Men of U.N.C.L.E.

Mission 3: The Vow

You wake up to a horrible, pounding pain shooting through your head, and the desperate feeling of wanting to throw up everything you might have eaten the night before. Or ever.
You stumble up clumsily, tripping over your feet in a rush to get to the bathroom, and then proceed to projectile vomit, exorcist-style.
Classy.

Finally, after you are done, you glance up and stare in the mirror as snippets of last night float through your head.

You were with Solo and Illya, celebrating. There were so many shots. God, you must have drank almost two bottles of whiskey by yourself....And then what?

Your face is still half-covered with make-up, and there are mascara stains over your cheeks.
An image of Illya in the elevator appears in your mind's eye.

You two left the hotel's bar together.

You grimace in horror as realization hits you. You mocked his accent. And you were calling him peril. And you tried to kiss him. Oh, no. You tried to kiss him. With whiskey breath.
You don't know what you find more humiliating- the idea of acting drunk in front of your mentor, or the idea of making a move on your mentor while your breath reeks of hard liquor.

But...he kissed you back, right? You rack your brain, but the details are slightly blurry.
After brushing your teeth and washing your face, you walk back into the room.

And then you see.

Him. Just...there. In your bed.

Illya. He is lying. In the bed. Where you were also sleeping.

"Are you okay?" he asks.

You blink at him stupidly. Did you guys...? Why can't you remember? His blue eyes are trained on your horrified face.

Finally, you find your voice. "Yeah, I'm...I'm good. Great...Awesome." Damn it, he looks beautiful, even in the morning. His hair is sleep-tousled and there is a hint of stubble over his jaw that you could just....
Yet, here you are standing makeup-less and befuddled.
You idly wonder if there is a delicate way of asking for details. What is the etiquette for saying "I don't remember anything after I tried to shove my tongue down your throat last night"?
"So, about yesterday..." you venture, "...uh... I..."

He smiles at you. Every time he does this, it takes you by surprise, since he does it sparsely, but always genuinely.
"You were very drunk," he assures you, sitting up.
You've never seen Illya without a shirt before, but you are definitely glad that you're sober enough to commit every single detail of the image to memory.
-Chords of muscles, tan, smooth skin... you do your best not to swoon.

"Yes, I was," you acknowledge, prying your eyes away from his broad shoulders. Suddenly, you become extremely aware of what you are wearing. Or not wearing, more importantly. Like, your pants. Why are you not wearing any pants?
You begin inching backwards, searching desperately for something to cover yourself with. "Uh, Illya, do you know where the rest of my clothes are?"

He reaches towards the drawer on his side of the bed, and then places your neatly folded jeans and jacket close to you.
"You said the room was too warm, and...."

"And I started undressing," you recall, mortified.
Feeling completely ashamed by your actions, your shoulders slump in defeat as memory after embarrassing memory resurface.

***

Illya leaned forward and kissed you, almost violently.

Now, in your sober state, you suspect it might have been a distraction tactic, or something. You were acting like a moron yesterday.

At the time, though, you took advantage of the situation and reciprocated gladly.
Your fingers dug into his brown suede jacket, crinkling the material, as his arms encircled your waist.

Then, just as eagerly as you had kissed him, you slapped Illya angrily and jumped away.
"No, no, no. We are on a date, come."

You dragged him out of the elevator and towards your room in an impressive display of brute strength. Even he had seemed flabbergasted by the way you managed to manhandle him.

"I should leave," he told you, but you ignored his protests and motioned for him to sit on the sofa while taking out a vodka bottle from the mini-fridge.

He ignored your instructions.

"You can't, comrade, a date's for two."

"That's enough, then," he reached out and took the alcohol from you, much to your drunken chagrin.

With an agility that defied your...state, you pounced on Illya, yelling. "Bad! Durnój!"

He made a few half-hearted attempts to fend you off, but gave up after you scratched his neck like some sort of rabid cat. You're pretty sure you even drew some blood.

"I'm leaving," he repeated, amused and terrified in equal measures.

When the bottle was back in your hands, you cradled it in triumph, took a swig, and placed it back down, before reaching towards a gun you'd hidden underneath the coffee table.
"No, damn it. If you leave, I'll shoot you. I'm a good shot, you saw."

And that's how you ended up together.

***

"Y/N," Illya says, interrupting the overwhelming sense of horror that is making you hyperventilate.
You threatened him with a gun, for god's sake. With a gun.
You threatened Illya Kuryakin With. A. Gun.

You jump at the sound of your name, and avoid looking directly at him.
"Yes?"

"Do not ever drink when I'm not there," he warns, "You get very...crazy."

You nod enthusiastically in agreement, vowing to never again touch alcohol. Period.