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He'd always believed himself to be one lucky son of a bitch, even now when he was half-carrying, half-dragging an unconscious monolith through the woods. They'd blown up the bunkhouse T.H.R.U.S.H. had been using to house its missiles and got away without being pursued. That was good enough luck for him. Gasping for breath, he propped Illya up against a tree and tried to get his bearings.
He'd been tempted to take a couple of the horses, to sling Illya across the back of one of them and get the hell out of Dodge, even if Dodge in this case was a dude ranch, but he couldn't risk it given Illya's condition. When the hell had the Russian become more important to him than saving his own neck?
Illya's weight shifted, ramming his elbow into Napoleon's side and he dropped him in a haze of pain. Illya rolled down the bank and into the stream. He went after him, forcing himself to move slower than he wanted to because if he was incapacitated they were both dead. His luck kicked in again, Illya landed face up in the stream, even if he was still unconscious. Illya's waterlogged clothes made him heavier than ever but as he looked around for sticks to fashion a travois, he spotted a pick-up parked up on the opposite ridge, probably belonging to a hunter. No, he didn't need luck, not when the fates liked him so much.
It took a couple of minutes to hotwire the truck and another thirty to make it back to the cabin deep in the woods they'd been using as a safe house. He parked five minutes out. His side didn't thank him for it and his boots weren't made for walking despite anything Nancy Sinatra had to say on the subject, but he wasn't going to take Illya into a trap. Fortunately, the house was deserted and the hairs he'd left in the front and back door sills remained undisturbed.
He eased Illya out of the pick-up and got him up into the cabin, dropping him on the bed and lighting an oil lamp. It was a simple space, a hunter's cabin, one big room with a bathroom on one side. Beside the bed, the table and a couple of chairs, there was a pull-out couch which, having lost the coin toss, he'd slept on the nights they'd been waiting to start the mission.
He called Waverly on his communicator. The sudden change in plans had caught them flat-footed and they couldn't be picked up before morning. He signed off, anxious to get a better look at Illya's wound. He had to pump up some water in the kitchen sink but it was clean and cold and he pulled out the large first aid kit from under the sink. He cleaned the blood off Illya's face, searching for its cause. The long gash on Illya's forehead was a big damn relief. Scalp wounds bled like hell but it wasn't deep and wouldn't even need stitches. Illya had been real lucky, just a little to the left and— they'd both been lucky. He slathered the wound with antiseptic cream and went to wash his hands.
A further examination of the supplies still in the kitchen cupboards yielded canned soup, stew, beans and saltines so they wouldn't starve to death at least. He looked longingly at the bottles of Jack Daniels over the sink but slowly shut the door on them.
By the time he made it back over to the bed, Illya was conscious and trying to drag himself up into a semi-reclined position.
Napoleon had never been so glad to see anyone awake in his life. "Easy, Peril."
Illya blinked hard against the light as he started to lift his hand to his head.
"Don't." Napoleon grabbed his hand and pulled it down before he could rub his mud-encrusted hand against the freshly cleaned wound.
Illya looked him over slowly, an arrogant smirk coming to his face. "What is this, a dude ranch?"
Napoleon knew he certainly looked the part what with his string tie, vest and cowboy boots. Undercover work with U.N.C.L.E was never dull at least.
"Very funny. Let's not forget going undercover like this was your idea."
"Undercover?" Illya blinked at him, trying to sit up further only to drop back against the pillow. "Did you get number of truck that hit me?"
"You were shot." He moved closer. "Don't you remember?"
"Why would anyone shoot me?"
"How does anyone resist?"
Illya looked puzzled.
"You really don't remember, do you?"
Illya narrowed his eyes whether against the pain or whether he was just concentrating really hard was anyone's guess. "I don't remember anything. I don't remember you. I don't know what my name is."
He wanted to believe Illya was joking but he'd never heard him sound so unsure of himself.
"Your name is Illya Kuryakin."
He wasn't sure how much he should tell Illya beyond that. His only experience at all of amnesia was as a plot device in novels and movies. If fiction were to be believed, he wasn't supposed to tell Illya anything just let his memory return naturally. Fuck that.
"You're a KGB agent who's been on loan to U.N.C.L.E, the United Network Command for Law and Enforcement, for the past three years. I'm your partner, Napoleon Solo."
Illya started laughing and then stopped abruptly when Napoleon didn't join in. "That's your real name?"
Napoleon nodded. "We were undercover at a dude ranch—"
"I knew it. You look like actor, in 'Magnificent Seven'..." Illya screwed his face up in thought and then winced as it pulled on his wound. "Robert Vaughn, you look like Robert Vaughn!"
Illya had hotly denied ever seeing the "American rip-off of Kurosawa's 'Seven Samurai.'" What other secrets had Illya been keeping from him?
"The dude ranch is a front for T.H.R.U.S.H."
" T.H.R.U.S.H.?"
"The bad guys. I was just about to take their leader down when your big head got in the way of a bullet meant for me. I was planning on ducking but that didn't seem to occur to you. When I say duck, you duck."
"Are you my boss?"
"No."
"Good."
Illya smiled at him and he just resisted the urge to get a lot closer.
"You should get some sleep. I'll take the couch."
Illya tugged at his blood encrusted shirt. "I'm filthy."
He sighed, but went to the cupboard, reaching in the top of Illya's bag to pull out a clean shirt so he wouldn't have to carry the whole thing back. He lobbed it at Illya who caught it effortlessly and dropped it on the bed before starting to unbutton his shirt.
"I'm hungry."
"Of course you are." Napoleon was relieved to have a cause to look away as Illya pulled his shirt off. "I'll get you some food. We don't have a lot of choice, a few cans of soup, some stew—"
"I want stew."
"See you remembered something that you like stew."
"Stop the presses!"
He shook his head, amnesia hadn't changed Illya's personality at least, and went to heat up the stew. He dumped four cans of it into a large saucepan, lit the ring under it and opened a box of saltines. Illya slowly moved over to join him, cleaning his hands off in the sink before sitting down at the table. Napoleon got out spoons for both of them and filled a couple of glasses with water, thinking again of those bottles of Jack.
"Do we have anything else to drink?"
He probably shouldn't give an amnesiac booze but if Illya had a drink he could have one himself and they'd both come out winners. "Your head—"
"Is aching and I could use a drink."
He put the spoons, saltines and water down on the table and fetched the whiskey and a couple of glasses. Illya poured generously while he checked on the stew.
Everything was fine, they were safe. In the morning they'd be picked up and even if it didn't happen naturally he was sure U.N.C.L.E.'s bag of tricks would be able to help Illya regain his memory. Everything would be fine.
They inhaled the stew. Dinty Moore had never tasted so good and he pushed away his empty bowl with profound regret.
"You should clean up too." Illya was staring at Napoleon's bloodstained shirt.
"It's your blood."
"Even more reason."
He reluctantly got up and went back to the cupboard, grabbing a shirt from his own bag. He kept his back to Illya, turning so his left side was even more concealed, as he unbuttoned his shirt and slid it slowly off but he hadn't reckoned on Illya's stealth mode.
"What happened?"
He flinched as Illya's fingers grazed over the huge bruise running down his left hand side.
"Got kicked in the ribs a few times for my trouble. Pretty sure they cracked a couple of them."
"Why didn't you say something?"
"Nothing to say, I just had to get us out of there. Bullets trump cracked ribs."
"Can I—"
"I'll be fine." He moved out from under Illya's fingers for the sake of his own sanity and got his clean shirt on with a silent assist from Illya as he struggled to get his left arm in its sleeve.
An hour later, he was feeling a lot better but by then they'd downed a lot of Jack and despite the odds against it he'd found a station on the cabin's transistor radio that wasn't playing country music. That wasn't it though. Any time he got to spend alone with Illya when no one was trying to kill them was the best.
"I like her voice."
He focused in on what was playing on the radio. "Nina Simone? I thought all capitalist entertainment was bad."
"Not all. Is good song, she knows what it is to really want someone." Illya hummed along with the melody.
He rolled his head on the couch cushion to grin at Illya.
Given all the times he’d hoped to be the cause of it, Illya grinning from ear-to-ear in response was one of the most terrifying things he’d ever seen. The only possible explanation was brain damage. Illya was never this relaxed around anyone, even Gaby but then being in love with someone who only had eyes for Waverly had to be hard.
Illya swirled the whiskey around in his glass and kept grinning at him. “So we work together?”
“Yes, we do.”
“We’re colleagues?”
“Yes, that’s what I said.” Perhaps the head injury was affecting Illya’s usually bat-like hearing.
“And only colleagues?”
He nodded.
"Pity.”
What the hell was he supposed to make of that? “What else would we be?” He was proud that his voice only wavered a little.
“Lovers.”
He sputtered and then started coughing, the whiskey having gone the wrong way down. Illya moved to hit him on the back, or rather that’s what he thought he’d done but instead Illya started slowly rubbing his back which did calm his nerves in some ways but increased them in others.
“Americans, so bourgeois. “
“What?”
"The mere suggestion that we might be lovers and you start choking in horror.”
He had to work out what exactly was going on. “I'm not horrified. I was just surprised you'd think that.”
“The way you’ve been looking at me… or avoiding looking too openly at me. I might not remember who I am but I know when someone wants me. Luckily for you, I’m available.” Illya’s hand that had been rubbing his back slid around to pull Napoleon gently up against him, careful not to press on his left side. “You did say to settle in, that we weren't going anywhere until tomorrow.”
He would never know where he found the strength to back up to the other end of the couch but he managed it. “You’ve got it all wrong.” How did you tell an amnesiac that he’d normally kill you with his bare hands if you made a move on him and if— when, he got his memory back he wouldn’t ever forgive Napoleon for saying 'yes, hell, yes' like he so desperately wanted to do. But why was Illya flirting with him? “Do you remember if anyone injected you with anything?”
“I’m happy for you to inject me—“
“Stop. This is serious.”
He’d never seen Illya pout before and he had to fight down the overwhelming impulse to bite that perfect projecting lower lip.
“You’re not attracted to me?”
“You’re not attracted to me, Illya.”
“But—“
“Usually.”
“To know you is to loathe you?”
Napoleon took offence at that despite himself. “I’m generally considered quite charming but your interests lie elsewhere.”
Illya flinched back on the couch. “I’m involved with someone?” Even with amnesia Illya was still the type of person where his loyalty and commitment overrode every base instinct.
“No, but you're in love with Gaby.”
“Gabriel? I don't remember him either."
“Gabrielle.”
“Not likely. I might not remember anything but I know who I’m attracted to and it isn’t women." Illya paused, thinking it through. "Well, not often.”
"Gaby's remarkable."
"She'd have to be."
This had been a night of revelations. Still, Illya had never shown any interest in Napoleon other than of a professional nature. That wasn’t true. He was shocked to realize they’d become friends along the way but Illya had never shown him the slightest bit of encouragement.
"I know what I want, Napoleon."
As Illya moved closer he threw up a hand in the universal 'stop' gesture. Illya remembered that at least because he stopped moving.
"If— when you get your memory back, we'll talk about it then." That gave both of them an out he was sure Illya would be grateful for later. "Right now I think we should get some sleep."
Twenty minutes later, Illya was stripping down to his shorts by the bed and Napoleon was gazing down at the pull-out couch. No way in hell was he going to be able to get it open without damaging his ribs further. He gave up and started to spread the blanket across it. If he curled up on his right side it shouldn't be too bad. Then a pillow hit him in the head.
"Don't be stupid, Napoleon. You are wounded as well. The bed is big, no reason why we shouldn't share it."
There was no point in arguing. He was tired, felt like one big bruise and the bed was big and soft and— he turned back the covers, peeled off his pants and climbed in. He tried to get comfortable on his back but that pulled on his side too much. He started to get back out of the bed.
"What are you doing?"
"I need to sleep on my right hand side so I'm going to get in on the other side instead."
Illya clambered on in, leaving him no choice but to turn on his right hand side, facing Illya.
"Why are you being such a child?"
"I sense this is normally your role?" There was that smirk again.
"Shut up."
"Sweet dreams, Napoleon."
For a few minutes he thought it was going to work out fine and they'd both get some much needed sleep then Illya moved in closer and reached to caress his cheek.
"Sex is great cure for insomnia."
"As is having had the shit kicked out of you." He removed Illya's hand from his face, dropping it to the mattress between them. "Goodnight, Illya."
Illya made some grumbling noises that sounded a lot like "stupid American" but he slid back to his side of the bed.
Even Napoleon was surprised that he'd managed to turn Illya down a second time. He was more screwed that he'd even realized, he was in love with the jackass.
He was having the best dream. He was warm, he was safe, he was cherished in a warm embrace, light kisses peppered across his face— damn, he was rhyming. As his mind swam upwards towards consciousness he heard it, a low voice humming a Russian lullaby, a low voice belonging to someone with stubble and whiskey breath.
Illya! He jerked awake, aggravating his ribs in the process. "Fuck!"
"All right but I thought you'd said no."
"I did and I meant it."
"Even though I now remember everything?"
"You have to— what?"
"Seems all I needed was some sleep."
"That's good, real good." Illya was still holding him and that was good too and he'd enjoy it as long as— "You remember? And you're still..."
"Yes, Napoleon."
He couldn't stop himself, reaching out to touch Illya's bare chest.
"No, Napoleon." Illya gently gripped Napoleon's hand.
"But you said—"
"And I meant it." Illya palmed his face again. "There's no longer any need to rush. First we heal up and then as Nina said, we'll take care of business."
Napoleon could work with that.