#so I needed fix some parts that do the data parsing but I've done a lot of string parsing with python so that's easy

[maukuja]

something good about getting my degree: could figure out how to fix an ao3 wrapped python notebook all by myself

[set-phasers-to-whump]

let me help

prompt: asking for help

whumpee: illya kuryakin

fandom: the man from uncle

hi happy halloween and welcome to my last fic of the month!! it's pre-ship and that's all there is to it. (title from the city on the edge of forever which is a star trek tos episode that i've been obsessed with for years. yeah.)

“Can you help me?”

Napoleon stops dead in his tracks. He can count on…well, no hands the amount of times he’s ever heard such a request from his partner. Admittedly they’ve only been working together a couple months, but still. Gaby’s asked. Napoleon himself has asked. 

Illya, though? Never. 

“What with?” Napoleon asks, all casual. He doesn’t want Illya to back off, to rescind his trust. 

“I cannot—this report. I do not understand what I am supposed to write.”

Napoleon moves over beside Illya and looks down at the paper atop his desk. It’s a standard mission report, and Illya has filled out the basics, but a lot of it is just blank space. 

Napoleon gets it—there are a lot of technical words involved in the report, and even he as a native speaker of English sometimes struggles to parse his experiences into the kind of terms the bureaucracy is looking for. 

“Yeah, so in this part,” Napoleon starts, gesturing to a box, “you need to write down the equipment you used.”

“Only me?”

“Yes. Gaby and I’ve filled out the same form, so they know what we’ve used collectively. This is individual data.”

“Okay,” Illya says, and Napoleon watches him very slowly write down the name of his gun, his knife, the personal radio. 

This feels weird. Not because of the task itself, which is actually quite nice, getting to explain things he understands and help his partner, but because Illya’s already filled out three mission reports before this. Why hadn’t he asked before?

Illya sniffs, huffs out a breath, and says, “I don’t want to write this.”

“I know the feeling, but we have to.”

Another sniff and another sigh. “Tomorrow I will do it.”

This is really weird. Illya is never one to put off work for tomorrow which could be done today. It’s just not how he is. 

“Are you sure? I can help you some more.”

Illya shakes his head. Napoleon feels still more strongly that something isn’t quite right. 

“Are you feeling okay?”

Illya looks at him very intently, and very deliberately says, “I am fine.”

Something in his expression emboldens Napoleon, tells him he’s right. And so he pushes. “No, you’re not. Something’s the matter, and you might as well tell me.”

Illya scowls. “You don’t know this.”

“You asked me for help with a mission report, and I know you’ve done these before without any help. So something’s up.”

“It’s nothing.”

“Try again.”

“It’s stupid.”

“Better.”

Illya looks at his desk for a very long time. His ears have turned pink. When he looks up at Napoleon, his cheeks are pink as well, and there’s a sort of shame and dismay in his eyes that Napoleon has never seen before. 

“I didn’t ask. Before, when I was writing these reports. I thought…I was worried that you will think I’m stupid. Because I don’t know these technical words.”

“I’d never think you were stupid. Not for something like that. Maybe for your propensity to put yourself into extreme danger, but never for this. Even I struggle with what these mission reports want from me, and I’m writing them in my first language.”

Illya nods very slightly. He still looks faintly miserable, and Napoleon is determined to get to the bottom of everything and fix it. 

“You can always come to me for help with these reports. Or anything else, actually. If I can help you with anything, ever, just…just let me know.” This is perhaps a bit more than he’d intended to say, a bit too revealing when, all things considered, they haven’t known each other for that long, but it’s true, and he means it. 

Only now it seems like he’s done something wrong, because Illya’s eyes have gotten all glassy and he really hadn’t meant to make things worse but of course he somehow has. 

“Sorry. If that was…too much. I did mean it, though.”

Illya looks rather surprised by this apology. “Why are you sorry? It’s very kind.”

“I just thought…well, you looked upset. You still do, actually. I was worried I’d said something wrong.”

Illya’s cheeks turn pinker, and he looks away. “It’s nothing.”

“You have to quit saying that.”

“Really, though. It is fine.”

Napoleon crosses his arms and waits. 

“Maybe I am sick.” Illya says this very quietly and hesitantly, like he’s not sure of it. 

The entire thing suddenly makes sense. The asking for help, the general look of suffering, the lowered emotional barriers. He feels like a fool for not having put the pieces together sooner. 

Hindsight is 20/20, he reflects, reaching out a hand and laying it against Illya’s forehead. His partner doesn’t so much as flinch.  

The skin beneath his hand is warm to the touch, though not to a dangerous degree. He doesn’t miss the way Illya leans into his palm, just a bit, the way he sinks back into himself when Napoleon pulls his hand away. 

Napoleon wants to prolong this contact that Illya seems to be drawn towards. He wants to sit beside him and wrap an arm around him, let Illya’s forehead come to rest against his shoulder, a little too warm, wants so badly to be that little bit of help, of comfort, that makes the illness more bearable. 

He checks his watch. “Only an hour left of the day. Let’s get out of here. I’ll drive you home.”

He hasn’t been to Illya’s apartment yet. Doesn’t know if he’s allowed. But he wants to help and is willing to fight for it. 

Not that there’s any need. Illya, rather surprisingly, just nods. “Okay.”

Napoleon extends a hand, and it feels like a little victory when his partner takes it and allows himself to be helped to his feet. 

Once standing, he sways for a second, braces a hand against the desk, then inhales deeply. 

“Alright?”

A small nod. 

“Let’s go, then.”

They traipse out of the building without running into anyone else. There’s a nonzero chance Waverly will be mildly peeved tomorrow, but Napoleon will take the fall gladly. 

Just before they reach Napoleon’s car, Illya stops. For a second Napoleon thinks, this is it, he’s going to refuse, but then Illya simply says, “thank you.”

He sounds so sincere that it makes Napoleon’s chest ache, just a little. He wonders when was the last time that Illya was driven home by someone. When he was last really cared for when unwell, and not brushed aside or treated brusquely. 

“Of course,” Napoleon replies. It’s all he can think to say. 

They climb into the car, and Napoleon drives them to Illya’s apartment—he knows where it is, although he’s never been there. What kind of spy would he be, otherwise?

When they get there, he’s again afraid that this is the moment where Illya will have had enough. Where the training and culture of the KGB is going to kick in, and Illya is going to kick him out. 

It never happens. Illya does not say a word when Napoleon comes up with him, when he bustles around the kitchen looking for ingredients for soup, when he brings Illya water and medicine and blankets. 

In fact, the only thing he really says, when Napoleon is standing by the stove and contemplating what the hell kind of soup he can make with the sad array of ingredients he’s found in the cabinets, is exactly the opposite of Napoleon’s worries. 

“Stay?”

“I’m not going anywhere,” he promises, and he thinks that he wants this to mean forever.

thanks for reading! with this i am now a whumptober completionist for six years running isn't that insane?? i am so happy i managed to do all this while doing all my other shit too!!!! i had such a good time writing this month and i hope you enjoyed reading, whether you've read all my fics or just this one. i love you guys!!!!