Fandom: The Man from U.N.C.L.E.

Pairing: Napoleon Solo/Illya Kuryakin

Category: slash

Rating: G

Word Count: 1255

Summary: Unrequited Longing

Table/Prompt: Unthemed #5 Table Prompt: Justice

 

Thankfully, that was over for another six months, longer if he could make it happen. It all depended on how many missions they got sent on and the degree of damage done to him in order to successfully accomplish the goals. If he managed to avoid too many drugged interrogations or torture sessions with the psychotics that the enemy employed, he might be able to avoid the plush office of the resident psychiatrist for most of the next year.

Hesitating over the choice of elevator buttons, he thought for a moment about hitting the canteen for a late lunch. Instead he pressed the button for the floor his office was on, knowing that he could leave work early if he cleared his desk. Right now, getting away from the windowless monotony of his workplace actually took precedence over his appetite. There was nothing but paperwork standing in the way of his weekend. There was always paperwork, it was self generating. He was certain that if he set up a hidden camera he would find that it returned to his desk in the dark of night, to spawn like salmon returning to their home waters.

The elevator slid open on his floor to an empty corridor. It was later than he thought, if the desertion of the hall was anything to go by. Even better, he would be undisturbed to finish and slip away quietly. He was surprised to find his desk empty when he entered the office he shared with his partner. All there was on his desk was a scrawled note that said ‘have a good weekend’, unsigned, he knew the handwriting as well as he knew his own. He could forge that handwriting in the dark he knew it so well, in fact he had.

***

“Making house calls now, Dr. Thompson?” Napoleon’s voice was not quite up to his usual smooth delivery, fatigue unraveling his edges.

Illya looked up to see the unwelcome sight of U.N.C.L.E.’s staff psychiatrist entering the room. He tried not to sigh loud enough to be heard.

“Standard procedure, gentlemen, and it has been a busy three months since I saw you last.”

“I suppose you will delay our departure from the luxurious accommodations of Medical if we don’t bow to your will, eh, Doctor?” Napoleon was trying for humor in the face of opposition, failing miserably, but attempting nonetheless.

“You were supposed to see me a week ago, Mr. Solo.”

“How remiss of me, I do apologize. Perhaps we could have dinner next week to make up for it?”

Dr. Thompson rolled her eyes and allowed herself a small smile, but only a small one. “I will tell Mr. Thompson that you asked.”

“Of course, he should join us.”

She shook her head and turned to the other agent in the room. “Mr. Kuryakin, have you no elaborate schemes to avoid me as well?”

“I am too tired for it today. Just ask your questions and allow me to escape, could you?”

“It’s a two for one special on agents today.” Napoleon grinned.

“In that case, you could join me down the hall Mr. Kuryakin and we will get this over with as quickly and painlessly as we can.”

“Oh that’s hardly needed, Dr. Thompson, I have no secrets worth hiding from my partner, and he’d just ferret them out in any case. Do your worst.” Illya laid back against the pillows on his hospital bed and closed his eyes, whether to avoid his partner’s probing look or the surprise on the doctor’s face, he didn’t know, nor care.

When Napoleon voiced no objections, she pulled up a chair between their beds and started on her list of questions. Finally she was reaching the end, they knew from past experience. “What have you been dreaming?”

This startled Illya, it was not one of the standard questions, and he had no prepared answer. He glanced at Napoleon, who gave the smallest shrug, then to the Doctor, she was writing notes on her clipboard and had not looked up.

“I don’t dream.” Illya tried not to sound stubborn, tried to match his earlier resigned tone.

“Nothing, Illya, really?” Napoleon sounded genuinely surprised.

“All mammals dream, Mr. Kuryakin.”

“In that case, I am either not a mammal or I retain no memory of the event.”

She continued to take notes, then looked up at Napoleon, “And you, Mr. Solo?”

“Oh, I am certainly a mammal. Just last week I dreamed about my first girlfriend…”

When she had left, the on call doctor came in and gave them papers to sign and instructions and painkillers for the bruises. Illya and Napoleon knew the routine and said all the things the doctor expected and were soon on their way out of the building.

“Italian out or Chinese in?”

Illya just looked at Napoleon as he unlocked the car door.

“It’s my turn to buy, your turn to choose. We could go get something at the deli or try the new Greek place?”

“Chinese in, I want to shower the stink of Medical Section off.”

“Done. I‘d like to wash off the last of THRUSH myself.”

They drove in silence, Napoleon negotiating the familiar drive with ease despite his weariness. Illya kept an eye out for a tail, just in case THRUSH was looking for some revenge after the spectacular destruction he and his partner had wreaked on their latest sortie, dishing some justice to the enemy.

“My place in thirty?” Napoleon asked when they got to their apartment building and parked.

Illya nodded, “And remember to ask…”

“Extra egg rolls, steamed AND fried rice and sauce on the side, I know.” Napoleon smiled.

“Thank you, Napoleon.”

Napoleon only nodded, his grin fading a little. Illya’s voice was saying one thing but his eyes were saying something else altogether. They never mentioned events after the fact, as if acknowledging the debt of lives saved they traded back and forth they would, he couldn’t even think of the right word, jinx it maybe, or perhaps simply be overwhelmed by the sheer number of times they had managed to pull one another out of one fix or another.

“Anytime, partner mine.”

***

Upstairs in his shower, he let the hot water pound out the knots in his muscles, knots that were there not because of the rough treatment on this particular affair, but the tightness caused by the doctor’s questions. That last one, he could have done without. He wondered what Dr. Thompson wrote in her notes. Was she going to pursue that line of questions again in future mandatory sessions? Did she buy his answer?

He groaned and leaned against the cool tile of the shower, letting the hot water slide across his skin, the contrast of sensations soothing him. There was no way he was sharing his dreams. Not the ones that came to him in his sleep, not the ones that he had while wide awake. And he wouldn’t be sharing them with his partner, not these dreams, the ones both waking and sleeping that included him. How could he turn to his partner, his closest friend and say what so clearly his subconscious knew already, ‘in my dreams, you are mine as I am yours,’ and expect to walk away from that conversation with his jaw still functional? No, he expected that he would be nursing a broken jaw and nose and maybe neck if he said that. But in his dreams, all those lives saved, those were their lives shared.