#get slapped with a fine for my minor bike infringement. but they went right past me. thank the lord for small miracles.

[set-phasers-to-whump]

out of the storm

prompt: storm

whumpee: illya kuryakin

fandom: the man from uncle

hi here's me making illya miserable again :) it's pre-napoleon/illya and that is all there is to know. hope you enjoy!

Napoleon is having a rather nice evening, all things considered. He’d bought a new novel while out conducting reconnaissance this morning, and now, his work for the day complete, he’s settled in to read. 

The glass of scotch, thick robe, and the comforting sound of rain pattering against the window almost make him forget the fact that he’s sitting on a bed in a tiny, dingy, drafty hotel room with a radiator that barely works. 

He’s warm enough, anyway, thanks to the drink and the robe, and as the storm picks up outside, he delves into his book, glad to at least be warm and comfortable in the room. 

He feels a little bad for Illya, stuck conducting his own recon amidst the thunder and lightning and wind, but it’s the luck of the draw, really. He’s just glad he gets to stay inside tonight. 

Evening turns into night. Napoleon reaches a stopping point in his book and a stopping point with the scotch. He idly flips through a battered travel magazine from several years ago, the only superfluous item in the room, and wonders when Illya will return. He’s bored, and not tired enough to fall asleep. (Never mind the fact that he doesn’t want to fall asleep without knowing that his partner is back).

A particularly loud clap of thunder has the whole room shaking. Napoleon starts a little, thankful to no longer have a glass in his hand, and then the door opens, almost perfectly timed. 

He starts to say welcome back, but stops midway through when he takes in the sight of Illya, dripping wet and shivering and looking a hundred kinds of miserable as he pulls the door closed behind him. 

Illya bends down to take off his shoes, but Napoleon can see that his fingers are trembling too much to undo the laces. He climbs off of the bed and goes to his partner’s side. 

“It’s that bad out there, huh?”

 Illya shrugs, sinking to the ground and giving up on the laces entirely. Napoleon crouches beside him, careful to avoid stepping in the puddles of water on the floor, and quickly undoes the knots Illya had been unable to conquer. 

Illya mumbles a thank you through chattering teeth, reaching down to tug off his boots at last. Napoleon can see that even his socks are soaked through. 

He tentatively puts out a hand and touches Illya’s cheek. His skin is cold and damp and Napoleon does not miss the way he leans into the warmth, just a bit. 

“Why don’t you change into something dry,” he suggests, standing up and offering Illya a hand. “I’ll see whether I can’t get the radiator to work properly.”

Illya allows Napoleon to help him to his feet. He really does look terrible, shaking and perhaps a little blue around the edges. 

When he’s reasonably sure that Illya isn’t going to sink right back to the floor, Napoleon leaves him to get changed and turns his attention to the radiator. He doesn’t really know how to make it work, having earlier tried the usual methods of turning every knob this way and that, and then kicking the thing, but he does his best, making sure that no valves are loose, and so forth. He kicks it a few more times for good measure, and once again fiddles with every knob, but nothing much happens. A little heat comes out of it, but no more than before. 

Well. Can’t say that he didn’t try. He hopes Illya has some warm clothes, at least. 

When he turns back around, he finds his partner in a dry pair of slacks and a thin jacket. There’s a towel around his neck and his hair is mussed and relatively dry. Nonetheless, he’s still shivering, though he’s trying to hide it. 

“You don’t have anything warmer?” Napoleon asks. 

Illya scowls. “I did. It is wet.”

Right. 

“Well, look. The radiator isn’t working very well, so this is as warm as we’re going to get. I’ve got some thicker clothes, why don’t you borrow them?”

They should fit Illya okay, and more importantly, they’re not outside clothes. The thought of Illya sleeping in slacks and a jacket makes Napoleon feel a little bit attacked, if he’s honest. It’s just not right. 

He expects a refusal. But Illya just nods. 

He’ll take it. He looks through the two drawers he’s claimed as his own until he comes up with some suitable items. He tosses them to Illya, who just barely catches them. 

Looking for something else to occupy himself with while Illya changes for a second time, Napoleon settles on gathering up his partner’s wet clothes and draping them over the radiator to dry. He doubts whether the minimal heat will be enough to have the clothes ready to wear by morning, but it’ll at least help. 

A flash of lightning illuminates the room. Napoleon double-checks that the door and windows are locked, then sets about preparing for bed. There is little else to do tonight. 

When he emerges from the bathroom, he finds Illya standing by the radiator, hands held over it to absorb its meager warmth. The sleeves of Napoleon’s sweatshirt, already a bit too short on him, ride up on his wrists, which can’t be helping him warm up.

Nevertheless, it’s terribly endearing. Of course, Illya stops the moment he realizes Napoleon is looking at him, though in all fairness, this is also because it is now his turn for the abysmally small bathroom. 

Napoleon closes the curtains, turns off the lamp in the corner, and then settles into his bed. He is grateful that at least it’s big enough for him to stretch out without his limbs sticking off the sides. 

Illya comes out of the bathroom still looking a bit miserable. Napoleon assumes he’s learned the terrible truth that the sink is incapable of producing hot water. He really wishes UNCLE had sprung for a nicer hotel. 

Illya settles into his own bed, and Napoleon reaches over to turn off the lamp between them. He takes one last look at his partner, curled up tightly beneath the rather thin blanket, shivering occasionally, before he plunges the room into darkness. 

Of course, the darkness is not permanent. Every so often a flash of lightning makes itself known through the curtains, faintly illuminating the room. Every time it happens, Napoleon glances over at Illya. 

His partner is all but buried beneath the covers, only the top of his head poking out. He’s still curled up tightly, still shivering, and still awake. Napoleon can tell by the way he’s breathing. 

A particularly loud clap of thunder, sounding entirely too close by, causes him to startle. He hears Illya move, imagines a flinch. 

Forty-five minutes later, they’re both still awake. Napoleon is getting tired of this, and tired in general. 

“Illya.”

“What?” Illya does not move from under the blanket, and his voice is very quiet.

“I can practically hear you shivering.”

“Sorry.”

“No, don’t - look, just…come over here, would you?”

He holds his breath, not at all sure that Illya will listen. But he does, very slowly extricating himself from the blanket. 

“Yes?” Illya asks, standing beside Napoleon with the blanket wrapped around his shoulders and blinking tiredly. 

Napoleon moves over, then pats the bed beside him. Illya gets the message and sinks down. “What are you doing?” he asks, rather doubtfully. 

“Sharing body heat. We don’t need you getting hypothermia just because our hotel is terrible and you got stuck in a storm.”

“Okay.”

That had been considerably easier than Napoleon had feared. He watches as Illya arranges himself beneath two layers of blankets, then lies back down. 

“Come a little closer,” he says quietly, and Illya does, curling in upon himself again. This is rather ideal, as Napoleon can simply curl himself around Illya in turn.

Illya stiffens at first, and Napoleon thinks he is going to move away. But then he relaxes, breathing softly and evenly. He falls asleep within minutes, and Napoleon follows suit soon after.

thanks for reading! hope you liked it <3

#whumptober2023 #no.25 #storm #the man from uncle #fic #illya kuryakin #cold #wet #my writing #i say things #this fic heavily inspired by me continually coming home Wet bc i don't bring or don't wear my raincoat #(happened again tonight) #also fun little anecdote. i was biking home (in the rain) from practice tn and stopped with my front tire very slightly over the line at a #red light. which is technically illegal. and then from behind me a cop car turns on its lights and sirens and im like oh my god im about to #get slapped with a fine for my minor bike infringement. but they went right past me. thank the lord for small miracles.