The Man From U.N.C.L.E.

By Lucky_Ladybug

Notes: The characters are not mine and the story is! Sort of a semi-follow-up to a piece I did for The Kuryakin File called The Hyde Park Affair. That shouldn't necessarily have to be read first, though. This is what happens when I want to write a Halloween fic and get plunnied in the middle of the night.

It was their first night back from London following The Odd Man Affair. While Napoleon was spending the evening nightclubbing with a favorite date, Illya was quite soundly asleep in his bed. Everything was quiet and normal, until a voice Illya had never heard before suddenly invaded his dreams.

"Kuryakin."

He rolled onto his back, one hand hanging over the edge of the bed. He was still mostly asleep and certain that the voice only existed in his sleep. When it came again, far more insistent and commanding, he scowled and tried to burrow into the pillow.

"What is it?" he mumbled. "I really don't have time for this; I was having quite a pleasant slumber."

An icy chill touched his exposed cheek and then his hand. That snapped his eyes open in a flash. He frowned, staring at the strange mist hovering above him on the bed.

"I know I must still be asleep," he addressed the mist. "This is turning into something out of a late-night horror film."

A low chuckle. "You're not dreaming, Kuryakin." The mist slowly swirled around itself, gradually forming the translucent figure of another blond man, this one clad in a trenchcoat and fedora. He gave Illya a mocking smirk and touched the brim of his hat.

There weren't many sights that could cause the sarcastic and deadpan Russian to falter, but this caused him to sit straight up in bed. Were he to see himself in a mirror, his flesh had gone several shades paler—albeit he would certainly deny it if someone else noticed and pointed it out. Although he had never heard the voice, he instantly recognized the other by sight. "You!" he gasped.

"Yes, it's me," the spirit proclaimed. "The one you gutted in London the other day."

The visible shock only lasted for a moment; Illya folded his arms and narrowed his eyes at the apparition. "Alright, what is it you want?"

The spectre shrugged, beginning to walk the length of the bed. "You're not often visited by the ghosts of your victims?" he said cleverly.

"Are you?" Illya returned. "Or should I say, were you?"

His visitor laughed. "Touché." He turned back to face Illya, serious now. "You killed me, Kuryakin. Why?"

Still not sure whether he was dreaming this encounter or not, Illya decided the best option was simply to play along. Maybe his ghost would go away sooner that way. "It had to be done," he said flatly.

"Did it now." The spirit resumed his circling of the bed. "You and Solo already had me caught. U.N.C.L.E.'s usual method is a sleeping dart in the back of the neck. But you went right for the kill." At the foot of the bed, he started to untie the cloth belt around his trenchcoat.

Illya tensed slightly. "I prefer to make sure my enemies can't come back to haunt me," he said, his tone and choice of words deliberately dry and ironic.

Instead of responding, the apparition pulled back the edges of the thin coat, revealing torn clothing and a sickening gash in his stomach. "If you're wondering if I'll have to go through all eternity like this, the answer is No," he sneered. "That's a silly fictitious cliché. After all, it was my body that was injured like this, not my spirit. My spirit is whole. But I and those who share my current state of being can will their death injuries into view for any particular reason they desire."

"How nice for them. And you." Illya started to lie back down. "If that's all you wanted to show me, I am going back to sleep."

The ghost frowned, grasping the footboard of Illya's bed. "Doesn't it bother you, that I'm here?" he demanded.

"Truthfully, yes," Illya retorted. "But it doesn't seem as though there is anything I can do about it as long as you wish to remain."

That brought the spectre up sharply. He placed one hand under his chin, looking thoughtful. "You don't really believe this is real," he mused. "You still think you're dreaming."

"It is a logical thing to think." Illya regarded the other with a frown. "But I don't really know what's going on or why I'm seeing you." He paused. "You asked me if I'm ever visited by my victims. The answer is No. I know I have done what is necessary to protect the people of this world and I am at peace with my decisions."

"That would imply that you think you would only be visited by someone if you were not at peace with your decision," said the spirit.

"If you are a figment of my imagination, then yes, that is what I think," said Illya. "You are a symbol of some inner conflict of mine."

That only intrigued his visitor all the more. "You acted like you were at peace with what you did to me," he said. "Now you act as though you're really not. What's the truth, Kuryakin?"

"I had no doubts and no unease, until Napoleon brought up some of the same questions you have," Illya said. "If I honestly believed you were here, I wouldn't tell you any of this. But since I believe you are something I dreamed up, I will say that he didn't like what I did. He felt I went too far under the circumstances and that a sleeping dart would have been sufficient. Unfortunately, even if he is right, it is too late to take it back now." He deliberately looked at the image of the wound in the other's stomach. "I did that to you. I believed at the time it was the best way to handle the situation. You were struggling to get away. Napoleon didn't have a sleeping dart handy. But you were still holding your dagger."

"So you twisted my hand and plunged the dagger into me instead of finding another way to knock me unconscious. Bravo, Kuryakin. That was quick thinking." Another sneer. "We really are alike, you and I. People in our dirty business have to be fast on our feet and work with what's available. And we tell ourselves over and over that we're doing our jobs, that it has to be that way, that someone has to die." He straightened, folding his arms now. "But . . . do they?"

Illya frowned, not wanting to admit that he was growing more and more troubled with every question this unwelcome intruder raised. "That's a strange question from someone in your line of work," he said. "We are different, Mr. Ecks. We may both be spies, but you worked for an extremist organization. I work to stop you and everyone with views like yours. I fight to protect the people, not to control them for power and personal gain."

He could feel that his visitor was now angry. "I didn't work for them by choice. And I wasn't directly involved in any plots to go after the innocent. I was trained as a spy and my job was to engage in the war between all spies."

"Unfortunately, as Napoleon and I discussed before coming home, there is no way of knowing who on the other side of the conflict actually isn't a bad person," Illya said. "But if you truly are not, perhaps your afterlife won't be an eternity of fire and brimstone. Not that I necessarily believe in that sort of thing either."

"What do you believe in?" Ecks asked.

"Myself," Illya replied firmly. "And what I am doing. Perhaps I should have done differently with you. And perhaps I have been concerned about that since Napoleon and I had our little talk. But talking with you erases any lingering concerns from my mind. As spies on the opposite sides of our conflict, there was always a high probability that only one of us would emerge alive from a meeting between us. What's done is done and I will not be chained by it."

"It's easy to say something," Ecks said. "Maybe not so easy to do it." He studied his nemesis. "Here's a question. What if I really am here and you've been revealing your heart and soul to an enemy agent?"

"Well, it's not as if you will be delivering that information to your organization," Illya said flatly, "so even though I might not like having spoken to you like this, there's no real harm done. Anyway, if you are really here, perhaps you should be more concerned about yourself."

"Eh?" Ecks raised an eyebrow. "What do you mean by that?"

"Only this. If you are coming around bothering me in the middle of the night, you must not be able to rest in peace for some reason," Illya said. "That is your problem, not mine." He waved a hand in a dismissive manner. "Be gone, Mr. Ecks. Go on to your afterlife and leave me be."

Ecks stepped back, looking at him. "Very well, Kuryakin. I'll go. But I wonder if we will really be rid of each other that easily."

"I can only hope," Illya grunted, laying back down and pulling up the covers. Sleep did not immediately come, and when it didn't, he turned to look back at the last spot he had seen the ghost. Seeing nothing but a last, fading trace of mist, he sighed and finally drifted back to sleep.

xxxx

In a quiet, out of the way London hospital, a blond man stirred from a much-needed rest. He grimaced, raising one hand to dig his fingers into his hair.

"That," he proclaimed to the room, "was the strangest dream I have ever had. Not to mention the most unwelcome. I would have rather dreamed about finding Wye, not Kuryakin."

With that he threw the covers over himself once more and slumped into the pillows. But at the realization of one very unsettling question, the sleep he wanted did not come.

"Wait," he whispered. "How did I know my attacker's name is Kuryakin?"

Unable to answer that question, he wracked his mind for any possible explanation. Neither he nor Wye had known the man's name. He certainly hadn't heard it in here.

Naturally he could have made it up. But he didn't remember using it before, yet suddenly using it felt so right. And it was not the type of name he could make up on the spur of the moment.

That seemed to leave an area he really did not want to explore. Could he have left his body and wandered on several occasions during his long and strenuous recovery, learning the name then? He already thought he had done that a couple of times right after being wounded. He didn't want to believe the supernatural had become such a part of his life, but he wondered if he could really deny it.

Thoroughly disturbed, Mr. Ecks shuddered and stared at the ceiling until sleep returned for him at last.