Title: "A Lack of Boundaries"

Author/pseudonym: CharlieMC

Fandom: "The Man From U.N.C.L.E."

Pairing: Illya Kuryakin/Napoleon Solo

E-mail address: camelotslash1@qwest.net

Rating: G

Status: Complete

Date: Don't recall the original date (sometime in the mid-1990's)

Archive: Yes

Series: No

Category: SLASH

Disclaimer: Don't own them and mean no infringement or disrespect.

Summary: Total PWP that just jumped in and said, "Write me!" Just sharing a few hours out of an 'ordinary' day with two never-ordinary guys... (who just happen to be in love). Was a teen in the 60's, so love throwing that 'period' stuff into these stories (though it's funny how easily you *forget* this stuff!).

If you're looking for tons of angst or hurt/comfort or a huge story series, you've come to the wrong place... If you like just a little romance, read on!

Warnings: None, other than the standard 'this is slash' (male/male relationship) one!

Beta: Thanks as always to Mistress Marilyn for her wonderful help. Any mistakes are my own, as she's always guarding my fic to avoid putting any mistakes off on readers...

Appreciate feedback -- my time's pretty limited these days, and feedback is how I determine which of the many fandoms I love to take time to actually write for... Thanks!



A LACK OF BOUNDARIES
by Charlie MC
xxxxx

Napoleon Solo waved goodbye to Roxanne (or was it Reeanna?) from the lab, and removing his badge, headed for the exit of U.N.C.L.E. headquarters. In spite of the long day of boring experimentation, he was in a cheery mood, and he hummed to himself under his breath.

The briefcase swinging at his side contained nothing more exciting than the morning newspaper and an expensive gold pen, mixed in with miscellaneous notepads, pencils and some random restaurant receipts. Still, it was handsome, dark-brown leather, and added a nice touch, Solo thought.

It was hot on the July streets in New York City, so rather than walk, Solo hailed a cab. Possibly a mistake, he reasoned moments later as the cab stopped in heavy traffic. The cabby kept up a steady stream of gossip, to which Solo managed to nod at the appropriate times.

Finally the cab drew near his first destination, and Solo sprang out, tipping the cab driver generously. The cab had been hot, and Solo felt somewhat wilted, but even the heat couldn't dampen his high spirits.

Solo dashed inside a small deli and bought a bottle of unlabeled wine from the owner's private stock. Then he was out the door and up a nearby staircase, leading to a newer brownstone with leaded glass doors in front and a guard who greeted him by name. He stopped briefly in the elegant lobby to pick up his mail.

When the elevator stopped at his floor, Solo moved quickly down the hall to what he now thought of as "his" apartment -- always inside quotation marks in his mind. He carefully disengaged the special alarm system all U.N.C.L.E. agents had installed in their residences, unlocked the door, and dropped his briefcase and mail on a small table just inside the doorway.

He moved to the telephone and checked the tiny machine attached to it for messages from U.N.C.L.E. headquarters. Though he had just left the agency, he had been known to come home only minutes later to urgent messages. Tonight there were none, thankfully enough. Hopefully his communicator (cleverly disguised as a fountain pen) would also remain quiet throughout the evening ahead.

Solo slipped gratefully out of his jacket and loosened his tie and top shirt button. The room was comfortably cool, but he doubted his next stop would boast the same. Might as well enjoy it while he could...

Still, as he moved into the kitchen, he felt his usual urgency to finish up here and move on. These days he could barely bring himself to go through the ritual of coming to "his" apartment at all. "Why bother?" he often asked himself...

Solo swung open the refrigerator door and peered in. He now kept little inside, but actually had never been able to keep much. He was away too frequently on field assignments, and most food simply spoiled before he could use it. Though Solo appreciated a good meal in a fine restaurant, he also enjoyed cooking from time to time; so it was annoying to constantly be out of almost everything.

Glancing in the icebox, Solo caught sight of several frozen dinners. What night was it, anyway? Oh, oh... it was *Wednesday* -- not his night to choose (a) the menu, (b) a possible restaurant or (c) to do the cooking. *Maybe* it would be a good idea to haul along a couple of the dinners...

Considering, Solo reluctantly rejected the idea. Better not to start off the evening with a possible misunderstanding, after all. He could 'endure' whatever food was pushed his way, thinking about what would come *after* dinner. And, hell, with enough of the wine he just bought, he could probably endure the worst imaginable food...

Solo grabbed up a bottle of orange juice and poured himself a glassful, sniffing it dubiously. There appeared to be some mold growing on the top, so he poured both the contents of the glass and the bottle down the sink.

He rinsed the glass under the tap and sat it face down in the empty dish drainer. Next he neatly placed the empty bottle in the garbage under his sink, and turned ready to leave. He was constantly being reminded to make "his" apartment look 'lived in,' so he went through the motions as best he could. Stupid necessity.

Grabbing up his now somewhat rumpled jacket and shutting the door behind him, Solo re-engaged the alarm and headed for the elevator, wine bottle in hand. Maybe he'd make one more stop and buy some flowers... or better yet... yes! Smiling at the thought, he continued on his way.

xxxxx

Illya Kuryakin glanced out the rose-tinted glass of the window in the corner bedroom and saw Napoleon Solo walking jauntily along the sidewalk below. Solo caught sight of him, and Kuryakin waved in greeting, smiling as Solo gave a brief lift of his hand in response.

Kuryakin moved with catlike grace out of the bedroom and into the main room of the apartment.

Against the outside wall of the room was a row of old-fashioned windows. There Kuryakin had personally installed cream-colored Venetian blinds, which had come into a fashion in the late 40's, and were still considered a tasteful addition to home decor. He'd been surprised how much he'd ended up enjoying the light these blinds allowed through the windows which had previously been covered with heavy draperies that closed out all sunlight. In his own apartment he had tended to keep the windows covered and the rooms somewhat darkened. Not so here.

At the end of the room opposite the bedroom was a tall, multi-colored bar. This bar closed off a small kitchen area, giving the illusion of a separate room.

Like the rest of the long, narrow room, they had painted the kitchen area a warm shade of pale yellow, so that even this late in the day the room was cheery and bright. The cabinets and appliances were old-fashioned and a stark, ordinary white, but Illya didn't mind much. It did make the area seem larger and cleaner somehow.

But he did wish they had a brightly colored counter around the sink. Perhaps orange or pink! These were the popular colors now, and would surely enhance the room. Perhaps they should also think of changing the bartop to an equally trendy color. He knew that Solo was fond of the avocado green that was seen frequently these days, but Illya didn't personally care for it. Solo wanted very much to do the matching counters and appliances, and had even looked at refrigerators in this color. Well, maybe they could convince the landlord to let them make some improvements later on. And to perhaps give them a break on their rent in exchange, the practical Russian contemplated.

On the small only-white range in the corner a large pot was steaming, and Kuryakin moved to stir the contents with a big, wooden ladle. He opened the refrigerator and drew out a pitcher filled with red liquid and chunks of fruit. Picking up a tall glass, he filled it and made his way to the door, drink in hand.

The knob turned and Napoleon Solo entered, smiling. Kuryakin answered this with a small flash of teeth and handed Solo the glass while relieving him of the large sack in his hands.

"Wine punch," he offered, turning to set the sack Solo had handed him on the bar. "An experiment. Tell me what you think."

Solo lifted the glass slowly, trying to look as if he weren't sniffing the contents. He took a small swallow. "A little sweet," he said, presenting Kuryakin with an even larger smile to soften the criticism. He took a second swallow.

Kuryakin frowned. "What do you think?" he asked, moving back to the pitcher, "...does it need something added, or should I start over?"

Solo was relieved to find Illya merely curious and not offended by his comment of the beverage. They had agreed to try and be honest about their personal tastes in food and drink, but sometimes it was difficult. He would have preferred to force down the too-sweet drink rather than hurt Illya's feelings.

Solo dropped his jacket over the back of the huge, plump, maroon-colored sofa, which sat facing toward the windows, and moved to join Kuryakin. "Maybe some lemon juice, or lime," he suggested, setting down his glass and putting an arm around Kuryakin's thin shoulders.

Kuryakin set down the pitcher quickly and turned into Solo's arms. The embraced tightly, and Solo leaned his mouth into Kuryakin's as they shared a lingering kiss.

"I thought you'd never get here!" Kuryakin scolded as they finally drew apart.

"Just doing what you've 'ordered,' Mr. Kuryakin, sir," Solo replied, reaching into a large wire basket of bright copper that hung near the sink to retrieve a fresh, shiny-yellow lemon. "*I* don't see why we don't just let our other apartments go. We could get a bigger place together if we did," he added, carefully cutting the lemon in two.

Kuryakin snorted. "I *like* this apartment! Besides, we've been over this a hundred times before. We can't just *live* together openly. What would Mr. Waverly and the council think? We could lose our jobs. What would our fellow agents think? What," he added with a mischievous look on his face, "would all your lady friends think?"

"Oh, you!" Solo exclaimed, wrapping his arms around his partner, a lemon half in either hand. They kissed again, but Kuryakin pulled away abruptly.

"Damn it! I'd better watch dinner if I don't want it to burn."

"Well, haven't you ever heard of free love, baby," Solo said to Kuryakin, raising two v-ed fingers to flash him the peace sign. In this case the term 'baby' was not an endearment, but rather the popular statement of the day with the 'younger' generation.

"Yes, Napoleon. And have *you* heard about the members of the F.B.I. who've been dismissed over rumors of being involved in 'unnatural' relationships?"

"Nothing unnatural about it. Yet, anyway. Unless you've planned something new for tonight you haven't told me about..."

Kuryakin shot Solo a look of exasperation. "You're impossible. Considering how much you've always claimed to love bachelorhood and your freedom, you're certainly anxious to tie yourself down." He glanced down at dinner and again stirred the contents of the pot before continuing. "Think of what you're suggesting, Napoleon. Living with another man -- giving up your privacy and personal space. The possibility others will find out. You'd have a hard time seeing anyone else when you didn't have anywhere to take them..."

"*You* keep assuming there might be someone else I'm interested in," Solo said, adding water to the pitcher and squeezing the lemon halves into the mixture.

"Oh. And after a couple of months you're ready to wear my ring," Kuryakin replied sarcastically.

"Maybe so," Solo replied as he used a long spoon to stir up the punch. "I have to admit I'm beginning to forget the names of the women I meet. And when I saw *you* with that female agent in engineering last week, I was really wishing you'd had my ring on your finger."

Kuryakin faced Solo and peered curiously into Solo's defiant eyes. Shrugging, he turned to the pot again and stirred almost violently.

"Look," Solo said from directly behind Kuryakin, slipping his arms underneath his partner's arm and around Kuryakin's chest, "I just think it's already too late to act like we haven't committed to one another. The minute we started this, our bachelor days were over."

Kuryakin twisted the dial on the front of the range to a lower setting before turning around to face Solo. "You know how I feel about you, Napoleon. How I've always felt," he added softly. "But this is the real world, not our fantasy. We have to deal with our relationship within certain boundaries."

"Okay," Solo agreed, nodding, "there are boundaries. We can't really live together; not openly. We can't tell anyone -- even our closest friends. Where do the boundaries end, Illya?"

"Right here," Illya replied, gesturing around them. "And in there," he added, pointing to the bedroom. "And in here," he said, his voice rough with emotion as he tapped his chest. "I *love* you, Napoleon. There are no boundaries on how we feel for each other."

The stood together looking into each other's faces without speaking. The sun was starting to descend, the sky was glowing, causing a pink haze to enter "their" apartment with warmth and promise.

"Say," Solo said, finally breaking the silence, "there's something in that bag for my best fellow."

Kuryakin rewarded Solo with a look of boyish wonder as he moved to open the paper sack. Solo found himself chuckling with delight.

"Candy? For me?" Kuryakin sounded both surprised and pleased, and Solo couldn't resist drawing the man -- candy box and all -- back into the circle of his arms.

"Always. Sweets for the sweet, I think the saying goes. You are really the sweetest part of my life."

Kuryakin gave Solo a broad smile before turning and grabbing up a potholder, which he placed on the bar directly in front of the two places he had carefully set for their dinner. He used mitts to move the pot containing dinner over to this potholder, then took the pitcher up from the counter where Solo had left it and poured them each a glassful of the 'experimental' punch.

"I guess we're just going to enjoy this and make our lives as sweet as we can," Kuryakin said, as he lit the candles at either end of the bar.

"Amen to that," Solo said, sitting down on the bar stool to his dinner. He raised his glass in a toast.

Kuryakin sat down at Solo's side and they clinked glasses.

"This actually smells pretty good," Solo said, leaning forward to scoop food from the pot.

"Well, sometimes life surprises you with small blessings," Kuryakin answered, taking the ladle Solo turned to him, and they shared the tastiest part of dinner - a succulent kiss.

"Amen. Hope I can find a way to match this tomorrow night."

"You never fail to find ways to please me, Napoleon. Never."



The End