Title: "Without You" Chapter One "Memories & Tears"
A Man From U.N.C.L.E. Story
Author: Marie Whi Mitshue
Pairing: Napoleon Solo/Illya Kuryakin
Type: Male/male Slash
Archive: If ya want it, sure, just ask first, please.
Feedback: DriftingPetal@gundamwing.org OR kumiko_chan@gundamwing.net
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.
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: This fic takes place back in the original timeline of "The Man From U.N.C.L.E.". I've taken a few liberties with some stuff, being that I wasn't born then and a history major I'm not. Probably Out-Of- Character. (Shrug) And just so ya know…I'm a BIG fan of angst.
THANKS AND GOOD KARMA TO THOSE WHO READ AND GAVE ME GOOD REVIEWS!! To the person who asked, nope, never wrote for Hawaii-five-o.
//thoughts//
*emphasis* (the more **, the greater the emphasis)
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
His head hurt as if someone was pounding on it with a sledgehammer. The pain was incredible.
That was his first realisation. His second was – //my mouth tastes horrible.//
Pale gold lashes lifted slowly, revealing eyes so blue they could rival the morning sky. He squinted as sharp pain speared those brilliant blue eyes in the form of a ray of light. He quickly squeezed his eyes shut.
"Ugghhh…" He groaned with feeling.
"Our guest is waking." A calm, soothing, feminine voice spoke from somewhere beyond him.
He tensed, wary but unable to figure out why. Why should a voice speaking when he was in a vulnerable position suddenly make him tense and wary? He wracked his aching, disoriented brain, but drew a blank.
There was a rustling noise and then the unseen woman spoke again.
"I've closed the curtains. The light is dimmer now, and shouldn't hurt you very much now."
He opened his eyes slowly. The light was dimmer now, the room cloaked in shadows. He was lying on a narrow bed, the bedding worn and threadbare but clean. The walls of the room were bare but for a faded painting of some countryside, and a old, but cared-for crucifix, and cracks webbed their way up the walls here or there. The curtains were nothing more than lengths of an old sheet, hemmed neatly to prevent fraying. A stool beside the bed held an old, chipped pitcher, filled with water, and glass.
The woman was a slim shadow in the corner by the window, but she stepped forward as he looked towards her. She was a middle-aged woman in a clean, faded housedress and apron, grey-streaked brown hair pulled back into a no-nonsense bun, with a lined, kind face and warm, brown eyes.
"W..where…" That one word cost him all the strength he had and drained him, making him cough and gag.
The woman was beside him instantly, making him drink. The water was cool and tasted better than ambrosia to him.
"You are in my home, young man. I am Petranka Golescu. My son, Mihail, found you in the river. You ran headlong into the rocks, but that was better than going over the falls that lies after the rocks, eh? You'd be dead for sure then." She laughed.
That's when he realised that they were speaking Rumanian. He had a thought that this wasn't the language he normally spoke, even though he was quite fluent in it, but he couldn't think of what language he should be speaking in.
"We're in Rumania?" He asked hoarsely.
The woman nodded, arching one greying eyebrow as if to ask, 'where else would we be?'. "This village is fairly isolated. The closest town is Tulcea."
There was a map in his head suddenly, and he realised, with terrible fright, that he was far too close to Russia. He was deep inside the Soviet Bloc, and if any Russian authority found him here, they would…he frowned. If any Russian authorities found him…what would happen? He couldn't remember! It was very important, yet he couldn't remember!
"What is your name, young man?" Petranka asked.
He froze, totally overwhelmed by the panic and horror that consumed him as he realised that was another thing he couldn't remember. He tried hard, but the only that he could remember was not to let the Russians find him, and the vague memory of a bloodied, dark-haired man, features blurred, calling out…*something* in a frightened, despairing voice.
"I…I don't remember!" He gasped.
Petranka shook her head and sighed. "I thought this might happen. You hit you head very hard when you ended up in those rocks. Your memory should return…"
"And if it doesn't?" He asked sharply, wincing in pain. "Where am I to go?" His voice dropped to a trembling whisper.
Petranka stared at the slim man in her son's bed. Wrapped up in a worn, second-hand shirt too big for him, swathed in blankets, blond hair falling over his blue eyes, with bruises, cuts and a lump and gash at his temple, he looked terribly young and vulnerable.
The older woman sighed, knowing she was a sucker for vulnerable people and victims, and this boy was both it seemed.
"You may stay here, with Mihail and I, as long as you need."
"I couldn't impose." He objected strongly. "You've already saved my life –"
"No imposition, boy. We can always use help with the animals, or in the fields. When you're strong enough, you can help out in return for our hospitality." She told him, faintly amused. Amnesiac or not, this one would never accept charity!
"Oh." He said. "Yes, I could do that. Thank you."
Petranka saw him try to hide another wince of pain. "Lie back down and sleep.
You still need to heal."
"Yes, I'll do that." He laid back and closed his eyes. Almost instantly he was asleep again.
Petranka sighed again. "I wonder who you are, my friend? And if anyone misses you this night?"
~~~
It was dark in Napoleon Solo's apartment. The only light in the room came through the window, the curtains drawn wide open to let in the refracted lights of the city.
Solo sat in an armchair before the window, staring down at the vista of New York spread before him, but not really seeing it. A half-empty bottle of scotch stood on the little table near his elbow, and a tumbler with an inch of the ambery liquid in it was in Solo's hand.
Solo was clad, not in one of his Italian suits or expensive casual clothes, but in a pair of blue pyjama pants and an open, royal blue robe. His dark hair was dishevelled, far from his usual neat locks, and dark stubble covered his chin and cheeks, also a far cry from his usual clean-shaven look.
Despair and loss haunted his normally carefree, dark eyes.
He lifted the tumbler and tossed back the inch of expensive scotch. Without looking back, he lifted the bottle, refilled his glass, and put the bottle back with a clink as glass met metal. He glanced down long enough to move his unholstered U.N.C.L.E. Special slightly away from the bottle. The gun lay ready to be used, safety off and round chambered.
A tear slid down Napoleon's cheek.
"Illya…" He drew in a ragged breath, and gulped half his glassful of alcohol.
In his free hand lay a photograph, taken a few months ago, of him and Illya. He stared at the blond man he loved so much, one fingertip tracing his beautiful features.
"Illya…I can't believe you're gone." Solo whispered to the picture and the memories of his lover. Loving memories that tore at his soul, the happiness and contentment of them like salt in the wound of his despair. "I can't believe you'll never kiss me again…never tease me again…never kick my ass in chess again…never wake me up in the middle of the night with your snuggling again…never love me again…" The photo drifted to the floor as his hand reached for the gun. His hand hesitated over the deadly weapon for a second, the pain in his eyes bright and nearly mad for a moment. Then his hand fell back to his lap. He stared at the photo, eyes clinging to Illya's beautiful face.
"I miss you so, Illya. I *can* live without you…" He bowed his head as the tears began to rain down his face in earnest. "I just don't want to…"
The dim light from outside sparkled amber and gold in the heart of the bottle of scotch, and gleamed on the dull metal of the handgun, as the sounds of heartbroken weeping filled the apartment.
~~~
TO BE CONTINUED…
A Man From U.N.C.L.E. Story
Author: Marie Whi Mitshue
Pairing: Napoleon Solo/Illya Kuryakin
Type: Male/male Slash
Archive: If ya want it, sure, just ask first, please.
Feedback: DriftingPetal@gundamwing.org OR kumiko_chan@gundamwing.net
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.
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: This fic takes place back in the original timeline of "The Man From U.N.C.L.E.". I've taken a few liberties with some stuff, being that I wasn't born then and a history major I'm not. Probably Out-Of- Character. (Shrug) And just so ya know…I'm a BIG fan of angst.
THANKS AND GOOD KARMA TO THOSE WHO READ AND GAVE ME GOOD REVIEWS!! To the person who asked, nope, never wrote for Hawaii-five-o.
//thoughts//
*emphasis* (the more **, the greater the emphasis)
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
His head hurt as if someone was pounding on it with a sledgehammer. The pain was incredible.
That was his first realisation. His second was – //my mouth tastes horrible.//
Pale gold lashes lifted slowly, revealing eyes so blue they could rival the morning sky. He squinted as sharp pain speared those brilliant blue eyes in the form of a ray of light. He quickly squeezed his eyes shut.
"Ugghhh…" He groaned with feeling.
"Our guest is waking." A calm, soothing, feminine voice spoke from somewhere beyond him.
He tensed, wary but unable to figure out why. Why should a voice speaking when he was in a vulnerable position suddenly make him tense and wary? He wracked his aching, disoriented brain, but drew a blank.
There was a rustling noise and then the unseen woman spoke again.
"I've closed the curtains. The light is dimmer now, and shouldn't hurt you very much now."
He opened his eyes slowly. The light was dimmer now, the room cloaked in shadows. He was lying on a narrow bed, the bedding worn and threadbare but clean. The walls of the room were bare but for a faded painting of some countryside, and a old, but cared-for crucifix, and cracks webbed their way up the walls here or there. The curtains were nothing more than lengths of an old sheet, hemmed neatly to prevent fraying. A stool beside the bed held an old, chipped pitcher, filled with water, and glass.
The woman was a slim shadow in the corner by the window, but she stepped forward as he looked towards her. She was a middle-aged woman in a clean, faded housedress and apron, grey-streaked brown hair pulled back into a no-nonsense bun, with a lined, kind face and warm, brown eyes.
"W..where…" That one word cost him all the strength he had and drained him, making him cough and gag.
The woman was beside him instantly, making him drink. The water was cool and tasted better than ambrosia to him.
"You are in my home, young man. I am Petranka Golescu. My son, Mihail, found you in the river. You ran headlong into the rocks, but that was better than going over the falls that lies after the rocks, eh? You'd be dead for sure then." She laughed.
That's when he realised that they were speaking Rumanian. He had a thought that this wasn't the language he normally spoke, even though he was quite fluent in it, but he couldn't think of what language he should be speaking in.
"We're in Rumania?" He asked hoarsely.
The woman nodded, arching one greying eyebrow as if to ask, 'where else would we be?'. "This village is fairly isolated. The closest town is Tulcea."
There was a map in his head suddenly, and he realised, with terrible fright, that he was far too close to Russia. He was deep inside the Soviet Bloc, and if any Russian authority found him here, they would…he frowned. If any Russian authorities found him…what would happen? He couldn't remember! It was very important, yet he couldn't remember!
"What is your name, young man?" Petranka asked.
He froze, totally overwhelmed by the panic and horror that consumed him as he realised that was another thing he couldn't remember. He tried hard, but the only that he could remember was not to let the Russians find him, and the vague memory of a bloodied, dark-haired man, features blurred, calling out…*something* in a frightened, despairing voice.
"I…I don't remember!" He gasped.
Petranka shook her head and sighed. "I thought this might happen. You hit you head very hard when you ended up in those rocks. Your memory should return…"
"And if it doesn't?" He asked sharply, wincing in pain. "Where am I to go?" His voice dropped to a trembling whisper.
Petranka stared at the slim man in her son's bed. Wrapped up in a worn, second-hand shirt too big for him, swathed in blankets, blond hair falling over his blue eyes, with bruises, cuts and a lump and gash at his temple, he looked terribly young and vulnerable.
The older woman sighed, knowing she was a sucker for vulnerable people and victims, and this boy was both it seemed.
"You may stay here, with Mihail and I, as long as you need."
"I couldn't impose." He objected strongly. "You've already saved my life –"
"No imposition, boy. We can always use help with the animals, or in the fields. When you're strong enough, you can help out in return for our hospitality." She told him, faintly amused. Amnesiac or not, this one would never accept charity!
"Oh." He said. "Yes, I could do that. Thank you."
Petranka saw him try to hide another wince of pain. "Lie back down and sleep.
You still need to heal."
"Yes, I'll do that." He laid back and closed his eyes. Almost instantly he was asleep again.
Petranka sighed again. "I wonder who you are, my friend? And if anyone misses you this night?"
~~~
It was dark in Napoleon Solo's apartment. The only light in the room came through the window, the curtains drawn wide open to let in the refracted lights of the city.
Solo sat in an armchair before the window, staring down at the vista of New York spread before him, but not really seeing it. A half-empty bottle of scotch stood on the little table near his elbow, and a tumbler with an inch of the ambery liquid in it was in Solo's hand.
Solo was clad, not in one of his Italian suits or expensive casual clothes, but in a pair of blue pyjama pants and an open, royal blue robe. His dark hair was dishevelled, far from his usual neat locks, and dark stubble covered his chin and cheeks, also a far cry from his usual clean-shaven look.
Despair and loss haunted his normally carefree, dark eyes.
He lifted the tumbler and tossed back the inch of expensive scotch. Without looking back, he lifted the bottle, refilled his glass, and put the bottle back with a clink as glass met metal. He glanced down long enough to move his unholstered U.N.C.L.E. Special slightly away from the bottle. The gun lay ready to be used, safety off and round chambered.
A tear slid down Napoleon's cheek.
"Illya…" He drew in a ragged breath, and gulped half his glassful of alcohol.
In his free hand lay a photograph, taken a few months ago, of him and Illya. He stared at the blond man he loved so much, one fingertip tracing his beautiful features.
"Illya…I can't believe you're gone." Solo whispered to the picture and the memories of his lover. Loving memories that tore at his soul, the happiness and contentment of them like salt in the wound of his despair. "I can't believe you'll never kiss me again…never tease me again…never kick my ass in chess again…never wake me up in the middle of the night with your snuggling again…never love me again…" The photo drifted to the floor as his hand reached for the gun. His hand hesitated over the deadly weapon for a second, the pain in his eyes bright and nearly mad for a moment. Then his hand fell back to his lap. He stared at the photo, eyes clinging to Illya's beautiful face.
"I miss you so, Illya. I *can* live without you…" He bowed his head as the tears began to rain down his face in earnest. "I just don't want to…"
The dim light from outside sparkled amber and gold in the heart of the bottle of scotch, and gleamed on the dull metal of the handgun, as the sounds of heartbroken weeping filled the apartment.
~~~
TO BE CONTINUED…