Illya Kuryakin hasn't been himself lately and Napoleon is asked to get to the bottom of it although he has a feeling that he already knows...
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My very first The Man From U.N.C.L.E. fic! I've had this plot rattling around in my head for about three months and so I finally got it down on compy. This isn't beta read and I'm sure that I have both Napoleon and Illya horribly OOC so if anyone could give me some direction who is knowledgeable in this ship, I would appreciate it!

I can see Illya being a little gunshy about expressing his feelings, at least initially, when he isn't sure that they'll be reciprocated and Napoleon trying to think it through and somewhat missing the obvious for a little bit. Hope you enjoy this little tale! I'll probably change some of this at some point; always room for improvement! *It still seems a bit rushed for some reason* Based on the 2015 movie that takes place five years later, in 1968.

Rated Teen, male/male relationships, Napollya, Romance/Drama, Napoleon Solo x Illya Kuryakin
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January 23rd, 1968
U.N.C.L.E. Headquarters
Napoleon Solo's Office
New York City
United States
8:45 P.M.

Napoleon Solo sat at his desk, rubbing his tired eyes with his fingers, sighing as he sat back in his chair. It had been a long day and he was finally glad to see it come to an end and filtering through some plans he had after he arrived home.

Thank goodness Waverly is back from his Rome trip, he thought, closing his eyes and leaning back further, twining his fingers behind his head. It's been a very long week and I'm glad that it's done. He groaned as he shifted slightly in his chair, stretching his arms above his head before lowering them again, his forearms resting on the chair's arms. Blasted suits. What a week...

He was just starting to relax when there was a knock on his office door and he groaned aloud at the interruption.

What now?! He sat up straight as he leaned forward, calling out, "Come in," in a grouchy tone of voice. His annoyed look was quickly replaced by a soft smile when Gaby Teller walked in, dressed in a knee-high soft yellow wool dress, silver boots and a flower-patterned scarf wrapped around her neck with simple silver brooch pinned to it, her soft brown hair caught back in a ponytail, her long, black winter coat slung carelessly over one shoulder.

"I'm sorry to bother you, Napoleon," she said apologetically, walking in and closing the door softly behind her, "but there's something I need to discuss with you that can't wait."

Napoleon blinked, quelling the surprise he could feel welling up inside him at her rather cryptic words. He had been an U.N.C.L.E. Agent far too long to openly show that he was startled and curiosity rose up to quell the irritation.

"Oh?" He stood up momentarily and waved her to sit which she did, taking the soft comfy chair that was slightly off to the right of his desk and crossing her legs.

She nodded. "It has to do with your partner." She tilted her head slightly to the right. "He's not himself as of late."

Napoleon's eyebrow rose, his mouth twitching at the corners. He was afraid of this; U.N.C.L.E. Agents, including Waverly, had been coming to see him on the subject of his partner, Illya Kuryakin, for the past three months and he was at a loss as to what the problem with Illya actually was and how best to deal with it.

Why me? Why is everyone coming to me about Illya?!

Gaby smiled, answering his unasked question.

"Because you're his partner, Napoleon," she replied softly, "and you, of all people, should have a better idea as to what's eating him than any other U.N.C.L.E. Agent."

Napoleon sighed, his brow furrowing as he sat back down in his chair.

"I have no idea what's bothering him," he said tartly, waving his hand dismissively, "and I'm tired of everyone barging into my office to ask me what's wrong with Illya."

There was more to it than simply that but he wasn't about to tell her-or anyone else, if it came right down to it-particularly when he wasn't sure himself. He'd noticed his feelings beginning to change some time ago for his long-time partner and couldn't help but wonder what had sparked them and if they were real. He still wasn't certain, even now.

How does Illya feel, I wonder?

"None at all?"

Gaby's soft voice brought Napoleon's wandering mind back to the conversation at hand and he shook his head.

"I thought it was because he's still upset about your breakup six months ago and I suspected that there was some unfinished business between you two but that doesn't seem to be the whole truth, given his odd behavior as of late." He shrugged, spreading out his hands. "I still think that's what's been eating him lately but..."

Gaby nodded sagely, her booted foot making slow circles in the air.

"That would be expected," she agreed, working her lower lip with her teeth, "but I don't think that's the real reason." She looked levelly at him. "I think there's something else going on with him and that's why I stopped by to ask you about it."

Napoleon's lips twisted into a caricature of a smile. "Get in line," he quipped, his mouth twisting, waving his hand in the air. "You aren't the first and won't be the last, apparently. Illya has become a hot topic of conversation around HQ lately and everyone seems to think that I know what's bothering him."

Her hooded brown eyes gazed at him expectantly. "Do you?"

"No, I don't. He's been avoiding me for the past three months and the only time I ever talk to him is when we're on assignment together and even then it's like pulling teeth to get him to talk to me about much of anything."

And damn you for that, Peril.

Gaby frowned, biting her lip.

"That doesn't sound good, Napoleon."

"It isn't," he agreed, closing his eyes briefly before he opened them again, happy for once to change the subject, "and I have no idea what the problem is." Well, at least I don't think I do but I'll be damned if I'm going to tell her that.

"Poor Illya."

Napoleon shrugged, ignoring her comment. "He's a damned good U.N.C.L.E. Agent and there's no one else I'd trust to have my back than Illya but he's just been so... distracted... lately that I'm afraid he's a liability at the present."

"Do you really believe that, Napoleon?" Her brown eyes met his squarely, her tone hard and it was clear to Napoleon that she was annoyed. "He's still the same man, and agent, that he's always been. He just seems to have..." She broke off for a moment, her eyes locking onto his, choosing her words carefully. "...lost his way recently."

He gave her a hard look back although it was it was he who dropped his gaze first.

"No," he replied softly, "I don't and I'm damned if I know why he's been acting so oddly."

At least not for certain...

Gaby chuckled as she stood up, Napoleon following suit. "I'm sure that you'll find out what's going on and help him to recover from it, whatever it might be." She turned to him, extending her hand, which he took, shaking it firmly before releasing it. "I would have talked to him myself but he's been actively avoiding me as well these days so I thought that I would come and ask you." Her smile faltered and she sighed, her gaze deeply troubled. "Despite the breakup, I still care very deeply for Illya and I'm worried about him. I don't like seeing him tied up in knots like this."

Napoleon nodded. "We can definitely agree on that, Gaby, believe me."

"You will find out what's bothering him, won't you, Napoleon?"

He gritted his teeth in frustration. He hated it when she used that tone on him. "It seems that I've been deputized, whether I like it or not." She looked at him in silence and he sighed. "Yes, I'll find out what's bugging him and then people will leave me alone."

She chuckled softly as she turned, walking toward the door.

"Thank you, Napoleon," she said over her shoulder and he merely grunted in reply as she opened the door and walked out, closing it softly behind her. Napoleon stared in irritated silence at the closed door, his mind working furiously.

I don't know why I've been elected as Illya's keeper, he fumed, cleaning up his desk and slamming a stack of papers on on top with more force than was necessary. He's my partner, not my brother, for heaven's sake! Why does everyone automatically assume that I would know what's wrong with him lately?! He's not exactly talking to me much, either, so why do I get the job of trying to force blood out of a stone?!

Having been partnered with him for many years, Napoleon knew that trying to get something out of Illya Kuryakin when he didn't want to was going to be next to impossible.

Damn you, Peril!
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September 23rd, 1968
U.N.C.L.E. Headquarters
Napoleon Solo's Office
New York City
United States
9 P.M.

Napoleon sat at his desk, his fingers templed together and resting against his lips, his bluish-grey eyes narrowed as he stared at the cherry wood paneled wall opposite him. He had no idea how he was going to broach the subject with his partner but he had to do something. The week before, Illya had nearly killed a THRUSH operative who, in the course of a sting operation, thought that said operative had shot Napoleon in the shoulder and, in the ensuing scuffle, it had taken three U.N.C.L.E. Agents to drag an enraged, and thoroughly out of control Illya, off of him.

It wasn't, as he well knew, the first time that something like this had happened; there had been other incidents recently that made him wonder exactly what was wrong with his partner. He had no idea what had sparked Illya's rage in this particular instance but he had to find out. Truthfully, he had his suspicions as to what the real reason for his actions had been but tossed them aside as being ridiculous. He also knew it wouldn't be long before Waverly found out-if he hadn't been apprised of the situation by now, it would be a first but that was a forlorn hope, at best-and he knew that there was going to be trouble if this continued. Serious trouble.

Illya, what am I going to do with you? Napoleon rubbed his eyes with his fingers. He'd NEVER, in the five years he'd known and been partnered with him, ever acted like this before and it was puzzling as to what the reason for it was. I don't know what's wrong and I have no idea of how to broach the subject with you.

To his annoyance, there was that feeling again, nagging at him in the back of his mind. Napoleon scoffingly tried to push it away but the feeling persisted and he was forced to deal with it whether he liked it or not.

His mind turned back to Illya and he mulled over the situation he found himself in with regards to his partner. Illya was a consummate professional; he'd always been like that, ever since the first time they'd met and become partners and Napoleon knew that he was one of the very best agents that U.N.C.L.E. had. He couldn't fathom the reason that he was going off half-cocked like this and it simply didn't make any sense on the face of it.

Gaby had told him what had happened during the latest incident since she was one of the five people, besides Napoleon himself, who accompanied Illya to pick up the THRUSH operative on Waverly's orders and Napoleon groaned aloud when he read the narration of events in Gaby's report. He hadn't been there when Illya had chased after Pembroke, launching himself at him-he'd been hustled out of the room once the smoke had cleared and when it was clear that he had been shot, thereby missing the bedlam that soon followed-and tackling him so hard that when the two men had crashed to the marble floor in a squirming heap, Pembroke had had the wind knocked out of him.

Shot at would be closer to the truth but that still doesn't explain why on earth Illya tried to throttle Dr. Pembroke in the first place. He unlinked his fingers and boxed his hand under his chin, his eyes narrowed thoughtfully. The bullet only made a hole in my best suit-and I intend to make him pay for the cost of repairs once he's released from the hospital-and only marginally grazed my shoulder but Illya's reaction was much more intense than the situation warranted. I'm surprised that he didn't kill him. He chuckled grimly. I guess he can be thankful for the intervention.

His eyes drifted down to the report once more, re-reading more of the details of Illya's attack on Dr. Pembroke. He'd screamed out something in Russian-Gaby wasn't sure exactly what-and launched himself at Pembroke, knocking him to the floor, the two of them rolling over one another like enraged schoolboys and straddled him, pummeling him with his large fists, cursing him with every blow. When Pembroke was lying there in a quivering heap, Illya's massive hands wrapped around his throat and squeezed, his face twisted into a frightful mask.

It simply didn't make any reasonable sense. Illya Kuryakin didn't do things like that without provocation; he was too cool, too professional, for such thug like behavior but yet there it was in the report from Gaby that lay on his desk. He'd read it through a few times already in the past hour and his heart dropped further in the direction of his shoes with each new reading.

It was clear that he needed to talk to him, and damn him if he didn't want to.

Although I have no idea exactly how I'm going to get him to agree to anything, let alone talk to me. He took a deep breath. Damn it... what's eating you, Illya Kuryakin?

He was mulling over ways at how best to approach him when Illya himself solved the problem, storming into his office and yelling something in Russian, waving a cream-colored piece of paper in his hand.

Illya?!

"What is the meaning of this, Cowboy?!" he snarled, slamming the door shut behind him with enough force that the glass in the window pane rattled. "How could you go behind my back like this?!"

Napoleon sighed, recovering quickly from his unexpected arrival. So much for the rational approach...

Illya's thickly accented voice was loud and his pitch rose the angrier he became, marching toward his desk, his ice blue eyes flashing sparks.

"Вы жалкий ублюдок! Как вы могли бы сделать это для меня?!" ("You miserable bastard! How could you do this to me?!")

"What do you mean, Peril?" he asked calmly, willing his insides to leave him alone. He was, admittedly, curious as to what the paper that he held in his hand contained but he had a pretty good idea.

Waverly's memo, no doubt. He gritted his teeth. Just perfect.

Illya marched up to his desk, slapping the paper down on top of it and leaning over the desk top, his mouth twisted in anger, his expression hurt.

"How could you do this to me, Napoleon?!"

What?! Napoleon's eyebrow rose, his mouth twisting into a snarl. He didn't like it when Illya lost control not only because he was a danger to himself, and to others with him, but because it was damned hard trying to reason with him until he cooled down. He was hot-headed by nature as he well knew but this was something altogether different. He'd never seen Illya so enraged before.

Except when he nearly killed that THRUSH agent. Napoleon bit his lower lip. I wonder...

His wandering thoughts were brought forcefully back to reality by his partner's continued harangue and he was irritated. He didn't like it when he was called to task for something without having the foggiest idea what it was that he'd done. It was pretty clear that Illya was very angry with him; the problem was that he really had no idea why.

He squared his shoulders. I've had enough of this. Time to find out what's going on. Again, there was that odd feeling and he pushed it aside as he had for the past nine months but it refused to go away and that only served to make him more annoyed than he already was.

He gave Illya an icy stare which had the immediate effect of him taking a few steps back, his mouth working but no words emerging.

"I have no idea what it is you're talking about, Peril, and I will not stand for someone barging into my office and yelling at me, particularly when I have NO idea what the matter is!" Napoleon's very real anger was clear from both the tone of his voice and the expression on his face. It wasn't something that he did very often; in fact, it was rare for him to completely lose his cool and even Illya seemed stunned by the black look he directed at him. At least he appeared to be, anyway.

Wordlessly, Napoleon pointed to the chair adjacent to his desk and Illya obediently walked over to it, grabbing the paper on his way by and sat down, glaring daggers at him as he did so.

Once he had been seated, Napoleon sat back, swiveling in his chair to look squarely at him.

"Now, then," he began tersely while Illya fumed in silence, his fingers digging into the upholstery on the chair arms, "would you mind telling me just what it is that you're talking about?"

Illya glared at him but the look on Napoleon's face was hard as stone and he gave in, though not graciously.

"It's...this..." he growled, waving the piece of paper. "This..." He tossed the piece of paper at him and settled back in his chair, his blue eyes reflecting the anger and hurt he felt, his voice anguished. "How could you go behind my back like that, Napoleon?"

Napoleon's brow furrowed as he caught the paper, looking at the words printed on the page. It certainly wasn't what he was expecting and it wasn't a memo from Waverly, either.

Where...where did this come from? His eyes widened and then narrowed. And who sent it?

"I...didn't, Peril," he said slowly, putting the paper down on the desk, his anger melting away, his expression troubled. "I don't know who did but it wasn't me."

"Your name is on it," Illya pointed out angrily.

"I...didn't write that, Illya, I promise you I didn't."

Illya was starting to calm down and that was a good sign since it meant that he was beginning to be able to think rationally. "If it wasn't you, then who did?"

"I...don't know." Napoleon templed his fingers in front of his face once again, his brow creased in concentration. "Although, if I had to guess, I would say it would be THRUSH."

Illya's eyebrow rose. "Why would THRUSH be interested in...this?" he asked tersely, his voice thick with disbelief. "I highly doubt that they would be interested in the social part of my life." He shook his head in disgust, his mind flickering to something else. "And Waverly, no doubt, is aware of this."

"Doubtlessly," Napoleon said dryly, sitting back in his chair, his eyes never once leaving Illya's.

If he isn't then I'll eat my hat.

Illya sighed, sitting back and slumping down in his seat, his posture indicating that he was upset. Napoleon couldn't blame him; after what he'd read, he was upset!

Come to my office this evening, Peril. I know your secret. Napoleon.

Napoleon leaned back in his chair. What could this mean? What "secret" am I supposed to know?

The two men sat in silence for some time, each thinking their own private thoughts. Napoleon mulled over the odd situation in his mind for some time when his eyes widened and he sat up straight. The thought that had come to him was such a crazy idea that he wasn't certain if he hadn't lost his mind but, given the way that Illya was acting, it made perfect sense.

He's acting like a jealous lover. Oh, hell... Napoleon had to admit to himself that he had felt the same way when Illya and Gaby had started dating the year before. Their relationship had only lasted a few months but it was pure torture for him during that time and he had acted rather badly toward both Gaby and Illya. He was grateful that neither one had held his boorish behavior against him, least of all Illya which was all to the good as far as he was concerned since they were partners and Napoleon didn't want his feelings to get in the way of their working relationship.

If this is indeed why he's behaving so strangely, Napoleon chided himself mentally, pressing his fingers against his forehead, why didn't I see this before? And how could I have missed what was plainly in front of me?

Napoleon stared at him in silence for a moment and then slowly stood and walked over to where Illya was sitting, kneeling down at his feet, putting his hand over the Russian's, drawing a startled exclamation from him, his hand trembling slightly.

Oh, Illya...

"What's wrong, Illya?" Napoleon asked, his voice soft and gentle.

"What do you mean, Cowboy?" Illya squirmed in his chair, fidgeting and avoiding Napoleon's gaze.

"I know something is bothering you and I'd like to know what it is."

Illya snorted. "You're incorrect, Cowboy; there is nothing wrong with me although I do wonder if something is wrong with you for having such a ridiculous notion!"

Napoleon ignored the jab, his eyes locking onto Illya's and meeting his gaze squarely, his hand tightening on his. He also noted that, despite his assertion that he was crazy, Illya hadn't moved to either remove his hand or push him away.

Which means...

"You're not yourself lately, Peril, and please don't try to tell me otherwise," he added when he saw Illya beginning to open his mouth to say something; with a disgusted look, he snapped it shut, glaring at him. "There's been far too many people coming to me in the past few months asking me if I knew what was wrong and, from what I've heard, I agree."

Illya's eyes narrowed. "Has Waverly said anything to you?"

Napoleon shook his head. "No although I'm fairly certain that he already knows but is giving me the time and space to work things out with you."

That would be like him, too.

He bit his lip, looking away again. Napoleon couldn't fathom for the life of him what the matter was but he knew that it was something that made Peril extremely uncomfortable and something that he really didn't want to talk about with him and Napoleon was surprised to feel his heart start to beat faster.

Should I really be?

"Illya..." Napoleon's voice was soft, his hand tightening around Illya's once again, his fingertips tracing slow circles on the back of his hand. "Please...tell me what's wrong."

Illya remained silent for many moments, biting his bottom lip. He seemed to be struggling with something and Napoleon felt sure that his guess was right and he waited patiently for Illya to compose himself.

At least I hope I am, anyway...

"Cowboy..." That was all he said but Napoleon didn't miss the yearning look in his blue eyes, the note of pain in his voice. And it was directed at him.

I was right...Oh, Illya...! Why didn't you tell me?

Napoleon didn't wait another second before leaning down and pressing his mouth against Illya's, his fingers tightening on his hand. Illya's startled exclamation was muffled and Napoleon pressed his advantage, leaning closer to him and deepening the kiss. His heart beat faster when he felt Illya responding to him, the Russian's arms lifting and wrapping around him, pulling him down onto his lap, his strong fingers feathering through his hair.

They parted a few moments later, Napoleon leaning in and resting his forehead against Illya's, chuckling softly, his voice affectionately chiding.

"Why didn't you tell me, Illya?"

Illya's cheeks reddened. "I...I wasn't certain myself, Cowboy. I...felt lost when Gaby and I broke up and I..." He stopped, taking a deep breath and letting it out slowly. "...wasn't certain that these feelings were real." His ice blue eyes swiveled upward to look at him. "I...still wasn't sure until the day that THRUSH agent shot at you." He swallowed hard, his fingers trailing languidly down the side of his face, his thumb and forefinger cupping his chin, a look of wonder on his face. "Then I...I knew. I...just wasn't sure how you felt."

Napoleon smiled before he leaned in to kiss him again. What fools we've been, Illya, missing what was there all along.

"Well then, I think that we've come to a decision, haven't we, Peril?"

Illya smiled, his eyes shining.

"I guess we have, Cowboy," he replied, leaning in to brush his lips against Napoleon's and pulling him closer. "I guess we have."

.:FIN:.