Story Post (1/2)

[leethet]

Warnings: Smut, serious fluff, terminally sappy Napoleon.

This fic was inspired by the opening scene in Nataliya’s “Rain” Go read it.

 

Napoleon Solo and Illya Kuryakin scrambled to the top of the wooded ridge and stopped, gasping for breath, leaning on each other as they scanned the slope below for signs of their pursuers.

Their stolen jeep, casualty of a jagged rock that had torn open a tire, rested at the foot of the mountain two miles back. The security detail of the THRUSH lab they’d robbed was down there somewhere, probably had found the jeep and was even now seeking their trail.

Illya raised the binoculars to his eyes while Napoleon counted his extra clips.

“How many?” the American asked.

“Six,” Illya said.

They looked at one another, calculating the odds of their survival if it came down to a firefight, and not liking the answer. Illya pulled out the small canisters, containing samples of the lethal virus the underground THRUSH lab had developed, and separated them, handing one to Napoleon.

“One of us should get through. I’ll take the high road,” Illya said, nodding toward the ridgeline. “You take the low. If you get to Scotland before me–”

“I’ll save you a haggis.”

Illya started away, but Napoleon caught his arm in a crushing grip. The Russian turned back, startled at the delay, impatient but awaiting Napoleon’s orders.

“Be careful,” Napoleon growled.

Illya smiled briefly, eyes warming. “I will if you will.”

* * *

Things went downhill for Napoleon from there, literally and figuratively.

First it started to rain. The misting fall was no more than a slight inconvenience to him at first, as he scrambled down the steep slopes among brambles and bushes, pausing from time to time, back to a tree, to listen for any sounds of pursuit.

But when the sprinkle turned to an icy downpour the steep ground turned selectively to slick mud or slicker undergrowth, and he spent as much time on his ass as on his feet. Since either propelled him downward equally well, he shrugged off the indignity and continued his harum scarum descent through the heavy brush, hoping he’d spot Allen’s cabin before dark.

By the time he found a narrow trail he was entirely soaked and covered in mud, every exposed patch of skin scratched and snagged, and the sudden twilight of the mountains had reduced his surroundings to shadows. He stopped to catch his breath, back as ever to a tree that stood between him and his presumed pursuers, and a flash of white light briefly lit the wall of trees before him, skull-white trunks against black night, sparkling with illuminated raindrops.

Lightning?

When no thunder followed, he slid down the trunk of the tree and drew his UNCLE Special. The thin drumming of the rain against the ground would drown any subtle noises; he was reduced to making himself still and silent, peering around the trunk of the tree in the direction from which he’d come.

Another flash, this one right in his eyes, and he flinched back and cursed to himself, blinking. He waited, and the beam flashed across the path in front of him, back and forth, then gone. Under the sound of the rain came a more rhythmic wet crunching noise; booted feet on soggy undergrowth.

The light swung back and fixed on the narrow path.  Napoleon brushed water from his face and brought up his gun, focused on the approaching footsteps.

He waited until all three of them marched past, bunched close – idiots – then said softly:

“Hey.”

As they turned, he fired. Once; the first man was down. Twice, the second spun and fell.

The man with the torch yelled and lunged at him and Napoleon fired again, catching the glint of an upraised blade in the man’s formerly empty hand. The torch flew, the beam shooting wildly into the air as the man fell heavily against Napoleon. He felt the keen slicing pain of the knife across his shoulder and shoved hard. Napoleon raised his gun to fire again, but the man collapsed, next to his dropped torch, its beam cutting white across his rain-spattered face.

Napoleon took in a breath of the cold sodden air and checked each corpse before holstering his UNCLE Special, turning off the torch and continuing down the path, shivering, cold all over except for the line of burning pain across his back. After half an hour of careful descent, he spotted the squares of light from Allen’s cabin windows below him.

* * *

Allen opened the door to his tap.

“How’d it go?”

“We had to split up.” Napoleon handed his friend his half of the capsule. “Illya has the other half.”

Allen pocketed it. “I’ll call it in. Were you followed?”

Napoleon nodded, drew in a deep breath. The room was cosy, warmed by a big fire crackling in the stone hearth. “Until I took care of it. Them. Up the path about a mile or so. Have you heard anything from Illya?”

“No.”

Napoleon pulled out his communicator even as he dropped his sopping wet coat over the rack, ignoring the burning pain across his shoulder at the motion. “Open channel A. Illya?”

“What happened to your back?” Allen asked, coming up behind him.

“Knife,” Napoleon said. “Hang on.”

The channel crackled for a moment. Then … silence.

“Illya? Come in.”

More silence. Napoleon cursed and recapped the communicator. “The other three were following him.”

“Take it easy, Napoleon,” Allen said. “He’ll get here. Jesus, you worry about him like you’re his mother.” He pulled Napoleon toward the stairs. “Now, come on. Let me get this cleaned up and see how bad it is.”

* * *

“You’re going to need stitches.”

Napoleon peered over his own shoulder. That was usually a bad idea; it hurt more when you actually saw the damage. He looked at the bleeding slash, the thick flap of hanging skin, and shook his head. Correction: always a bad idea.

“Come on.” Allen hauled him out of the bathroom, planted him on the bed, disappeared, and returned a moment later with a medical kit and some towels. He quickly stripped off Napoleon’s torn, sodden shirt and set the kit on the bed, sitting behind Napoleon.

“I can bandage this or I can stitch it, if you still trust me.” He dabbed at the blood and felt Napoleon wince. “It’s been a while since I did field surgery, but I think I can remember how to do a cross stitch. If you want something fancier you’ll have to wait.”

“Har har. Might as well sew it up it now,” Napoleon said. “It already hurts like hell.” He looked out the window but saw nothing save blackness. “Hurry up,” he muttered to his partner, wherever he was.

“What?”

“Illya. I wish he’d hurry up and get here.”

“What, do you need him to hold your hand?” Allen wiped the site clean, collected the needle and sutures. “This is going to hurt.”

“Really?” Napoleon heard Allen chuckle – then he started as the needle pierced his chilled skin.

“Hold still.”

“Sorry.”

Allen steadied him with one hand for a moment. “So how long have you and the Russian been partners?”

Knowing his friend was trying to distract him from the stitching, Napoleon said, “Two years and eight months.” He felt Allen pause again, a more meaningful pause, and he remembered how well the man knew him.

“How many days?” Allen said softly.

Napoleon sighed. “Eighteen. Don’t say it.”

“I thought you were going to put all that behind you after Korea.”

“I did. I have. And it isn’t like that.”

“No?”

“No. He ... he doesn’t know anything about it.”

“About what?” Allen kept working. Napoleon tensed further, more due to his questions than the pain. “About your past ... activities?” A pause, then, “Or about the fact that you’re in love with him?”

Napoleon stiffened, knowing his reaction told Allen he’d hit the bull’s eye.

“He doesn’t know any of it,” Napoleon said softly, then hissed as the needle went in again.

“May I presume on our friendship just a little more and ask why not?”

Silence. Napoleon didn’t move, except for a few pained twitches, for a good two minutes. Then he inhaled a shuddering breath.

“Because I’m afraid,” he said.

Allen snorted a laugh. “Wait a minute. Who are you and what have you done with Napoleon Solo?”

He finished stitching and cut and tied the thread, then picked up the cloth again.

“I’m afraid I’ll lose him,” Napoleon said, his voice more composed now.

Allen wiped away the residual blood. “You must have it damned bad, Napoleon.”

The agent chuckled.

“What’s he like?”

“You saw him,” Napoleon replied, guarded.

“I saw him,” Allen agreed patiently. “Little guy. Blue eyes. Needs a haircut. What’s he like?”

Napoleon blew out another breath, rubbing his face. He was cold and exhausted, and his entire back felt like it was on fire.

“I can’t answer a question like that. He’s ... brilliant. Cold. Sarcastic. Recklessly brave. Stupidly sentimental. Ruthless. Stubborn. Goddamned infuriating. He’s–” Napoleon got up, needing to move, then stopped, laughing sourly, wondering what he was trying to run away from. He turned around to face Allen. “He’s half of me. He might even be the better half.”

“For a man who can’t answer the question, you did a pretty good job.” Allen patted the bed. “Sit down. Take it easy.” He got up and went to the closet. “I think I’ve got a spare shirt in here. I’ll make some coffee and we’ll wait for this Russian paragon.” He dug out a thick flannel shirt and took it to Napoleon, who’d sat down on the bed again.

“Here, let me...” He helped Napoleon put the shirt on.

“Thanks,” Napoleon said. “For listening.”

“I’m not the one you should be telling this–” Allen began, but the look on Napoleon’s face stopped him.

* * *

It would have been terribly embarrassing, Illya thought when he came to, to’ve escaped three determined THRUSH agents only to die in the woods from a fall.

He was relieved he wouldn’t have to explain that to Napoleon. Then he realized that if he had died, the explanations would’ve been someone else’s problem. That that took so long to occur to him made him wonder if he’d given himself a concussion.

He sat up and gingerly clutched his wet, throbbing head, seeking and finding the inevitable swelling. His skin felt like ice. Breathing slowly and steadily against the pain, he drew down his hand, squinting in the low light, seeing red. Then he realized his palm was scraped raw and he wiped it, wincing, on his pants. He touched the bump on his skill again, this time determining that the wetness there was only water.

He looked up the steep slope he’d so recently and inadvertently descended. At least he’d lost his pursuers. Even if they kept looking, the downpour and his abrupt change of route would probably prevent their tracing him.

Illya patted his gun and the capsule, satisfied both were still with him, then climbed to his feet with the aid of the rock that had so ungently introduced itself to his cranium.

Nothing felt broken, though his pants were torn at the knees and he’d barked both shins and an elbow, and his head pounded harder once he was standing. He took his bearings and set off, splashing through the narrow run of water along the bottom of the ravine in generally the same direction he’d been headed before his detour.

After a while the ravine opened out, leading him to a lower ridge that descended toward the valley floor. He could see the light from Dawlish’s cabin, though through the dark and rain he couldn’t estimate how far it was. Still, the sight spurred him, and he set off carefully down the slippery ridge, catching himself now and then on a tree to prevent another tumble.

The ridge ran down next to the cabin, no more than 20 feet from the upstairs window, though the path to the front door would take another 10 minutes of steep downhill scrabbling through the trees. Illya leaned on a rock and swiped water out of his eyes, focusing on the uncurtained square of light. He’d thought he was cold before, but what he saw turned his core to ice.

Two men. One, seated on a bed, easing his bare torso back into a flannel shirt. Napoleon. The other stood close – close – bending over him, helping him don the shirt. Helping him gently. Tenderly. Then leaning back. They smiled at one another and Napoleon began to button the shirt.

Illya stared until the rain in his eyes turned the scene to a blur. Cursing, he scrubbed his hand over his eyes, but the men were moving, leaving the room. The window went black as they turned off the light.

Illya clutched the rock with both hands, feeling his gut clench. He drew in labored breaths of the wintry night air, trying to calm himself.

* * *

“Who is this accommodating friend of yours?” Illya had asked after their mission briefing.

“Allen Dawlish. We were in Korea together. He worked for UNCLE L.A. as a courier. Retired from the field two years ago. He’s loaning us his cabin and his services to get the virus back to the Los Angeles office.”

“So all we have to do is get it from his cabin into the underground labs, then back ... how many miles each way?”

“A dozen, give or take two bits,” Napoleon had said, offering his partner a jaunty sidelong grin. Illya clamped his mouth shut and rolled his eyes. “But it’s the closest thing to a safehouse within a hundred miles of the place. The Los Angeles office will send someone to collect the virus at the cabin.”

“Piece of cake,” Illya had said before Napoleon could.

“And Allen’s the icing. It’ll be good to see him again.”

And Napoleon had grinned.

* * *

Napoleon was alive. He’d gotten here with his half of the virus. That was the important thing, Illya’s brain said, robotic.

But his gut was telling him that his partner and this Allen son of a bitch had been renewing an old acquaintance of a very different sort than Illya had expected. And that was suddenly, vitally important – more important than anything.

He pushed off the rock with another curse, plunging almost blindly down the muddy path. His body knew its duty, knew he needed to get his own half of the virus to the cabin, back to UNCLE. Preferably before he froze to death. Once he’d done that ...  he probably wouldn’t care if he froze to death.

Napoleon and ... Allen. Napoleon and ... and any other man. Any man. The women didn’t matter. Even Napoleon, for all his reputation and consideration and gallantry, admitted they didn’t matter. Illya had learned to live with the reality of his partner’s need for release, for sexual pleasure. Heterosexual pleasure. He’d learned, too, to live with the reality that he could never tell his partner his own feelings, his own longings. There could be no good response to that: Anger, disgust, fury ... pity, maybe, and that would be the worst. Illya had locked down those desires in his core, certain Napoleon could no more desire sex with a man than with a stone.

But if that were not so ... Illya’s defenses shattered in the face of it, leaving him open to the pain of reality. If Napoleon could desire men, could make love to men – to other men, but not to him...

* * *

“Hey.” Napoleon’s voice, by his ear. Napoleon’s body, warm against him. Napoleon’s arm around his shoulders.

Illya had blinked, completely befuddled, and Napoleon had squeezed him gently.

“You were having a dream, I think. You OK?”

Illya looked around as memory flooded back into him. They were still in the back of the truck, on their way to the drop-off point for the THRUSH lab. He’d fallen asleep. He must’ve fallen against his partner. And Napoleon had ...

... had put his arm around him? Had held him. No wonder he’d dreamed what he had.

Illya sat up a little, feeling his face heat in vivid memory of their bodies, bare, hot, hard against one another ...

“Sorry,” he muttered, drawing his knees up to mask his reaction to the dream. Then he realized it was probably too late; if his partner were going to notice, he’d already have done so.

“It’s OK,” Napoleon said, amusement in his tone.

Illya started to shift away, but Napoleon didn’t let him go.

“You might as well relax,” he said, as if it were nothing for him to be holding Illya this way. “We have a way to go yet. Go back to sleep, if you want.”

“What about you?” he’d forced himself to ask, and felt Napoleon’s shrug against his side.

“I’ll nap during the mission.”

* * *

Pain slamming against his skull with every heartbeat, Illya continued down the hill, cursing aloud, telling himself the moisture in his eyes, on his face, was rain. All of it. Nothing but rain. Nothing.

* * *

Ten minutes later he was hammering at the sturdy wooden door. It opened wide and Allen was there, standing aside to let him in.

He staggered into the foyer and lurched sideways, ice cold, dripping, exhausted, dizzy. Allen reached out a hand.

“Here, let me–”

Illya snarled and batted his arm out of the way, reaching for the impersonal support of the wall. Napoleon launched himself out of a chair and strode toward him. Allen backed away, scowling.

Napoleon reached toward him.

“About t–” the familiar banter died on his lips. “Illya?”

Illya stared at him.

“Illya?” Napoleon advanced on his partner, taking his arm. Illya cursed in Russian and wrenched himself free, but the effort was too much. His vision swirled and blackened; he felt his body go limp, but didn’t feel himself hit the floor.

* * *

He came to ... warm ... sitting. Still wet. Soaked.

Illya blinked. He was sitting in a bathtub, up to his chest in blissfully hot and soapy water. Napoleon knelt shirtless by the tub, one hand on his back in support, the other holding a cloth he ran along Illya’s scraped knees.

“Welcome back,” Napoleon said. “You were a little out of it for a few minutes.”

Illya clenched his teeth against blurting out any of the stupid accusations roiling in his stomach. It wasn’t his business who Napoleon had sex with, whether female or male. Why should this man matter more than the women?

Because he is a man. Because if Napoleon is going to have sex with any man ... make love to any man ... Love ...

Napoleon ran the warm sudsy cloth over his shoulders and back, his touch gentle. “You look like you fell down the mountain, tovarish,” he said as he bathed his partner.

“I did. Several times.” Stick to facts. Safe, cold facts. Don’t say what you’re feeling. What you’re fearing. What you’re wanting.

Napoleon bent farther over the tub to run the cloth along Illya’s shins, and Illya spotted the red puckered slice across his partner’s back.

Napoleon heard Illya’s sharply indrawn breath and straightened. “What? Are you hurt?”

Illya shook his head, reached out to touch Napoleon’s bare shoulder.

“Oh. I didn’t want to get the shirt wet,” Napoleon said. “Allen only has two spares, and I think you’ll be needing the other one.”

That explained the bare torso, but ... “Your shoulder.”

Napoleon glanced sideways at it. “Knife. It’s not too bad. Hurts though.” He gave his partner a smile-grimace. “Allen stitched it up for me. Obviously I couldn’t do it myself, and you weren’t here yet.”

Was that before or after he fucked you? Illya thought fiercely, feeling the blood rush to his face. Then – like a breath of air – the thought occurred to him that Napoleon might just now have fully explained the scene he’d witnessed. Perhaps that was all there’d been to it – medical attention from a friend. Was it possible? Illya’s fear wouldn’t let him believe it, but the possibility allowed him to breathe again, to unclench his body and soul, just a little.

“You’re shaking,” Napoleon said, getting up. “Come on. Let’s get you dry and into bed.”

“Go to Part 2”.