section7mfu | You Can't Hold Back Time - Short Affair

Prompts - Portrait / Reckless / grey
Word Count - 447

This isn't the story I had intially had half an idea for yet it still has the same theme as that one (which is also the same theme as stories others have written. The prompts seem to have demanded it.

Anyway, you can find the story under the cut, or you can follow the link to go to AO3.

https://archiveofourown.org/works/21313837

It had been a reckless thing to do, and it had inevitably led to another hospitalisation. Although he had tried to justify his actions everyone, including himself, knew there was nothing he could say which would validate it.

“You’re seventy-eight years old, Illya,” Napoleon Solo admonished him. “You can’t do what you used to be able to do.”

Despite his advanced years, Illya Kuryakin ducked his head in the same manner would when he’d landed up in U.N.C.L.E. medical. He had never been one to worry what others thought of him but, whenever he was scolded by Napoleon or Mr Waverly, he would feel a deep sense of shame.

Illya looked to his closest friend and smiled at the familiarity of the scene. Solo’s hair was now entirely white, and Illya’s was starting to show signs of grey, but the scene mirrored the days when one would sit by the bedside of the other. Both had been injured on numerous occasions and both had spent many hours sitting vigil. That had been several decades ago, but nothing had changed. One would always be at the bedside of the other should the need arise.

“What made you do it?” Napoleon continued. “I know you look much younger than your years, but you’re not Dorian Gray. There isn’t a portrait in the attic.”

“I...”

“Yes?”

“It seemed too good an opportunity to pass up,” Illya finally admitted. “Forty-five years ago I could have done it without thinking.”

Napoleon raised his eyebrows; silently pointing out the salient part of Illya’s statement. The Russian merely shrugged in response.

“I’m not hurt all that badly,” he said, folding his arms; once again echoing his time in U.N.C.L.E. medical.

“You’ve dislocated your knee and broken your wrist,” Solo told him. “At your age that’s extremely serious.”

Illya ducked his head again.

“You are right my friend,” he answered. “I cannot seem to accept that I am no longer young. I wish there was a portrait in my attic. I would give almost anything to be able to run, jump, and vault again.”

Napoleon smiled sadly.

“Believe me, Tovarisch, I completely understand,” he said. “We led a dangerous life when we were younger but, despite that, I often wish we were still living it.”

The two men fell into a companionable silence for a few minutes, as they thought back to their active agent days.

“The thing is, Illya,” Napoleon went on. “You have to face up to the fact you’re not the slender, lithe athlete you once were.”

“I know.”

“So promise me you’ll stay away from the assault course in the kids’ play park.”

.