, as if some miracle would breech the space between them, and let them reach each other.
"Illyusha!!!" Napoleon screamed as the Russian went under again. He kept running, stumbling, growing weaker by the minute from blood loss and fatigue.
Illya's hand broke the surface, grasping and clutching weakly. Illya was an excellent swimmer, for all that he didn't like the water, but this time of year the river was lethally cold and swollen with ice melt from the mountains. His hand slipped under again and did not reappear.
"ILLYA!!" Napoleon kept on running, searching, until he stumbled and fell. He sprawled on the river's edge, unable to summon the strength to rise, blood oozing out of him. One hand reached for the water, still trying to save Illya.
Then blackness crashed down on Napoleon Solo.
((End Flashback))
~~~
Napoleon refused to look up from where his hands were knotted into the blankets, only keeping the tears from falling through sheer strength of will.
"Napoleon." Mr. Waverly said softly.
*That* got the dark-haired agent's attention. Mr. Waverly rarely, if ever, addressed his underlings by their first names. He looked up – and was almost undone by the sympathy and sadness in the Old Lion's wise blue eyes.
"I know how…*important* Illya…was to you." Mr. Waverly said carefully, eyes conveying much more than his words.
Napoleon's eyes narrowed, face settling in to a bland mask to cover his shock and surprise. Officially, Mr. Waverly knew nothing of his two top agents…*personal* relationship, but *un*offically…obviously Mr. Waverly knew a great deal, or suspected it. He and Illya had always been very careful and discreet, for their kind of relationship wasn't accepted very well, even here in America. And Illya was officially still KGB, although his loyalties belonged completely to U.N.C.L.E., Waverly and Solo. If the KGB or other Russian authorities found out about their relationship, Illya would be on the KGB's highest lists, to be captured, interrogated and terminated.
"Sir? He was my partner, and my friend." Napoleon said flatly. Not even to Waverly would he betray their secret.
Waverly smiled sadly and patted his uninjured shoulder. "We will dredge the river –"
Napoleon's eyes closed, jaw clenching at the thought of Illya's body being found, bloated and maltreated by the water, barely recognisable as the blond agent.
"Sir, that river led right out to the ocean, and had one of the most turbulent currents I've seen." He told him dully.
"I know. It's not likely we'll find…him. But we have to look. You're off active duty for a month – convalescence and hardship leave. But…I know this is hard for you, but you're too good an agent to lose. When you return, you'll be assigned another partner."
Napoleon stared up at the handsome, lined face of his boss, locking his teeth on the vehement protests that sprang to his lips. //Replace Illya?! No one can replace my Ice Prince! Ice Prince!! He was never cold and aloof to me…my darling Illyusha...oh, you can't be gone, lyubovnick!!! How am I supposed to survive without you watching my back? Without you teasing me? Without you to love?//
"Yes, sir." Came dully from his mouth.
Waverly looked at him sadly. "We'll all feel his absence, Mr. Solo, and mourn the loss of him. And…" The greying-haired man leaned forward, until his mouth was close to Napoleon's ear. "I'm sorry for *your* loss, Napoleon. Truly I am." And Mr. Waverly straightened and left the infirmary.
Napoleon Solo rubbed absently at the aching flesh around the bullet wound in his shoulder, but his thoughts were a thousand miles away, all centred on a reed-thin, lithely muscled blond with a façade of cold indifference and an interior of passion and warmth.
~~~
End Teaser/Prologue
So, people, should I write more? Should I leave Napoleon aching for the loss of his love, or shall I let the poor man know his Russian is still alive? Then again…is he? Feedback will get you faster, better, possibly longer chapters! (hint, hint!) And feedback will let me know I'm not the only one who read this…
A Man From U.N.C.L.E. Story
Author: Marie Whi Mitshue
Pairing: Napoleon Solo/Illya Kuryakin
Type: male/male
Archive: If ya want it, sure, just ask first, please.
Feedback: DriftingPetal@gundamwing.org
Rating: Definitely NC-17. Not all chapters will be rated that high, but there is going to be male-male sex here, and probably lots of it, plus blood, angst, torture, etc. BE ADVISED THIS IS A *SLASH* STORY. That means it deals with same sex romantic and sexual situations. You don't like that, DON'T read it. I am absolved of all responsibility if you do, cause you were WARNED!
Summary: Illya is lost on a mission and presumed dead, and Napoleon has to try and deal with the loss of his partner and secret love.
Disclaimer: I do not own "The Man From U.N.C.L.E", I make no claims on them, this fic in no way refers to the *real* sexual orientation of Napoleon Solo, Illya Kuryakin, Robert Vaughn, or David McCallum. This was written purely for enjoyment and not for profit.
Author's Notes: Right.
I've just been flamed by some ignorant, narrow-minded cretins on FF.net for some ENTERPRISE Slash I posted, and now I just want to post as many GOOD SLASH fics as I can just to piss them off!! You don't like what I write? Too bad for you. You think your narrowmindedness is going to stop me from writing what I want to write?! HELL, NO!!! In fact, because of being flamed, I think I'll write MORE slash, and not only for ENTERPRISE.
Thus, from spite and pride (and an intense love for Illya & Napoleon) this fic is born!!! I hope y'all enjoy… *especially* my flamers!
Hugs and Napoleon, handcuffs and Illya,
-Marie
//thoughts//
*emphasis* (the more **, the greater the emphasis)
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
"ILLYA!!"
Napoleon Solo bolted upright, dark eyes wild.
Alexander Waverly himself was there to push his number one agent back down on the infirmary bed.
Solo's dark eyes cleared a little, and he clutched at the dull ache in his shoulder.
"Where's…" His voice came out hoarse and dry and he had to stop to cough.
But Mr. Waverly understood what the question was. He spoke as he lifted a glass to Solo's lips and let him drink.
"Where's Mr. Kuryakin? We don't know. I was hoping you knew. Our rescue team found only you, and you were in fairly bad shape."
Napoleon slumped back against the pillow, face aghast as memory came rushing back.
"I…I do know…Illya…he's…" The words stuck in his throat, and his eyes stung with unshed tears. "He's…gone, sir." He had to lower his chocolate- dark eyes from Waverly's pale blue ones, knowing what despair was gathering there for the entire world to see.
//My Illyusha…he's gone…//
"Gone, Mr. Solo?" Waverly asked, startled. "You mean he isn't captured, he's…"
"Yes, sir." Solo croaked. "Illya's…dead."
~~~
((Begin Flashback))
"Run, Napoleon. You aren't *that* old!" Illya called over his shoulder.
Napoleon gave him a *look* but kept running after him.
Behind them, the local T.H.R.U.S.H. satrap went up in a huge fireball of flame and debris.
The shorter blond spared a moment for a satisfied smile as he scaled a chain-link fence with all the easy agility of an acrobat. He shimmied down the other side as Napoleon scrambled up the fence with only slightly less grace than the Russian had.
Illya took two steps towards the raging river and the sagging, brick- and-wood bridge beyond the fence, then dropped suddenly to a crouch, pulling out his Special.
Napoleon dropped from the fence as shots rang out. He glanced up to see a few T.H.R.U.S.H. agents had apparently survived and were haring after them.
"Go!" Illya called from his crouch, coolly aiming and firing. A gun- wielding foe dropped. "I'll cover you."
Napoleon drew his own weapon as he ran for the bridge. He could cover Illya from there.
Sudden white fire burned through Napoleon's shoulder.
"Napasha!"
He heard Illya cry out as he fell over a brick rail and onto the worn planks of the bridge, blood spraying in the air, sparkling like a raindrop of scarlet rubies. He'd been shot.
He rolled, saw Illya take out the man who had shot him, saw Illya turn to look at him. No one else would have seen the frantic fear in Illya's sky-blue eyes.
"Napasha, are you all right?!" He yelled, unable to run to his partner's aid because of the sporadic fire of the remaining enemies.
"I'm fine, just a graze." He lied, one hand pressed to the wound. Blood spurted against his fingers, and he felt the hot flow of it down his back. The bullet had gone clean through.
"Go on. Keep me covered from the other side." Illya instructed.
Napoleon scrambled to his feet and hurried across the bridge to the cover of the trees beyond. The front and back of his suit jacket was soaked in blood. He reached the trees.
Illya ran for the bridge. Napoleon took out a man trying to aim at Illya. The Russian put one hand on the crumbly brick to vault over the rail Napoleon had fallen over.
Napoleon's horrified eyes locked with Illya's startled ones as the brick cracked and crumbled beneath Illya's grip and sent the blond tumbling down the side. He fell headlong into the turbulent water.
"Illya!" Napoleon shot the last T.H.R.U.S.H. man and ran along the side of the river, wound and pain forgotten, eyes desperately searching the raging waters. "Illya!!"
Further up the swift torrent, Illya's head, blond hair dark with water and plastered to his skull, broke the surface.
"Na…poleon…" He cried out, one hand reaching desperately towards the dark-haired man, so near and yet too far away, as if some miracle would breech the space between them, and let them reach each other.
"Illyusha!!!" Napoleon screamed as the Russian went under again. He kept running, stumbling, growing weaker by the minute from blood loss and fatigue.
Illya's hand broke the surface, grasping and clutching weakly. Illya was an excellent swimmer, for all that he didn't like the water, but this time of year the river was lethally cold and swollen with ice melt from the mountains. His hand slipped under again and did not reappear.
"ILLYA!!" Napoleon kept on running, searching, until he stumbled and fell. He sprawled on the river's edge, unable to summon the strength to rise, blood oozing out of him. One hand reached for the water, still trying to save Illya.
Then blackness crashed down on Napoleon Solo.
((End Flashback))
~~~
Napoleon refused to look up from where his hands were knotted into the blankets, only keeping the tears from falling through sheer strength of will.
"Napoleon." Mr. Waverly said softly.
*That* got the dark-haired agent's attention. Mr. Waverly rarely, if ever, addressed his underlings by their first names. He looked up – and was almost undone by the sympathy and sadness in the Old Lion's wise blue eyes.
"I know how…*important* Illya…was to you." Mr. Waverly said carefully, eyes conveying much more than his words.
Napoleon's eyes narrowed, face settling in to a bland mask to cover his shock and surprise. Officially, Mr. Waverly knew nothing of his two top agents…*personal* relationship, but *un*offically…obviously Mr. Waverly knew a great deal, or suspected it. He and Illya had always been very careful and discreet, for their kind of relationship wasn't accepted very well, even here in America. And Illya was officially still KGB, although his loyalties belonged completely to U.N.C.L.E., Waverly and Solo. If the KGB or other Russian authorities found out about their relationship, Illya would be on the KGB's highest lists, to be captured, interrogated and terminated.
"Sir? He was my partner, and my friend." Napoleon said flatly. Not even to Waverly would he betray their secret.
Waverly smiled sadly and patted his uninjured shoulder. "We will dredge the river –"
Napoleon's eyes closed, jaw clenching at the thought of Illya's body being found, bloated and maltreated by the water, barely recognisable as the blond agent.
"Sir, that river led right out to the ocean, and had one of the most turbulent currents I've seen." He told him dully.
"I know. It's not likely we'll find…him. But we have to look. You're off active duty for a month – convalescence and hardship leave. But…I know this is hard for you, but you're too good an agent to lose. When you return, you'll be assigned another partner."
Napoleon stared up at the handsome, lined face of his boss, locking his teeth on the vehement protests that sprang to his lips. //Replace Illya?! No one can replace my Ice Prince! Ice Prince!! He was never cold and aloof to me…my darling Illyusha...oh, you can't be gone, lyubovnick!!! How am I supposed to survive without you watching my back? Without you teasing me? Without you to love?//
"Yes, sir." Came dully from his mouth.
Waverly looked at him sadly. "We'll all feel his absence, Mr. Solo, and mourn the loss of him. And…" The greying-haired man leaned forward, until his mouth was close to Napoleon's ear. "I'm sorry for *your* loss, Napoleon. Truly I am." And Mr. Waverly straightened and left the infirmary.
Napoleon Solo rubbed absently at the aching flesh around the bullet wound in his shoulder, but his thoughts were a thousand miles away, all centred on a reed-thin, lithely muscled blond with a façade of cold indifference and an interior of passion and warmth.
~~~
End Teaser/Prologue
So, people, should I write more? Should I leave Napoleon aching for the loss of his love, or shall I let the poor man know his Russian is still alive? Then again…is he? Feedback will get you faster, better, possibly longer chapters! (hint, hint!) And feedback will let me know I'm not the only one who read this…