who: Napoleon Solo and Illya Kuryakin. what: Catching up. where: Their place. when: Early evening. rating: TBD. Some references to PTSD and also to sexual situations. status: In progress.
Napoleon knew that he’d been distant lately.
It wasn’t that he’d ignored Illya since arriving in Night Vale. Or that he’d been avoiding him or anything. He’d just been finding reasons to not be around him any more than necessary. Which wasn’t the same at all. It wasn’t anything Illya had done. No, Peril hadn’t done anything to warrant Napoleon’s behavior. And honestly, he wasn’t even sure if his friend realized there had been any behavior to be aware of. Perhaps, Illya was fine with the distance. Maybe he even liked the space. The break from Napoleon’s personality. And that was fine.
The truth of it was that Napoleon didn’t want Illya to see how he was struggling.
Napoleon thrived on people thinking he had his shit together. That he had it all figured out. And he didn’t here. Far from it. Everything about this place was confusing and none of it made sense. He couldn’t just default to the mask of competence and composure he always wore because everything here put him on edge to a degree that he couldn’t quite hide it. He didn’t want Illya to see that and think him a liability.
It didn’t help that he hadn’t really been coping before showing up here. Uncle Rudy had done a number on him and he hadn’t recovered nearly as well as he’d pretended. He’d managed to get the mission done but that had largely been adrenaline and he’d crashed hard once that was past. Thankfully the physical symptoms had mostly faded away by now, he still had issues now and then but they were manageable. It was the rest of it that wasn’t fading. The trouble sleeping and the flashbacks and the sudden feelings of panic. He’d had it all after the war, but this was different. In his time with the CIA he had never been tortured. He’d been trained to deal with it, of course, but it hadn’t quite prepared him for the reality of it. Mostly because they’d been trained to deal with torture from someone who wanted something. Information. Allegiance. Anything. They’d been trained not to give in. Rudy hadn’t wanted anything but his pain. He was a sadist, pure and simple. There was no sense in that.
He could have talked to Illya about it. He knew that. Illya had been there. He would understand. But he couldn’t shake the desire to not let his partner see him weak. So instead he did what he always did. He drowned his feelings in booze and women. A pretty and delicate woman going through a divorce. A beautiful but brittle and cold blonde who reminded him a little too much of Victoria in some ways. Faith. A gorgeous, competent Russian spy. And the didn’t think too hard about why he’d gravitated to her. A few others. Enough to quiet the darker parts of his mind.
It might have been easier had Gaby been around. She was the one to push them to acknowledge and deal with their emotions. But he couldn’t quite bring himself to trust her with his vulnerabilities. He knew she had only done what she had to for the mission, that she hadn’t known Rudy was a monster, but part of him blamed her just a little. And he knew that wasn’t fair of him. He liked Gaby. She was smart and competent and good to have in a crisis, but he wasn’t sure he could open up to her just yet.
But he knew he needed to actually talk to Illya. He couldn’t keep avoiding him like this. And, alright, he would admit he had been avoiding him. But now he wasn’t. Now, he was in their kitchen, putting together a very nice meal if he did say so himself. He heard Illya come in, and leaned out of the kitchen.