Mae Govannen everyone
To cut a very long story short, this fic is based off a fanvid by the wonderful bryonyashley on AO3:)
I was lucky enough to be given the opportunity to write this and it was such fun to do! Drop over to AO3 and give her some love!
AO3/works/10572591
All the best,
Namarïe
The morning starts the same as any other.
Waking up to a vibrating alarm, shadows curling at the corner of his vision as he forces his eyes open- the few hours of sleep burning through his body like acid.
Illya know he should do something about the scattered bouts of insomnia... knows that he cannot go on like this- not when he needs to be sharp and alert to do his duty.
Maybe next time...
It is more muscle memory by now than anything else: shower, dress, grab a few bites of breakfast, gear up...
Muscle memory...
A distant echo of another life.
He drives.
Sand spewing out about his tires as he glides over dunes, the wind is still cool- the sun barely risen. A slow bleeding of vibrant colors peering over the horizon.
He relieves the soldier who had night watch- who has been sitting in his car, blowing on his hands. Takes the soft punch in the shoulder and the matching, "Ty opozdal, tovarishch," without any fuss.
Illya watches him drive away, back the way he has just come. Back to the town, no doubt to catch up on sleep...
Or other things.
Illya doesn't care.
He goes through the motions, cleaning his rifle, loading and locking. Checks his communicator with a brief burst of Russian to identify his position.
And then he sits back, to watch the sun rise.
And all is sliding along smoothly, until that black range rover ploughs its steady way over a bluff and into a deep patch of sand.
Illya had been tracking it with his scope, unsure of its origin. He can hardly shoot a civilian... but this has been used to fool them before. He's not taking any chances.
His finger is steady, trigger warm under his skin like a live wire, his breath slow.
Even.
A flash of blood mists his vision, a spectre of past violence and he has to breathe deep through his nose for a moment until the fog lifts away.
By this time, the driver has gotten out of his car, and Illya can tell quite easily that he's not a enemy soldier.
Perhaps an idiot- but he poses no threat.
He watches the man crouch to inspect the chassis of his car, before he stands and heads around to the other side, shading his face with a hand.
Illya allows himself a snort, before his mind slides away from the disturbance, and his gaze returns to the horizon.
He has better things to focus on than some stupid man who forgot to fit the right tires to his car.
It takes Illya a grand total of one hour before he finally gives in to the niggling pity, and shoulders his rifle- trudging his slow, steady way down the sand dune.
Why is he doing this?
It is none of your concern... he tells himself crossly, and yet the sun beats against his neck in time to his stuttering thoughts as he slogs down the sand, struggling to keep his balance.
The man is leaning in at the back seat, rummaging in a toolbox, and doesn't seem to hear the russian soldier's approach.
At least, not until Illya says, "Driving through war zone is stupid idea."
There goes the final doubt of him being an enemy...
The man jumps, whirling around with such speed that he nearly unbalances. He stumbles, and Illya has to hold back a chuckle.
However, It takes him all of three minutes before he's flashing a self-deprecating smirk. "Let me guess: I'll get shot."
"Da," grunts Illya, scowling.
How the hell had this man gotten past the border?
He studies the idiot, sweeping his gaze over the short black hair, curls dusty and damp from sweat; eyes the color of the sky overhead; a handsome face, coupled with a crooked smirk that simply reeks of trouble. He is shorter than Illya, but well muscled... odd. Especially since his accent marks him as American. And everyone knows that Americans are full of hot air and absolutely nothing useful.
What in god's name is one doing out here?
"Durak..." mutters the Russian, but he gestures at the car. "You have shovel? I can help dig you out."
The man raises an eyebrow and says, with perfect enunciation and no little amount of mirth, "Da. Eto bylo by ochen' lyubezno s vashey storony."
Illya just growls and stalks behind the rover. Because of course this man has to be fluent in Russian, goddamnit.
Sometimes he dreams of days uninterrupted by gunfire.
Of a sun that sets on the Siberian mountains at his back, while he gazes at stars above.
Or he finds himself wandering the memories of the streets of Moscow, snow crunching under feet seven sizes too small... he hears the ghost of a child laughing as he sprints down the sidewalk, scarf trailing like a banner in one clenched fist.
The American intrigues him- more than he likes to admit, with his intelligent chatter as they jack a rear wheel to check the axle. He's recently come from a job in India, he says, somehow without letting slip precisely what the job was. His words paint a rich picture of the spices and colors and dances he witnessed.
Perhaps he is a businessman... Illya thinks.
Though he doubts that a businessman would be kneeling here in the sand beside a Russian soldier, face smeared with oil, in a grey shirt and cargo pants. Not to mention the shoes. Illya is pretty sure the Americans call them sneakers... but he could be wrong.
"Axle looks fine," Illya says at last. "You are bogged in sand. That is all." And he had guessed as much- but it did no harm to check anyway.
"Gee thanks, Red October," teases the man, grinning. He fans himself with his hat, cheeks flushed with the sly kiss of sunburn. "Sand tends to do that."
Illya has no energy for this idiot American's jokes. "Get in car," he says shortly, "I will push."
The man rocks on his heels, seems to struggle with himself and then says, quietly, "Look... I know I might come across as a bit of a bastard, but I really am grateful that you stopped to help."
He's in earnest, Illya can see that, and something about it makes his heart clench painfully in his chest. Perhaps the sun is getting to him too... Illya glares half-heartedly at the offending grains underfoot and grates, "You are welcome. Now get in car."
The man heads for the driver-side door, but stops. Turns. Holds out a tentative hand and says, "Napoleon Solo. It was nice to meet you."
How curious: an American with the name of a french conquerer. One who had tried to invade Russia, no less.
Illya stares at the slender fingers for longer than he should, but how can he help it? It's been some time out here alone in the shifting dunes and baking sun. And he is half afraid that he will break the man's hand with his own powerful grip.
Cautiously, Illya closes the gap, and the man's hand is warm, firm.
"Illya Kuryakin. Go get in that goddamned car or I leave and you can stay bogged."
"Yessir," quips Napoleon Solo, ironing out a lopsided salute. He laughs when Illya scowls at him before sliding in behind the wheel of his rover. "Ready."
Good, thinks Illya, before he sets his shoulder and begins to push.
The spinning tires spot sand into his face, but he merely grits his teeth and continues to shove.
When at last the car spins free, Napoleon lets out a whoop, grinning as the engine snarls. He makes as if to kill the engine and roll to a stop but Illya, now jogging along beside the vehicle waves a hand in a sharp gesture.
"Keep driving!" he shouts over the noise. "If you get stuck again I am not wasting my time!"
"As you wish, tovarishch!" says Napoleon Solo, before he seizes Illya's hand in a firm grip through his open window. "Thanks again!"
It is only later, as Illya watches the plume of dust growing faint as the car vanishes from sight, that he realises it is headed towards the town.
Shit.
Like a ghost in a decrepit house, Napoleon Solo has taken up refuge in a dusty corner of Illya's mind.
He lives rent-free, refusing to move out. The idiot American with his blue, blue eyes and crooked smirk. And for some reason... it does not bother Illya as much as it probably should.
But when the third day rolls around in the haze of a snowstorm that keeps everyone in town housebound, Illya decides to make the most of it and retrieves his laptop from under the desk.
The internet out here would be worse, if not for the Russian tower looming just outside the buildings.
Illya does not know what he is expecting to find, as he loads a browser and enters Napoleon's name into the ether.
Nothing, probably.
Maybe an old newspaper article droning about the long-ago wedding of a man named Solo and the announcement of a son born soon after...
He is certainly not expecting to see Napoleon Solo's face some up on screen instantly, head tilted to the side with a rakish smirk curling his lips. He's a reporter, it turns out. And not just a reporter- an openly gay reporter with a Pulitzer Prize under his belt. He's worked for many papers, taken plenty of assignments.
The list goes on and on.
His latest piece is on the poverty in New Delhi.
And Illya smiles to himself. So this is why he was in india.
He ends up reading the article, because he feels like he owes it that much. And gets another surprise, because Solo's style is sharp and unflinching and... powerful. It almost makes Illya feel an emotion.
He sits back and digs his palms into his eyes.
Outside, the wind howls.
Illya wants to have strong word with fate.
Preferably to tell it to fuck off and leave him alone. Or he would, if he believed in such things.
All he knows, is that when he walks into the bar, his eyes skate the room before falling on Napoleon Solo.
Just in time to see him receive a blow to the face which has him spitting blood on the floor.
Why does Illya always have to play the knight?
And yet, his feet are moving, carrying him like a slow, building thunderstorm through the crowd of people. Along the way, he picks up a fellow soldier- Demitri Syekhov, who only has to take one look at Illya's face to know what is wrong.
It is a testament to their friendship that Demitri falls silently in beside Illya and says nothing to dissuade him.
Illya is just in time to hear Napoleon Solo draw a breath that grates in his bruised throat and say, "Honestly, guys, you really have nothing better to do?"
The largest of his assailants drives a fist deep into the younger man's gut in response. Solo lets out a strangled choke, head falling forwards to hide his face, his body shaking.
From pain or exhaustion, Illya's not sure.
All he know is that he will not stand by and let this happen.
"Is there a problem here?" he asks coldly, a soft menace lurking in the shadows behind his words.
It is enough to draw their attention away from Solo, who is released so he can drop to his knees, one arm hugging his chest. He does not look up.
Illya's not sure if he wants him to.
"Just keep walking, man," returns the bruiser, cleaning the arches of his knuckles on his shirt. It leaves smudges of blood, Solo's blood, on the fabric.
Illya does not move. He tilts his head, standing almost unnaturally still.
"Walk away," he says softly, accent heavy in the dim smokey glow of the bar.
"Are you threatening me?" demands the man, his tone a lash of a whip.
"Not yet."
"Believe me," says Demitri, dark humour coloring his voice black. "You will know if he does."
And, finally, Solo looks up. He has a spectacular black eye, small lacerations to his face, and a split lip, but somehow he still manages to smile.
And it is a smile, not a smirk. One that says both I trust you, and how nice to see you again.
"Just a little disagreement, Red Peril," he drawls, wincing as one man's hand snakes into his hair and shakes him.
"Shut up."
"What kind?" Illya is speaking to Solo and Solo alone. He ignores the bristling bruiser nearly in his face.
Solo rolls his eyes, but Illya can see the ghost of hurt haunting his eyes. "The 'likes guys not girls' kind."
Illya turns a sharp glare on the man, and can see that said man is starting to question his life choices.
Good.
He tends to have that effect on people. A silent, brooding strength... the ice blue eyes he got from his father. The snarl his lips can curl into at a moment's notice.
"Do you feel the need to question my sexuality while you are at it?" Illya asks quietly.
Dangerously.
Before he adds, "Or do you just pick on people who cannot fight back?"
Demitri lets out a low whistle. Illya ignores him. He takes the step that sets him right in the man's face.
The man, who has no apparent problem with assaulting gay strangers, seems to think twice at this particular gay stranger. And Illya knows this. He stands half a head taller than the man.
Looking down on him, he narrows his eyes. "Well?"
They leave rather fast after that. As does Demitri, though he claps Illya on the back in congratulations.
Solo has managed to stumble to his feet, arm still hugging his stomach. But he's still smiling. Not his crooked smirk- but a smile that crinkles the corner of his eyes, and makes him look so much younger in the shitty light.
"So you like being a hero, huh?" he teases.
Illya snorts his derision. "You can get back on your horse now, Cowboy. They will not bother you again."
Solo relaxes. The movement is minute, but Illya catches it with his sharp eyes. And makes another, possibly poor decision. "I was going to get a drink... join me?"
"Sure," agrees Solo, easily, and he falls into step with Illya as though they have known each other for years.
Solo likes whiskey. Scotch to be precise. That's fine with Illya, even if he does prefer vodka.
It does not take them long before the walls are down, knocked over by the warmth of the liquor and the pleasant hum of easy conversation.
Solo is easy to laugh, and Illya finds that this eases his own smile. It has been a long time since he has felt this relaxed around another person.
"You need to be more guarded around these parts," says Illya, drumming his fingers on his glass.
"Peril, it doesn't help to be guarded when every fool out there has heard of me in at least some small way." Solo flashes a lopsided grin. "Publicly's a bitch. There's no way for me to deny what people already know."
He is stating a fact, unafraid. And Illya is not sure what seizes him, but the next second he is leaning in. And he can taste the depth of the whiskey as he kisses Solo's lips.
The other man sighs into the kiss, leaning closer, his body like a question mark, and Illya tangles his hair through those dark curls in answer.
Softly, gently, Illya drags his teeth over Solo's bottom lip and the reporter shudders against him, hands coming up to grip Illya's shoulders.
When they break apart, Illya is left staring into those blue eyes, shining like twin mirrors.
When they break apart, he merely tilts his head towards the door, and Solo breathes, "Yes."
How long has it been since Illya has allowed himself to be close to someone?
How long has it been since someone has wanted to be close to Illya?
He cries after, he thinks. When they are exhausted and lying in each other's arms, the sweat cooling on their skin.
Not loudly, just a silent tear that rolls its steady way down his cheek.
Solo holds him close and says nothing.
Illya thinks he might love him for it.
The morning brings reality.
Illya is sitting up in bed, back already damp from the heat in the air, trying to finish the book he borrowed from Demitri last week.
He's not unhappy. Content, maybe, is the right word.
And suddenly the cold feeling of fear and uncertainty strikes him.
What is he doing?
Napoleon Solo lies, dark curls spread around his forehead, mouth a faint smile, breath deep and even and calm.
He looks peaceful, sleeping here beside Illya.
Happy.
And it makes a leaden weight choke its slow way down Illya's throat.
He scrambles out of bed- trying to stop the rasp of his breath, the dead weight of his heart.
Solo cracks a blindingly blue eye open, groggy. "In a hurry?" he teases, morning voice hoarse.
It makes Illya want to stay.
It makes him want to run.
He feels like he is tearing in two.
He says, harsh, "This was a mistake."
Solo's face shutters instantly. The lips that Illya had kissed last night thinning into a hard line. He turns his face away, staring out the window.
Bozhe, his face is beautiful in profile...
He seems to know exactly what Illya means.
"Right," is all he says. Voice cool.
"I..." Illya wants to look anywhere save for Solo. Wants to shout. Wants to take it back. But he cannot. "I do not..."
"Save it." Solo stands, stretching his back until the bones crack.
Illya's bones feel like dust.
Like they will break if he moves.
So he stays. Says nothing more. Watches as Solo gathers his clothes off the floor and pulls them on with almost mechanical efficiency.
Why does his heart hurt so much?
It was one night. Nothing more.
"I need to get back to my job anyway." Solo's voice never changes from that cool, polite tone. It makes Illya want to claw his own ears off. "It was nice meeting you, Kuryakin."
He offers a hand for a shake. Illya accepts. But all too soon the contact is lost, Solo drawing away and shoving the hand into a pocket as though he has been burned.
He is at the door when he says, without turning around, "For the record... I felt like it might have become something. If we had been willing to try."
And then he is gone.
Illya falls back into the steady monotony of everyday life.
He sees Solo. Sometimes. Talking to people, taking notes- and once, sitting outside at a table by the café, fingers flying over the keys of his laptop. Blue eyes glinting with a distant look in them, as though he were far away.
Illya is almost tempted to go over and touch his shoulder to see just how far away he is.
But he does not.
Solo remains in his mind, camped out in that corner now dusted of cobwebs. There is nothing Illya can do to make him move out.
It is said that things come full circle.
Illya finds this out when he parks his car outside the block of flats where he lives. Demitri is leaning against the streetlamp, arms folded, a lit cigarette dangling from his lips.
He pushes off the steel, heading for Illya as he gets out of his car, lifting a finger to pluck the cigarette free as he blows a thin stream of smoke.
Illya pulls a face. "Odnazhdy oni ub'yut tebya..." he grunts.
"Oy, otdokhni, Il'ya," says Demitri with a wave of his hand. He takes another drag. Then adds, "Your American is leaving tomorrow."
"You say that as if it is supposed to mean something." Illya shoulders his duffel and rummages for his key.
Demitri keeps pace with him up the stairs. "Does it?"
"Nyet."
Demitri sighed. "Okh, chert voz'mi, ty idiot," he says as if the whole world has made him weary.
Or perhaps it's just Illya.
"What?" he asks, trying not to sound petulant.
"I saw the way you looked at him," says Demitri. "In the bar. You like him!"
"It does not matter."
Demitri groans. "I am going to ask you a question. I want you to not think- just say whatever comes into your head, da?"
"Da," grits Illya, because he might as well play along until Demitri gets tired.
Demitri fixes him with his dark eyes, waits, then says, "Do you like him?"
Yes.
He cannot say it.
But he wants to.
Demitri prods him in the chest. "Nu, a ty?"
"Da," snarls Illya.
Demitri gives him a look as if to say, then what is the problem?
And Illya realises, suddenly, that there is no problem save for his stupid, disgusting fear.
Fear of being... happy perhaps, he thinks.
Perhaps he needs to see Solo one last time.
"I am sorry."
Solo says nothing, leaning on the desk. He had let Illya into his room, polite and nothing more.
The room has been packed away into cases. The small scattered pieces of Napoleon Solo tucked away where no one can hurt them.
Illya swallows, terrified. He has no idea what is going to come next. Has nothing save for this pain in his chest.
"I am sorry."
How can he explain?
How can he make Solo understand?
"When I was... young... my father used to beat people like us. He... called them unnatural. Sinners... It took me a long time before I could feel safe once he died. And I have never... tried. For something lasting. I have never met someone I felt for enough to try. To stay. Until you."
Solo is watching him, face unreadable. Though Illya thinks he can see the slightest hint of something shining in the depths of his blue eyes.
"I wanted to stay. Wanted you to... wanted you to stay. And it scared me. Bozhe, it still scares me... but the thought of never seeing you again scares me more."
And then Solo smiles. It is slow and gradual, like the rising sun, and brilliant like a thousand lightbulbs flaring all at once.
"I want to try," whispers Illya.
"Then we can," says Solo and he is taking Illya's face into his hands, flashing that crooked smirk up at him. "I can extend my stay. Work on my article for a bit longer. And you can decide if it's something you want... once I'm done."
Illya nods. He likes the sound of this. Likes the feel of Solo's fingers on his jaw.
Likes the bitter taste of Solo's lips, his tongue, his teeth, as the man curls a hand at the back of Illya's head to pull him down.
Likes the breath Solo breathes into his mouth- a hushed whisper of, "Peril..."
As the sun bathes them both in a golden haze that seeps in through the window.
Russian to English:
Da - yes
Ty opozdal, tovarishch - You are late, comrade
Durak - fool
Eto bylo by ochen' lyubezno s vashey storony - that would be very kind of you.
Bozhe - God
Odnazhdy oni ub'yut tebya - One day, those will kill you
Oy, otdokhni, Il'ya - Oh, give it a rest, Illya
Nu, a ty? - Well, do you?