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.

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 the what he saw remained; a figure,  in the middle of the road, clearly seen despite the darkness -one  Napoleon  Solo, partnerr 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---