красный

            hard to argue with a sentiment like that. a mindset not far from what his once was, and is still from time to time. wick has an understanding of this life that even illya does not posses, but even so ------- he knows enough to see the value in his hesitation. there’s a lot at stake for wick, they both know it. even with the promise of protection, of the opportunity to do some good that could potentially change the entire structure of the life he walked away from...the man is skeptical. it’s dangerous. a gamble, and if rumors are true ----- wick isn’t much of a gambler. 

this causes a problem, however. one illya doesn’t want to deal with. nor wick, for that matter. 

“ you’re wrong,” it’s awfully brazen of him, but he’ll fight to get him to reconsider. “ wrong about us. the world is full of very bad men, this we know. it always will. but U.N.C.L.E isn’t like that ---- like them. we can help you. you don’t have to brave this all alone, mr. wick. together, your enemies won’t stand chance.”

“reconsider, please.”

                he hasn’t left his side in hours. couldn’t --- not after what had happened. guilt was a heavy motivator, one that fought for dominance among fear and anger. the only silver lining was that napoleon was back, safe. safe as he could be, after...after that. after days of...illya could only imagine, given his physical state. had made it a point to not be around for when the medical report had been listed off. rather, he gave that responsibility to waverly and gaby. no, he’d needed air. air that somehow included the total deconstruction of a small visitor’s lounge in the hospital. knuckles raw, scabbing over now. 

now, solo was far more present. blue eyes capable of withstanding the brutal lights. he talks, too. though it’s often strange, or misunderstood. but illya never leaves his side. he holds his hand, even. holds it and gives a soft squeeze just to reassure him that he’s there. that he’s listening, even if he doesn’t know what to say. doesn’t know how to comfort him when the reason he’s there at all is...is illya’s fault. had left him. left him there... just for a moment, but a moment was all it took before was gone. taken. 

when he speaks, illya is quick to reach over with a glass of water. offers it to sooth his parched throat. the words spoken however, well they leave him at a pause. “...another dream, da? ...sound like nightmare...” very fitting for how he felt, too. like a nightmare. napoleon’s.

                  everything is amplified. each large drop of rain bursting against car exterior, every whir of radio static echoes. it’s loud. synchronized to the thunderous heartbeat that threatens to monopolize. knuckles tighten, whiten at his grip on the steering wheel ---- but they’re parked, haven’t moved in ages. it’s napoleon’s voice that draws him out of his unusually prolonged silence. drags him from the depths of his stern reluctance, and with a pent up ferocity he doesn’t mean to throw at his partner.

he rips it from his hands, the file ----- paperwork spilling onto the dashboard, atop his solo’s feet. he knows he’s giving him a look, the kind he doesn’t want to face. doesn’t want to provide justification for his poor excuse of control. he shuts the radio off, and lets the silence settle a moment, thankful that napoleon doesn’t start up again. no. he gave him this moment. 

he’s heated, and god it shows in his cheeks. there’s such intensity in his pale eyes, but even more so than that --- and perhaps most shockingly, is the visible dampness. he should have known better; known that the moment he lost his cool was the moment he’d let loose the river behind that dam. his breath is stable, at least. deeply inhaling before his lips quiver from exhale. only then, once he’d managed some sort of dignity does he turn to face his partner. 

“ it doens’t matter. it doesn’t matter if the story is interesting or not. just tell story. just the facts.” a swallow, because that isn’t what had bothered him. no. illya couldn’t have cared less about solo’s approach to the report. it was much more personal than that. it showed, too. was made obvious by the way he helplessly fiddled with the watch at his wrist. 

“ it’s the last one. it doesn’t matter, don’t you understand? it doesn’t matter napoleon,” he speaks his name, god forbid ----- like it’s his last chance to. “ they’re sending me back.”

“they are going to send me back. home.”