Fandom: the Man From U.N.C.L.E.

Pairing: Illya/Napoleon

Rating: PG-13

Notes: a little slash, a lot of hurt and comfort, PWP.

Disclaimer: the Man From U.N.C.L.E. and its characters belong to MGM -please don't sue. I'm usually broke.

He was up on his feet almost the moment the doorbell began to ring. Unlock the door. Open the door. Pay the courier. Accept the package. Shut the door.

It was that easy.

And that fast.

Napoleon Solo hobbled over to his dining room table, grimacing as the  pain from his latest injury suffered in the name of UNCLE began to  stab through the cocoon of comfort woven by the little white pill he  had taken just under two hours ago...medication that had been  prescribed by the head of UNCLE's medical department.

For all the good the prescription was doing him right now.

God, it hurt.

Napoleon thumped down onto a Maplewood dining chair and, tentatively  at first, began to massage the swollen flesh of his knee that he  could feel even through the fine-knit fabric of his pants...easing  the pain a little ...putting off the inevitable.

For a while, at least.

It wasn't supposed to be like this. There was a time when he would  have been able to shrug off the aches, pains, and injuries that were  part and parcel of being a field agent...but it was getting harder.  The most recent assignment had been the proverbial breaking point.

How many times had he or Illya been thrown off or somehow toppled off  some sort of high ledge and come away with a fracture here or a  concussion there? A hundred times between them? More? He had stopped  counting long ago. But something had been different this time. Not a  ledge, but the roof of a building that THRUSH had commandeered for
yet another pathetic plot...a roof that had caved in when a hidden  time bomb had finally counted down to zero.

Too soon to escape.

Funny thing -it was usually Illya who ended up adding to the growing  tally of broken bones between them. This time, however, his beloved  Illyusha had come out of the affair with nary a scratch or bruise. It  had been his, Napoleon Antony Solo's, turn this time. He hadn't  remembered much beyond the surprise he had felt as the bomb had gone  off and then, waking up in the ICU of UNCLE's medical center, Illya  waiting there as he always did, ice-blue eyes a virtual window to the
anxiety in his soul.

And there had been the pain...

...the pain that had been with him upon waking...

...the pain that had been with him in the realm of Morpheus...

...the pain that had only been dulled, first by an I.V. drip and  then, pills...

...the pain that was with him now.

His injuries had been extensive, the "discomfort" (as the doctor had  put it) was an inevitable part of his recovery -pain management  became the catch phrase of the day. That had meant more medication.  At first, he hadn't wanted to take those foul-tasting nodules, but  then, as the pain had seemed to grow, he had become grateful for  them. Maybe too grateful.

Napoleon ran a finger along the tear-strip of the package in front of  him.

He hadn't meant it to happen -if Illya knew, he wasn't saying, not  that Napoleon could bring himself to ask. He could hide a secret as  well as his Russian if the need presented itself. Napoleon could not  remember the exact moment when he had stopped taking the pills to  *ease* the pain and had started taking them to *avoid* the pain...and  then, somewhere after that, some subconscious instinct had insisted  that he simply had to have those meds...or else? Or else what, he  didn't know. The only thing that UNCLE Number of Section Two had  known at that moment was his "need" had somehow become stronger than  his sense of reason...

...he had needed more pills.

But Medical could and would prescribe only so many...and they were  talking about it being time to wean him of the meds anyway.

Reason had fled altogether.

But not intellect.

If Napoleon Solo had learned anything from his numerous missions for  UNCLE, it was that if one wanted something, one could often get  it...if one knew where to look. Once upon a time, he had argued with  Illya that they didn't need a computer *or* the Internet for their  apartment, seeing  as they had to deal with them often enough at  work...but he had used both.

It had been easy to find one of those medical companies that sold in  bulk -no questions asked as long as one's credit rating checked  out...as well as legal if not moral.

Just order the item. Pay and wait for the item. Accept the item from  the courier. Shut the door. Lock the door..?

Napoleon could not say exactly when Illya had entered their  apartment -he hadn't heard the usual jingle of keyys in the lock. He  hadn't heard his partner steal up behind him. He had just heard that  familiar sad sigh of dismay before the man spoke. "Oh, Polya..." Just  those two words and Napoleon knew that Illya understood the situation  completely.

Just two words.

Napoleon couldn't make himself meet those piercing blue  eyes. "Illya... I...I didn't for this to happen."

Small, strong hands gripped Napoleon's slumped shoulders. "I  understand."

"'Understand'!?" Haunted brown eyes sharply met anguished blue  ones. "How can you possibly understand!"

Illya knelt beside his distressed partner. "Years ago in the Russian  Navy...an accident in engineering..." The Russian lowered his gaze  for a moment. "The injuries were severe...my recovery slow...and it  was a long time before I no longer craved the Morphine."

"Oh God...my Illyusha..." They held each other for a seeming eternity  before Napoleon's muffled voice was heard again. "What am I gonna  do..?"

"I can help you through it...help you through the pain..." Illya  glanced at the unopened package. "...if you'll let me."

Napoleon drew a shaky breath as he stood up and held the package,  turning it over in his hands. The pain in his leg spiked again,  bringing with it the sirens' song of need...

...and the package landed where he had deliberately aimed it...

...in the trash compactor.

Illya held his trembling partner's head against his shoulder,  allowing the tears to come as they might.

It was a beginning.

The end.