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set-phasers-to-whump · 2 years

Text

"make me"

prompt: "make me"

whumpee: illya kuryakin

fandom: the man from uncle

here is Another illya whump fic this month...i can't stop lmao. anyways i am super happy with the way this fic turned out! i hope you like it :) also notes it's set really soon after the movie and is pretty solidly pre ship napoleon/illya but i don't know that it Has to be read that way, you feel me?

After Istanbul, the newly-formed UNCLE team had traveled to London, riding the high of a mission gone perfectly right. In no small part thanks to this fact, both the CIA and KGB had deigned to allow their respective agents to remain under Waverly’s employ for a while longer. This would mean, Waverly had explained, that all three agents would relocate to London and report directly and firstly to him.

Illya had not been so sure about this. Being a KGB agent under British control could either go very wrong or very right, with the outcome depending very little upon Illya himself.

But orders are orders. In this business, there is no such thing as making a choice. And so Illya (along with Solo and Gaby) had moved to London a week ago.

It is…nice. The building. The neighborhood. He is not sure that he likes it, exactly. But it’s nice.

What is less nice is that Solo and Gaby live here, too. On different floors, but still. He cannot help but feel that it is a bit foolish for Waverly to house all of his agents in one place. Especially when two of those agents are constantly knocking on his door and inviting him to dinner or drinks or to play a game of chess.

They work together, this is all. And only barely. They are not friends. It is not a good idea to become too…involved with each other.

Not that it stops the other two from trying.

Illya wakes to someone pounding on his door. The pounding echoes around in his head and makes it very difficult to hear the voice shouting to him.

“Peril? You alive in there?” are the first clear words he hears.

He sits up slowly. His head is still pounding and feels sort of like it’s been stuffed with cotton. He’s sweaty but he’s cold. His chest aches. He’s tired even though he only just woke up.

He’s sick.

It’s fine.

He is used to working through minor discomforts. Bruised ribs, a broken ankle, the flu, his mother’s death. Spy work stops for nothing.

He gets out of bed and has to grab the edge of the nightstand to keep from falling to the floor. His legs ache like he’s just run a marathon. His head spins.

He’s fine.

He half-staggers to the front door, looks through the peephole on the off chance that Solo has decided to leave him alone, then reluctantly opens the door when he sees his new partner standing there looking like he has no intention of leaving.

“What,” he says flatly, standing in the doorway so that Solo won’t consider himself invited inside.

Solo pushes past him anyway. “I brought breakfast,” he says, by way of greeting. Illya looks at his hands, which hold a paper bag.

“Why,” Illya says, in the same flat voice. He’s aware he’s not being very hospitable, but can’t be bothered to care. What is Solo doing here, anyway?

“Because you’ve been avoiding doing things with Gaby and me, and while I get the whole ‘lone wolf’ thing you've got going on, it’s not exactly good for team morale. So I brought bagels and I’m not leaving until we’ve eaten them.”

Illya, sensing that he doesn’t have much of a choice in the matter, pulls the door closed behind Solo.

“Where is Gaby?” he asks.

Solo raises an eyebrow at him. “At training. Waverly told us yesterday.”

Oh. He does remember that, actually. It must be the fever interfering with his memory. He needs to focus. Breakfast might help with that, he supposes reluctantly.

Solo finds his way to Illya’s small kitchen table on his own. “The layout of all of our apartments is exactly the same,” he observes. “Where’s the fun in that? I think I need to do some rearranging.”

Illya hums in response and settles down into a chair. Solo opens the bag and passes him a bagel filled with cream cheese. Illya stares at it. It makes him hungry and nauseous in equal measures.

Solo takes a bite of his own bagel and stares across the table at Illya. “What, don’t tell me you don’t like bagels,” he says, mouth full.

Illya half-reluctantly begins to eat.

The bagel, annoyingly, is delicious. Of course it is. Solo gives him a self-satisfied look.

“So,” he says. “What do you like to do for fun?”

Illya blinks long and hard. What kind of question is that?

“I play chess.”

He sets the bagel down. He does not think he can eat any more.

“Besides that,” Solo prods, already halfway done with his food.

He can’t think of anything. He’s tired. His stomach hurts. He wants to be left alone.

“Hey,” Solo says, and there’s a different note in his voice now.

Illya looks up at him, resisting the impulse to rest his head on his hands.

“Are you feeling okay?”

Illya continues staring. He should lie and say yes, like he has done every single time someone has asked him this question in the past twenty years.

Something prevents him from saying a thing.

Solo is touching him. There’s a hand on his forehead. He hadn’t registered the movement. He instinctively moves backwards from the touch, nearly falling out of his chair.

Solo’s next to him, then, hands on his shoulders. It takes Illya an uncharacteristically long amount of time to realize that Solo’s hands are very likely the only thing preventing him from hitting the ground.

“Are you okay?” Solo asks again. “And don’t even think about saying yes. I can feel you burning up through your shirt.”

“Go away,” Illya mutters, feeling too bad to even care about how petulant he sounds. He just wants to be left alone. He wants to sleep. Everything feels bad.

“Not happening. Tell me what’s wrong.”

Illya says nothing. Solo sighs beside him, his breath uncomfortably warm on Illya’s skin.

“Alright, I’m leaving,” he says.

That is…unexpected. Not that Illya is going to complain.

“Goodbye.”

He watches Solo leave, not satisfied that he’s actually going until the door clicks behind him.

Illya shoves himself up from the table and shuffles across the floor to lock the door. Then he stumbles to his bedroom and flops down onto the bed, not bothering to close the door or even climb under the covers.

He’s asleep in seconds anyway.

He wakes up freezing. Something is touching him on the forehead. Something cold and damp.

He opens his eyes. It’s pleasantly dim in his room. He’s covered by a blanket, but it feels different to his own. It smells different, too. Like…

“Good morning. Or afternoon, really.”

Solo.

Illya struggles to sit up. The thing on his forehead slowly slips off, leaving a trail of dampness down his face. It lands on the not-his blanket, revealing itself to be a washcloth that is also not his.

“You feeling any better?” Solo asks. His voice is strangely quiet. Illya does not like it. He does not understand why Solo is here.

He cannot honestly answer yes to Solo’s question, however. He’s dizzy from sitting up. His head still aches. For that matter, so does the rest of his body. The nausea is less prominent than it had been before, but it’s still irritatingly present. He feels awful. He isn’t supposed to, but he does. There’s a pressure building in his head, centered behind his eyes. He closes them in hopes of alleviating it.

“Peril?”

“Please leave,” Illya says. His voice is far too quiet and shaky, but at least it’s working. He wants to be left alone. He does not know how else to suffer.

“You’re still too hot,” Solo says in response, pressing a hand to Illya’s forehead. “Sit up a little bit?”

For some unknown reason, Illya listens. Solo shoves a pillow behind his back. Illya leans against it, propped up at a much more comfortable angle. Solo replaces the horribly cold, wet cloth.

Illya really does not understand this. How is Solo even here? How did he get inside? Hadn’t he locked the door? And why is he here? Can’t he leave Illya to be miserable in peace? Why does he care? Even if they are partners now, they’re not friends. Solo has no reason to care for him like this. He can’t…he doesn’t know what to do with it.

“Stop…caring about me,” he half-growls, his voice stronger than it has been all day.

He hadn’t intended for it to come out quite so snappish and rude. It’s just. He doesn’t understand. No one has cared for him when he’s been sick or hurt since he was a small child. Only small children really need to be cared for, anyway. He’s an adult. This concern Solo has for him is overwhelming. It’s confusing. Inexplicable.

“Make me.”

There’s that already-familiar look of stubborn determination on Solo’s face. Illya gets the feeling that the only way he can make Solo stop is to knock him unconscious.

He definitely doesn’t have the strength.

“Okay. You can stay.”

Solo grins. Illya doesn’t think he’s seen Solo smile like this before. It’s…open. Simple. There’s nothing else behind it, no ulterior motive. And Solo is giving this smile to him?

He still doesn’t understand.

“Why?” he asks. His voice comes out far too broken and weak.

“Why am I here? Because I care about you, you idiot.”

“Why?”

Solo looks at him, a bit helpless. “Because you’re here,” he offers, after a moment of silence. “You’re sick, you’re my partner, you’re a person. Of course I care about you. Why shouldn’t I?”

Illya blinks. The pressure behind his eyes is back. His throat hurts. Solo’s hand is in his hair. It’s gentle, comforting. Illya shouldn’t like this. Shouldn’t want it.

But he does.

He leans into the touch, just a bit. His eyes slip closed. He stops thinking about what he should and should not want.

He has this. Even if he still doesn’t quite know why.

He falls back asleep with Solo’s hand still in his hair.

aaaa thank you for reading this!!! went a little insane writing it (in a very good way). yeah i am. i really liked writing this. i hope you enjoyed reading it!!

#whumpmasinjuly #my writing #i say things #the man from uncle #illya kuryakin #sick #fever #cared for #comfort #anyways i had a lot of fun with their characterization in this one bc it's so early to the start of their partnership #i loved just shaking them around in my little shoebox you know?#especially illya. i just. i love him so much and idk i Get Him you feel me? like not in the way of perfectly understanding his character or #anything. i just. get it. idk. but yeah he's always rotating in my brain like a rotisserie chicken #ok i gotta go now i am so tired #but i have the day off tomorrow! wahoo #gonna be totally unproductive while telling myself 'hey you should do all the stuff you put off bc you had work' lmao

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