Ashleigh Anpilova


Illya is in Russia.

A first time story.

Written: August 2009. Word count: 500.





He stands in the vast emptiness, listening to the deafening sound of silence. No birds sing, nothing is there, nothing moves, except a constant sheet of snow falling from the sky.


It falls onto the already thick-with-snow ground. It falls onto his shoulders, onto his overcoat, onto the hat he wears - he is not foolish enough to go out into a Russian winter without hat, gloves, scarf, heavy coat, and boots.


He has always known the day would come when he would be ordered back to Russia. His years with U.N.C.L.E. have made him an even greater prize.


Suddenly he hears a noise, it is only a slight one, but it breaks the heavy silence. He spins around, already in a defensive stance, staring through the heavily falling snow. But he can see no one. And once again the silence descends.


He is uneasy. Are the KGB watching him? Is someone else out there in the falling snow, hidden somewhere, out of sight, just watching him? Suddenly the quiet, so comforting before, is no longer restful. It is time he went hom- it is time he returned to where he is living. He will never go home again.


He turns and almost gasps aloud as he sees the figure standing a foot from him. He shakes his head and rubs his hand over his eyes. He cannot see what he thinks he is seeing. It is an illusion. He cannot be there.


But then the figure begins to walk towards him, his hands held out slightly from his body, as if letting Illya see he means him no harm.


"Napoleon?" Illya whispers the word, as the man he thought he would never see again stops in front of him.


"Yes, Illya, it's me."


"But what are you doing here? How did you get here?"


"How does one normally get from the States to Russia?" It has to be Napoleon; no one else can be as infuriating.




"I've come to take you home." Napoleon smiles and puts his glove covered hand onto Illya's shoulder, brushing away some of the snow.




Napoleon nods. "To the States. To U.N.C.L.E. To me. To my apartment. To my bed." He says the last word so softly; had it not been for the otherwise absolute silence, Illya would not have heard.


"But . . . How . . . ?"


"Ah, well that, partner mine, is something even I don't know. Our esteemed Uncle Alex has contacts in high places. You're free to return with me. The KGB don't want you."


"They do not?"


"No. And don't sound so disappointed."


"I am not. I just -" Illya breaks off and shakes his head; of what is he thinking. "Thank you, my friend," he says, putting his hand on Napoleon's arm.




Warm, sated, tired out from the long lovemaking session, Illya snuggles into the depths of Napoleon's bed.


When he'd asked Napoleon 'why now?' his partner had simply kissed him and told him the time was right: he couldn't stay silent any longer.



Feedback is always appreciated


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